YOU LIVE IN MY HEART

7.FRACTURED FACADES

Vihaan Kapoor sat in his hotel suite, the Mumbai skyline a

distant haze through the window. The photo lay on the

nightstand, its edges slightly bent from Ananya's frantic grasp.

He couldn't shake the image of her in his room—her night suit

rumpled, her eyes wide with feigned drunkenness, her gaze

drifting over him before she snapped back. She'd been after the

photo; that much was clear. But why now? And how had she

known he kept it?

As he stared at the image—the younger, skinnier Ananya

laughing by the riverside, her glasses slipping, her trust

unbroken—realization hit him like a wave. It was her. The same

Ananya Mehra from Riverside University, the one he'd betrayed

for a stupid bet. He couldn't believe it. The vibrant, confident

woman who challenged him in meetings, who lit up the office

with her energy—she was the shy girl he'd once played for

laughs. Guilt, his constant shadow, twisted deeper. He'd carried

that photo as a reminder, a penance for the pain he'd caused.

Now, it had become a weapon, exposing the fractures in their

shared past.

The business trip ended without further incident, the team's

success celebrated with quiet toasts. But Vihaan kept his

distance, his mind churning. Back at CyberPeak Solutions, the

office buzzed with preparations for the victory party—a lavish

affair in the rooftop lounge, complete with music, food, and

performances to unwind from the project's grind. He resolved to

stay professional, to bury the guilt and focus on work. Ananya

was his employee, nothing more.

The party night arrived, the lounge alive with laughter and

clinking glasses. String lights twinkled overhead, and a

makeshift stage hosted karaoke and skits from the team. Vikram

belted out a off-key tune, drawing cheers, while Rohit juggled

mock awards. Ananya and Nisha stood near the bar, sipping

mocktails, Ananya's black saree draping elegantly over her

curves, the fabric shimmering under the lights. She looked

stunning—confident, untouchable, a far cry from the girl in the

photo. Nisha spotted Vihaan first, his navy suit sharp as he mingled

with the crowd. She nudged Ananya subtly. "Boss incoming. I'll

give you space—pretend I need a refill." She slipped away,

leaving Ananya alone, her heart racing as Vihaan approached.

Ananya turned, her eyes meeting his, the hazel intensity stirring

unwelcome memories. Vihaan's breath caught; the saree

accentuated her grace, her transformation hitting him anew.

Guilt warred with a surge of protectiveness—or was it

possessiveness? He couldn't control the words that tumbled

out. Reaching for her wrist, his grip firm but not harsh, he

murmured, "Unpin your saree and drape it properly. It's

slipping."

Ananya's eyes flashed with fury, her cheeks burning. She pushed

him away, her voice a sharp whisper. "I know who you are." The

words hung between them, laced with accusation—the bet, the

humiliation, the years of rebuilding. Tears stung her eyes as she

turned, fleeing to the bathroom, the saree's pallu trailing like a

broken promise.

Vihaan stood frozen, the party's noise fading to a roar in his ears.

She knew. She hated him. Embarrassment flooded him—why had

he done that? A simple comment, born from concern, but

twisted by their history. He'd overstepped, his guilt manifesting

in a misguided attempt to fix something unfixable. He retreated

to the edge of the lounge, nursing a drink, his mind a storm. She

deserved better than his meddling. From now on, he'd stay

professional—strictly boss and employee, no more slips.

In the bathroom, Ananya leaned against the sink, tears

streaming as she adjusted her saree. Nisha burst in moments

later, concern etched on her face. "What happened?"

"He… he knows," Ananya sobbed. "And I hate that he still affects

me.

"

Nisha hugged her, whispering reassurances, but the night had

shattered the fragile peace. The party continued outside,

oblivious to the rift widening between Ananya and Vihaan. He

watched from afar as she emerged, composed but distant,

deciding then and there to lock away his guilt. Professionalism

was his armor now. But deep down, the pull remained, a spark

waiting to ignite.