Inaaya sat by the window of her apartment, sketching in her notebook. The lines of charcoal blurred as her thoughts drifted once again to Aarav. The last few weeks had been a quiet war inside her heart—a battle of rage, hurt, longing, and something far more dangerous, affection. She hated how her pulse quickened at the mere sound of his voice. She hated that she looked forward to their occasional awkward phone calls. And most of all, she hated that she remembered the way he had held her hand all night after the club incident.

Her fingers trembled as she tried to complete the outline of a face—his face. But it came out wrong, too soft, too human. She ripped the page out, crumpled it, and tossed it across the room. "Stop it," she hissed to herself. "He doesn’t deserve this."