Love in the air by Vatsal Bhargava - HTML preview

CHAPTER 3 – DESTINED COLLISION

The morning sunlight pierced through the sheer curtains of Meera's hotel room, painting golden lines across her skin. She stirred awake, her body still aching deliciously from the night before, her heart tangled in the memories of Aarav — his touch, his whispered promises. She stretched languidly, expecting to find him beside her, his warm body curled protectively around her.

But the space beside her was cold. Her heart stumbled.

Sitting up quickly, Meera scanned the room. No note. No scent of him lingering on the pillow. It was as if he had been a figment of her imagination. Panic bloomed in her chest.

Confused and aching, Meera wrapped herself in a silky shawl and moved to the window, staring out at Paris bathed in the gold of morning. How could he leave without a word? A soft knock startled her. She opened the door to find a hotel staff member holding an envelope. "For you, madam," he said with a polite bow. Her fingers trembled as she tore it open. Inside was a note, written in Aarav's hurried scrawl:

*"Some dreams are better left unchased. Forget me. — A"

The words felt like a slap. Her legs gave way and she sank to the floor, crushed under the weight of emotions she wasn't ready to name.

Hours bled into each other as Meera sat numbly in her room. She replayed every moment of their time together, searching for signs, for answers. Was it all a lie?

No. She refused to believe that.

By late afternoon, something inside her snapped. Love — true love — wasn’t something you gave up on so easily. She slipped into a leather jacket, braided her hair tightly, and grabbed her camera. If Aarav thought he could vanish into the city, he had underestimated her will. Meera Sharma didn’t run from the storm.

She became the storm.

The Parisian streets were alive with music and laughter, mocking her silent desperation. Meera hunted every place they’d visited together — the little bakery, the Seine River’s quiet banks, the bookstore where he had read poetry to her.

Nothing.

But just when hope was about to collapse inside her, she turned a corner and froze.

There he was.

Leaning against a crumbling brick wall, cigarette smoke curling around him like a halo of sin, Aarav looked every bit the fallen angel she had fallen for. Her heart ached.

Meera stepped closer, her voice a brittle whisper. "Why did you leave?" He didn’t move. Didn’t even look at her.

"I warned you," he said, his voice low and rough, "I'm not the man you think I am."

The pain in his voice tore at her. She didn’t care about warnings. She cared about the way he made her feel alive for the first time in years.

"Let me decide that," she said, fists clenched.

Finally, he turned, and the tortured look in his eyes nearly shattered her. "You don't understand, Meera," he rasped. "You can't."

Frustration flared inside her. "Then make me understand!" Aarav stepped closer, and suddenly it was as if the world fell away. His hand hovered near her cheek but didn’t touch. He looked at her like she was salvation and damnation all wrapped into one. "I have blood on my hands," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

The world tilted.

She swallowed hard. "Tell me everything."

And he did.

"Three years ago," Aarav began, his voice thick with old guilt, "back in Delhi, I organized a charity event. It was supposed to save lives..." He paused, his jaw clenching.

"It was a front. My best friend — the man I trusted most — used it to traffic drugs. I was blind. I didn't see the signs."

Meera held her breath. "That night, someone died. An overdose. He wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to die." Aarav’s fists tightened until his knuckles turned white. "I didn't kill him, Meera, but I brought him there. I set the stage."

He looked so broken, sitting there on the cold pavement, that Meera’s heart physically hurt.

"The police had photos of me, testimonies... everything. But their evidence was weak. Technicalities saved me."

He laughed bitterly. "But the guilt didn't."

Meera dropped to her knees beside him, uncaring of the grime, the stares. "You’re not a murderer, Aarav." He looked up at her, disbelief written across his face.

"You made a mistake," she said fiercely. "But mistakes don't define us."

Silence thickened between them. Meera's hand found his, threading their fingers together. His hand trembled.

"I don’t deserve you," he whispered brokenly.

"Maybe not," she smiled sadly, "but you’re stuck with me now." For a fleeting second, hope flickered in his eyes. But then, darkness returned. "There’s more," he said, voice barely audible. "Someone wants me dead." The world around them seemed to tilt. Before Meera could react, footsteps echoed ominously from the alley's shadows.

Two men emerged, faces hidden under dark caps, their stance predatory. "Run when I say," Aarav hissed, squeezing Meera’s hand hard. Her heart thundered in her ears.

The men advanced, slow and deliberate. Aarav’s body shifted, shielding her completely.

Meera’s mind raced — she could taste the danger in the air.

This wasn’t just passion anymore. This was survival.

As she clutched Aarav tighter, one thing became devastatingly clear: Love wasn’t safe.

Love was war.