“Fair enough,” she replied, not intimidated. “But you also don’t let anyone earn it. You keep them at arm’s length, then blame them for not getting closer.”
He looked up from his paperwork. “Trust is earned, not given.”
Simran was not what he expected. She was thirty, divorced, and unapologetically modern. She wore a nose ring, spoke three languages, and could out-negotiate any supplier. She also had a habit of humming old Lata Mangeshkar songs while reviewing spreadsheets.
Jagdeep looked at Simran, who was reading in the armchair, her feet tucked under a blanket. He smiled.
She left. The door slammed. And Mr. Jatt, for all his strength, sat alone in his flat and wept.
That stung because it was true.
At the reception, they danced to a mix of old bhangra and the first song they ever slow-danced to in her living room— Tum Hi Ho . He dipped her low, and she laughed, and for a moment, the whole world was just the two of them.
But fate, as it often does, had other plans.