Page 91 of Cherish my Heart
The words are simple. But the way she says them—grounded, certain, like a promise—makes something in me uncoil. Like a muscle I’ve held clenched too long.
I nod once, unable to speak. Because what else can I do?
CHAPTER 44
ADITI
The blindfold rests gently over his eyes, his jaw tight with suspicion as I tighten the knot behind his head.
"You trust me?" I ask softly, brushing a loose strand of his hair back, my fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
His lips twitch. "Not even a little."
I grin. “Perfect.”
His seatbelt clicks in place as I walk around to the driver’s side, my stomach doing cartwheels. Not because of nerves. Because I want this to be perfect. Because it’s the first time in his entire life, maybe, that someone is doing something just for him. Not to earn his approval. Not to gain his favor. Just because he deserves to feel like a boy. A boy who didn’t get to scrape his knees or chase ice cream trucks or cheat at cricket without consequences.
I glance at him during the drive. He’s sitting too straight. Too aware. His hands resting on his thighs, clenched. Always in control. Always prepared for the worst. It breaks something in me, how deeply that instinct runs.
We reach it, and I park the car.
He tilts his head, trying to listen.
There’s a moment of quiet. The birds. The wind. A few soft sounds, I hope, are teasing his ears.
Then I walk over, unfasten his seatbelt, and whisper, “No talking. Just trust me, okay?”
His mouth opens to say something, but then he exhales and nods.
I guide him out, slow and careful. The air smells like roasted masala and candy sugar. It’s warm, a little humid, but the kind that makes you want to drink lemon soda under the sun.
The blindfold comes off.
He blinks against the light, his brows furrowed. And then he turns to me, his confusion clear.
“Where are we—?”
He doesn’t finish.
His eyes sweep over everything.
The cardboard signs were painted in messy strokes. The stall with packets of Maggi stacked high, a kerosene stove already boiling water. The balloon darts pinned haphazardly to a wooden board, half of them already popped by the breeze. The gully cricket set was placed right in the middle, the bat stained, and the ball old and chipped. Two bicycles—one his size, one mine. A cotton candy stand with a single machine spinning pink sugar clouds, manned by a kid I bribed with two hundred rupees and a promise to pay for any damages.
And above it all, my stupid nervous heart pounding in my chest.
He looks at me.
“What... what is this?”
I try to act casual, but my throat is tight. “This… is not for the CEO of Varuna. This is for the boy who never got to just be a boy.”
I don’t give him time to rethink, because he definitely is; I pull him towards the cotton candy counter. The first ten minutes are awkward. He stands too stiffly. Eats like someone might be watching. Looks at the swing like it’s made of knives. I don’t push. I just start playing balloon darts myself and let him be.
And then I pretend I can’t hit a single one.
“God, this is rigged,” I mutter dramatically, and I know he’s watching.
He walks over. “Move.”
