Khushi POV
The leather seat beneath me was smooth and cool, grounding me as the SUV glided past the college gates. I had never left campus like this before—not in the middle of a school day, not with someone like him. A man whose presence felt like fire wrapped in silk.
Luca glanced at me with a quiet smile. “Since you’re treating me to lunch,” he said, his voice calm but teasing, “then you should tell where we should eat.”
I blinked, slightly taken aback. My mouth opened, and instead of giving a restaurant’s name, I heard myself asking, “You don’t seem from here… India, I mean. Where are you from?”
He kept his eyes on the road, but a faint smile curved his lips. “Italy,” he said. “Naples.”
Italy.
I couldn’t help but smile. “Then it’s decided,” I said brightly. “Let’s have Italian food.”
He chuckled softly. “Very well,” he said, then paused for a beat. “Do you have any specific preferences?”
I tilted my head thoughtfully, the nerves fading as curiosity replaced them. “I haven’t had much Italian food outside of college mess versions,” I admitted. “But I’ve always wanted to try real pasta—not the overcooked, ketchup-covered kind we get in the hostel. But I can’t handle too much of spicy food.”
He laughed—a genuine, low laugh that made something flutter in my stomach.
“I think I can promise better than ketchup pasta” he said.
We drove through Delhi’s crowded roads, the chaos outside contrasting with the stillness inside the car. I stole glances at him—his calm focus, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel with ease, the quiet strength in his presence. It still didn’t feel real, sitting beside a man like him. After all, just this morning, I’d nearly died. And now I was here. With him.
And he wasn’t just anyone. He was Mr. Volkov. Luca.
“Khushi,” he said suddenly, pulling me from my thoughts. “You seem distracted.”
“I was just… thinking.”
“About?”
I hesitated. “You.”
That earned me a glance—sharp, curious, and a little amused. “Me?”
“You’re not exactly easy to ignore.”
He didn’t answer right away. But something about the quiet hum of the engine, the golden afternoon sunlight flickering through the windows, and the way he looked at me—made the silence feel full.
“Likewise,” he said eventually.
I looked away, pretending to study the passing shops and trees. But my heart was pounding again.
“Do you like crowded restaurants?” he asked. “Or quiet ones?”
“Quiet,” I said quickly. “Definitely quiet.”
“Good,” he said. “There’s a place I know—run by a friend of mine. Family-style. Authentic. You’ll like it.”
I nodded, trusting him without knowing why.
We reached the restaurant soon.
It was magnificent—a lot magnificent. And huge. And beautiful. Like the kind of place where celebrities dined under golden chandeliers, where reservations had to be made six months in advance, and where the menu probably didn’t even have prices written on it because “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”
I gulped, my throat suddenly dry.
Oh god, why did he bring us to such a magnificent restaurant? I’m sure I’m going broke today.
My eyes darted toward the glass facade, the marble lion fountain at the entrance, the uniformed valet who opened the car door for me as if I were royalty. Everything screamed exclusive and expensive.
Before I could say anything aloud, Luca glanced at me and chuckled softly, as if reading the rising panic in my face.
“Khushi,” he said, his voice calm and oddly reassuring, “if you want to change your idea of paying, it’s okay. I will pay.”
My eyes widened slightly.Wait—can he hear my thoughts?
But instead of asking that, I straightened my shoulders and said firmly, “No, it’s my treat. I will pay surely.”
Luca nodded once, slow and respectful, accepting my determination without challenge.
We walked in together. The restaurant interior was even more surreal than I imagined—walls of glass looking out over the city, a domed ceiling painted like the Italian sky, soft classical music playing in the background. Staff moved around with quiet elegance, as if on the stage of an expensive ballet.
We were seated at a corner table with a breathtaking panoramic view of the city. Luca pulled out a chair for me, I sat stiffly, my fingers laced together on my lap as he did this gesture, and he sure is a gentleman. The waiter came and greeted us with a crisp accent, handing us the leather-bound menus with a small bow.
I opened it slowly.
And nearly fainted.
Today I am definitely going broke. Maybe I’ll need to call Aayushi to transfer money too. The prices are so high. Is this a 7-star restaurant? I didn’t even know restaurants had seven stars. Look at these photos! I can’t even pronounce the names—Risotto al Tartufo, Gnocchi alla Sorrentina, Cacciucco?! Is that even legal to eat?!
My eyes flicked toward Luca, then back to the menu.
Wait… did he actually bring me here on purpose? To make a point? To show that he’s rich and I’m not?
A spark of anger lit in my chest. Just a flicker.
I clutched the menu tighter, knuckles whitening. My face, however, remained serene—soft smile, polite eyes. I was an expert in that. In hiding.
But Luca—he noticed.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just watched me, eyes focused and steady. Studying me like I was more interesting than the skyline behind me, more mysterious than the foreign words on the menu.
He stood up then, slowly, his chair making the faintest sound against the marble.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, gesturing toward the hallway. “Excuse me.”
I nodded, grateful for a moment alone to recalibrate. My thoughts were swarming—between the prices, the grandeur, and now his inexplicable ability to detect every little twitch of my mood.
He returned less than a minute later, having fixed his sleeves and brushed his fingers through his hair. As he settled into the seat across from me, he looked more composed than ever—but also slightly amused.
“Which pasta will you have?” he asked, breaking the silence.
I set down the menu gently and said honestly, “I don’t know much about the types of pasta. How about you order for me?”
He smiled, almost like he’d been expecting that answer, and nodded. Then he lifted his hand slightly to gesture to the nearby waiter.
As he began ordering in perfect Italian—Perfect. Italian.— My mind was no longer on food but the prices of the food he was ordering.
I was staring at him again. The way he spoke, the tone of his voice, the confidence in his body language. It was so fluid, so natural. I was trying not to feel small, not to feel like a middle-class girl completely out of my depth.
He order added, “...and two glasses of wine.”
That snapped me out of my thoughts.
“No wine,” I said quickly, interrupting him.
He turned to me, brows raised slightly.
“It’s still daytime,” i said, half embarrassed. “And you need to drive too. You shouldn’t drink wine. Even I… I don’t drink.”
There was a pause—and then, surprisingly, he chuckled.
A real one.
He turned back to the waiter and adjusted the order. “No wine.”
The waiter blinked. Shocked. The man had seen ministers, CEOs, and diplomats. But never had he seen someone stop him—Luca Volkov—in the middle of a sentence. And succeed.
He nodded quickly and scurried away.
___
Hey guys hope you like this part. Thank you for reading the story till now. Do like for the chapters and comment your reviews in the comment section.
Stay tuned to read about a beautiful moment that is soon going to occur between Khushi and Luca in this restaurant 😉😘
See you all tomorrow💕❤
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