Chapter 1: Aisle
The airport's air conditioning does nothing against the Mumbai heat bleeding through the glass walls, and I'm leaning against a pillar near the arrival gate, watching the stream of travelers spill out. My phone buzzes in my pocket. A message from Akansha, three dots dancing, then: "Spot me, I'm wearing white. Don't get lost in the crowd like last time."
I smile at the screen. Last time was Delhi, two years ago, and I spent twenty minutes circling Terminal 3 before she found me napping on a bench.
Then I look up.
The doors slide open, revealing her in a way that makes my pulse skip a beat. The white sundress is perfection - tailored at the waist with a flirtatious hemline that kisses the tops of her knees, teasing with every step. Those barely-there straps slide off her shoulders, revealing smooth olive skin, while her cascading black waves dance with each movement, catching the terminal's light and framing that gorgeous face I've missed. Her distinctive cat-eyed glasses catch the terminal's harsh lighting as she peers around.
Her eyes find me, and her whole face lights up. She waves wildly, her arm cutting through the air like she's flagging down a lifeboat, and she starts running. Not a little jog, not a dignified stroll. She runs, sundress fluttering, athletic thighs working, her plump ass shifting under the fabric with every stride.
Cousin, I remind myself. She's family. Your cousin.
The reminder does nothing. It's just a word, and she's closing the distance, and I'm frozen against the pillar because she's gorgeous, she's always been gorgeous, but right now she's something else entirely.
She jumps.
I catch her on instinct, my arms wrapping around her waist as her legs lock behind me, her body pressing against mine in a way that has no business feeling this good. Her hands cup the back of my head as the hug lingers, her nails lightly scratching at my scalp, and I can smell her. Something floral, something expensive, a trace of sunscreen from the car ride here.
"Missed you," she murmurs against my ear, her breath hot, and she holds on a second longer than a cousin should.
I set her down slowly, trying to ignore the drag of her body against mine. Her sundress has ridden up slightly, revealing more of those thighs, and she doesn't bother fixing it. She just grins up at me and adjusts her glasses.
"Look at you," she says, her eyes traveling down my chest. "When did you get this broad?"
"I've always been this broad, didi."
"Hmm." She pokes my chest, a single nail digging in through my t-shirt, and I feel it in my stomach. "No, I don't think so. You were a scrawny little thing last time I saw you."
"Survived college. Gained some weight."
"Lots of weight." She grabs my bicep, squeezing with playful exaggeration. "Okay. I approve."
She slides her hand down my arm, over my wrist, and catches my fingers in hers. It's a casual gesture, the kind older cousins do, but her thumb traces slow circles on my palm as we start walking. I feel every movement.
Her thumb keeps tracing those slow circles on my palm as we weave through the crowd, and I'm hyperaware of every inch of contact. The airport bustle fades to a dull roar around us. She's talking, her voice bright and easy, but I'm stuck on the way her hip brushes mine when she leans in to avoid a family with rolling suitcases.
"So the company finally broke into the European market," she's saying, and I force my attention back to her face. "Three new contracts this quarter. The kind that make your accountant cry happy tears."
"Congrats, didi."
"Don't congratulate me yet." She grins, adjusting her glasses with her free hand. "Because I'm going to spoil you rotten this week. I've been planning this trip for months."
A knot tightens in my stomach. I've seen the way Akansha spends money. Designer bags, first-class everything, restaurants where the appetizers cost more than my rent. The thought of what she's arranged for a whole week makes me want to protest before I even know the details.
"Akansha, you didn't have to-"
"Shh." She presses a finger to my lips, and the touch is so sudden, so intimate, that I stop walking. She doesn't miss a beat, stepping closer, her finger still there, her eyes meeting mine over the rims of her glasses. "Let me do this. I want to."
I exhale against her finger. She lets it linger a second longer before pulling away, and I swear I can still feel the ghost of it on my mouth.
"Okay," I manage.
"Good boy."
The words hit me somewhere low, and she's already turned away, pulling me toward the check-in counter. I follow like a dog on a leash.
"The resort is called Namphung Bay," she says, her voice dropping into something almost reverent. "It's on a private island in Phang Nga. Thirty villas, each with its own infinity pool overlooking the Andaman Sea. The suites are built over the water, so you can hear the waves through the floor. There's a private beach, a spa that does hour-long massages as a warm-up, and this restaurant where the chef grows his own herbs in a floating garden."
"Sounds expensive."
"Abundantly." She doesn't seem bothered. "But the reviews say you feel like you're floating the entire time. Serene, they keep saying. Every review uses the word serene."
"Serene," I repeat.
She nods, delighted. "And when we get bored of serenity, Bangkok. Clubs, bars, midnight markets. I've got a whole itinerary."
"Akansha, this is too much. Let me at least pay for-"
She shushes me again, this time cupping my jaw with both hands, her thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "You're going to sit back and let your cousin spoil you. It's my money. I earned it. And you-" she squeezes my face gently, "-are going to enjoy yourself. Got it?"
"Got it."
She beams, dropping her hands, and grabs my fingers again, leading me toward a separate counter with a sign that reads FIRST AND BUSINESS CLASS. The attendant lights up when she sees Akansha, promising us the best seats on the flight. She handles everything with breezy confidence, laughing at something the attendant says, and it's clear they know her here. The boarding pass she hands me has a holder that feels like leather.
We're whisked through security, past the cramped boarding area, and down a jet bridge before I can catch my breath. The plane's interior is all warm wood and soft lighting, and the air smells like lavender and something expensive. A flight attendant in a crisp burgundy uniform approaches us with a smile that feels practiced and warm at once.
"Mr. and Mrs. Gupta," she says, bowing slightly. "Welcome aboard. We've prepared your suite for the honeymoon. My name is Priya, and I'll be your attendant for the flight. Can I get either of you started with champagne?"
I freeze.
The words lodge in my throat, and I feel the heat crawl up my neck. Mrs. Gupta. Honeymoon. My cousin is gaping somewhere behind me, and the attendant is looking at us with that patient, knowing smile.
Akansha recovers first. She laughs, a bright, musical sound, and slides her arm through mine, squeezing my bicep. "Champagne sounds perfect, Priya. Thank you so much."
She pulls me forward, and I stumble after her, my face burning. Priya leads us down the narrow aisle, past the other first-class passengers, stopping at a door near the front. She swipes a card and steps aside.
The suite is obscene. A wide leather couch, a bed that looks big enough for four people, and rose petals scattered across the sheets in a negligent, expensive scatter. A bucket of champagne waits on a side table, the bottle beaded with condensation. On the counter, I spot a small framed sign propped against the wall.
"Our First Honeymoon," it reads, in curling calligraphy. There's a cartoon sketch of a bride and groom holding hands.
Priya gestures elegantly. "The bed is made up with Egyptian cotton, and the pillow menu is in the drawer. If you need anything at all, just press the call button. We'll be serving dinner in about two hours. Congratulations again."
She backs out with a bow, and the door slides shut with a soft hiss.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then Akansha lets out a breath. She pushes her glasses up, rubbing the bridge of her nose, and turns in a slow circle, taking in the rose petals, the champagne bucket, the sign. Her jaw tightens.
"That absolute moron," she says, her voice low and controlled. "That incompetent, half-witted, dimwitted, pencil-pushing little-" She stops, presses her palms to her temples. "The travel agent. I told him leisure, and he booked honeymoon. He booked HONEYMOON."
She whirls to face me, and there's something wild in her expression, half-fury, half-mortification. "This is all week, Hardik. I paid for a honeymoon package. That means matching dinners, couples massages, the private beach for two, candlelit excursions. The whole kit and kaboodle. And he-" she makes a choking sound, "-he's not answering his phone, I bet. I just texted him and it says delivered, and I'm going to murder him with my bare hands when I get back."
I look at the rose petals. At the champagne. At the painting of two silhouettes kissing on the wall above the bed.
I clear my throat. "Alright, didi. Let's just... breathe for a second."
She's still fuming, her fingers drumming against her thigh, and I can see the wheels turning behind those glasses. I step closer, putting myself between her and the obnoxious honeymoon sign, like I can block out the absurdity of it all.
"It's just a name," I say, keeping my voice calm. "Mr. and Mrs. Gupta. So we're Mr. and Mrs. Gupta for a week. It's not like anyone's going to check our family tree."
She stares at me, her nostrils still flared, but something in her posture shifts. The anger bleeds out slowly, replaced by something I can't quite read.
"Besides," I continue, gesturing at the suite, "we're both adults. We can put up with a few rose petals and a couples massage. We'll laugh about it later. It's just... a theme. Like a costume party. We'll play along, get the free champagne, and never mention it again."
She blinks at me. Then her lips curve, slow and dangerous, and the temperature in the room changes.
"Play along," she repeats, tasting the words.
"Yeah. Just... go with it. Whatever." I'm suddenly very aware of how close we're standing. "It's not a big deal."
"Oh, I don't know, Hardik." She takes a step toward me, and I take one back without meaning to. "I think it could be a very big deal."
My back hits the wall. She keeps coming, stopping just short of touching me, her head tilted in that way she has when she's about to say something devastating.
"What if we pretend?"
The words hang between us, soft and deliberate. Her smile has sharpened, and there's a flicker in her eyes that I haven't seen before, or maybe I've never let myself see it.
"What?" My voice comes out rough.
"What if we pretend?" She reaches up, adjusting her glasses, and the gesture is so familiar, so her, that it grounds me even as my heart starts hammering. "We're already booked as Mr. and Mrs. Gupta. We have a honeymoon suite, matching dinner reservations, a private beach for two. The agency screwed up, but who says we have to suffer for it?"
"We wouldn't be suffering, we'd just be... I mean, we'd be pretending to be married. To each other."
"Mm." She taps a nail against my chest, right over my heartbeat. "And we're excellent actors, aren't we? I've seen you bullshit your way past bouncers. You've seen me charm half of Mumbai's boardrooms. We're good at this."
"Akansha, that's different. That's... business. This is-"
"This is what?" Her voice drops, honey-sweet. "A week in paradise with my favorite cousin. Good food, good drinks, good company. We pretend to be a couple for the staff, we get upgraded to fancier experiences, we take cute photos for the 'gram." She leans in, her breath warm against my cheek. "And nobody, anywhere, has to know it's not real."
My throat is dry. "It wouldn't be real."
"No," she agrees, and there's something in her voice that makes the word sound like a question. "But it could be a lot of fun."
She pulls back, giving me space, and for a moment I can breathe again. She's watching me, her eyes bright behind those glasses, her smile holding steady.
"Come on, Hardik." She's coaxing now, playful. "Think about it. The honeymoon villas get the best views. The best champagne. The private beach where nobody else is allowed. Every single luxury, and all we have to do is smile and hold hands and call each other darling in public."
"You want me to call you darling."
"I want you to call me darling, and sweetheart, and my beautiful wife, and whatever else these honeymooners say to each other." She gestures at the bed, at the rose petals. "Look at this place. It's gorgeous. Are you really going to let my incompetent travel agent ruin it?"
I look at the bed. At the champagne. At the sign that says our first honeymoon, and I feel the strangest pull in my chest, like I'm standing on the edge of something.
"And if anyone asks too many questions?"
"Then we tell them we're cousins who decided to be dramatic." She shrugs, elegant and careless. "Or we don't tell them anything. It's none of their business."
She's right, and I hate that she's right, because every logical part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea. But she's looking at me with that grin, and the champagne is sweating in its bucket, and the rose petals are scattered across the sheets like they're waiting for someone to lie down in them.
"You're insane," I say.
"I'm persuasive." She steps forward, catching my chin between her thumb and forefinger. "And I'm asking you, cousin, to let me spoil you for one week. To pretend with me. To be my very convincing fake husband."
Her thumb brushes my lower lip, feather-light.
"Is that so terrible?"
I nod against her touch. The gesture is small, barely a movement, but her smile widens like she's won something. She releases my chin and steps back, and the air between us shifts, lighter now, charged with a secret we've just agreed to keep.
"Perfect," she says, and the word feels like a seal.
The plane begins to taxi, and we settle into our seats across from each other. Priya brings champagne in crystal flutes, and Akansha raises hers in a toast, her eyes glittering over the rim. "To pretending," she says, and I clink my glass against hers. The bubbles burn going down, and I feel the warmth spread through my chest. She makes a little humming sound of approval, licking the residue from her lips, and I have to look away.
The engines roar, and the pressure of takeoff pins me to my seat. I watch the city lights fall away through the window, Mumbai becoming a scatter of gold dust against black velvet. Akansha is quiet beside me, her head tilted back, her throat exposed. I don't let myself look too long.
By the time the plane levels out, the cabin has dimmed to a soft amber glow. Most of the other first-class passengers have pulled down their blinds, cocooning themselves in private darkness. Outside, the night is total.
Akansha stretches in her seat, a slow feline motion that pulls her dress taut across her thighs. She glances at me, then at the bathroom door at the end of the cabin.
"I'm going to change," she says, unclipping her seatbelt. "You should too. Comfort is key on a honeymoon."
She gives me a wink and pads down the aisle, her hips swaying beneath the white sundress. I watch her disappear behind the door, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
I pull my duffel from the overhead bin and change quickly, trading my jeans and t-shirt for loose cotton shorts. I leave the shirt off. The cabin air is cool, but my skin feels hot, and I want to feel it against me. I sit back down, my bare chest rising and falling as I try to steady myself.
The bathroom door opens.
Akansha steps out, and my brain short-circuits.
She's wearing a thin camisole, the kind of fabric that's more suggestion than coverage, a pale pink that clings to every curve. The straps are thin, the neckline dipping low, and I can see the shadow of her collarbones, the swell of her chest beneath the delicate material. Her nipples press against the fabric, and I can't tell if it's the cold or if she's always been like this, a walking temptation in pink silk.
Below that, a pair of booty shorts. Tiny, white, hugging her hips like they were sewn onto her. The athletic curve of her ass is on full display, her thick thighs gleaming under the cabin lights. She's barefoot, her toes pressing into the plush carpet, and she looks like she belongs in a magazine, not in a first-class cabin at thirty thousand feet.
I can't help myself. I take her in, slowly, from her bare feet to the messy waves of her hair. My eyes trace the line of her legs, the width of her hips, the dip of her waist. The camisole shifts with her movement, and I watch the fabric slide over her skin like it's alive.
She notices. Of course she notices. Her smile curves, slow and knowing, and she does a little spin, letting me see all of her.
"Like what you see?" she asks, her voice light, but there's an edge beneath it.
I swallow. "You know I do."
"Good," she says, and she pads over to the couch, the one that faces the bed. She sinks into it, tucking her legs beneath her, the booty shorts riding up just a little further. She pats the space beside her. "Come sit. We've got a long flight."
I move across the cabin, my legs feeling heavy, and sit beside her. The leather is cool against my bare back, but the warmth radiating from her is closer, stronger. She shifts, and her thigh brushes mine through the thin fabric of her shorts. Neither of us moves away.
"So," she says, tilting her head to look at me. "Fake husband. How are you feeling?"
"Honestly?" I laugh, a short, breathless sound. "Like I'm in way over my head."
"Mmm." She reaches out, her fingers trailing down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "That's the fun part."