KABIR'S POV :

The morning sun streamed through the windshield, casting golden patterns over the black leather seats of my car. Shanaya was curled in the passenger seat, her bare legs stretched across my lap, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Her soft skin rested warm against my thighs, and my hand, completely unashamedly, was wrapped possessively around her thigh, thumb stroking slow, absentminded circles on the inside.

She was sipping coffee from my mug — because she claimed mine tasted better than hers — while scrolling through her phone with an infuriatingly calm expression. The girl was chaos draped in soft cotton, wearing my oversized sweatshirt like she owned the damn morning.

“You’re going to be late,” I muttered, eyes flicking from the road ahead to the curve of her leg draped over me.

She didn’t glance up. “And whose fault is that, Mr. Dark and Brooding, hmm? Maybe if you hadn’t kept me up last night—”

“—arguing about whether pineapple belongs on pizza?” I smirked.

She gave me a look over the rim of the mug. “You were the one who said it was ‘an offense to Italy.’”

I squeezed her thigh gently, leaning in a little. “Still stand by it. But if you keep rubbing those legs against me like that, I might consider forgiving you.”

She gave a slow, wicked smile, shifting just slightly — the pressure of her legs brushing exactly where she knew it would drive me a little insane.

“I thought you were dropping me to college, not seducing me in traffic,” she said sweetly.

I leaned closer, my voice low. “Who said I can’t do both?”

She laughed, soft and genuine, before placing a quick, teasing kiss at the corner of my mouth. “Try not to miss me too much, Mafia Man.”

She slid off my lap with one last lingering touch to my jaw and sauntered out of the car, leaving me half-hard, amused, and utterly in love like some fool under her spell.

And she knew it. Damn her — she knew it.

---

AT THE OFFICE :

I was halfway through back-to-back meetings, stuck between a potential arms deal and a property acquisition, when Kartik barged into my office like he owned the place. Again.

He didn’t knock. Never did.

“What the hell do you want now?” I asked without looking up.

“Fries. And a little appreciation,” he replied, casually tossing a greasy brown bag on my desk and plopping into the chair across from me.

I eyed the food. “You brought these from Mickey’s Canteen? Seriously?”

“Only the best for your grumpy ass,” he grinned. “Plus, you need salt. You’ve been walking around like someone cursed your bloodline.”

I rolled my eyes, but took a fry anyway.

“Not everyone wakes up to drive their girlfriend to class, run a criminal empire, and attend board meetings all before lunch,” I muttered.

Kartik leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “Speaking of girlfriends... you know what tomorrow is?”

I gave him a blank look. “Thursday?”

His jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“Should I not be?”

“It’s Shanaya’s birthday, dumbass.”

I froze mid-bite.

“What?”

“Yeah. July 25th. I thought you'd know.”

I blinked, trying to remember her ever mentioning it. She hadn’t. Not once.

“She never told me.”

Kartik’s smug grin faded. “She wouldn’t. Not anymore.”

“Why?” My voice dropped a little.

Kartik glanced at the window, then back at me. “I remember how she used to be. She loved birthdays. Wouldn’t shut up about them for weeks. Made us plan surprise parties she knew were coming. Wore tiaras to school like she was Miss Universe.”

I could almost picture it — Shanaya, dramatic and loud, bossing people around with confetti in her hair.

“She doesn’t seem like that now,” I said, softer.

“She isn’t. Not since…” He hesitated. “Since Rohan.”

I looked down.

“She started hating the attention. Said it felt fake. Empty. Like celebrating was betraying something... or someone. So now she just lets it pass by. Doesn’t even cut a cake.”

A sharp ache bloomed in my chest. The thought of her — that version of her — dreading the one day meant just for her, hurt in a way I couldn’t explain.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

Kartik smiled faintly. “Maybe because it doesn’t matter to her anymore. Or maybe because she didn’t think it would matter to you.”

That was the last straw.

I stood up, pacing. “I’m throwing her a party.”

Kartik blinked. “Wait, what?”

“A real one. With her friends. Lemon cupcakes. Fairy lights. All of it. Whatever she used to love.”

“She might actually kill you for that.”

“She can try.”

Kartik smirked, then walked over and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

“She won’t expect it,” he said, softer now. “But it’ll mean more than you think.”

I nodded.

Because this wasn’t just about balloons or cake. It was about reminding Shanaya that her happiness still mattered. That she deserved joy, even if grief had tried to convince her otherwise.

And this time, I wasn’t going to let her forget who she really was.

------------

You’d think planning a birthday party would be simple. You book a place, order some cake, gather people, throw in lights, and boom — celebration.

Wrong.

Planning Shanaya’s surprise birthday party was like trying to direct a musical… with four overdramatic men who think “vibes” are more important than logistics.

After Kartik dropped the birthday bomb and left me mentally spiraling, I paced my office for a full hour before making a decision. She hadn’t told me. She hadn’t even hinted. And that killed me.

The girl who used to celebrate her birthday like it was a national holiday — now hides from it like it’s a ghost from her past.

I wasn’t having it.

So I did what any sane boyfriend would do. I made a group chat. Big mistake.

“Operation Queen B-Day” — and yes, that was the actual group name.

Rohit, Veer, Ranveer, yash and Kartik were all added.

Veer: “Theme suggestions: pastel chaos or full Bollywood dance party?”

Rohit: “I second the Bollywood theme. I’ll choreograph a performance. Kabir and I will do a duo. Shirtless.”

Me: “You’ll do no such thing.”

Ranveer: “Can we pick a place first before we get to the dance battles?”

Kartik: “Also, Kabir’s cooking dinner. So maybe we give him a second to process that he’s now party planner-in-chief.”

“I'm already halfway to a nervous breakdown,” I muttered, tossing my phone aside before calling everyone to my place. If I was going to go insane, might as well have witnesses.

---

AT MY PENTHOUSE

“You want fairy lights or spotlights?” Rohit asked, sketching out a rough layout on my kitchen island.

“Fairy lights. She’s not auditioning for a concert,” I deadpanned.

“Are we inviting her college friends?” Ranveer asked, scrolling through her Instagram followers like a detective.

“I don’t even know who half of them are,” I grumbled.

“That’s why we stalk,” Kartik said, sipping juice like he was born to investigate.

Veer strolled into the kitchen with a whiteboard. “Okay, hear me out — let’s do a midnight countdown, champagne tower, and—wait for it—confetti rain.”

“I swear to god, if I find confetti in my whiskey for the next three weeks—”

“Relax, Grandpa. It’ll be biodegradable,” Veer grinned.

The chaos didn’t stop there.

We argued over cake flavors. Chocolate truffle or red velvet? I insisted on mocha. Kartik said Shanaya hated mocha. I sulked for fifteen minutes.

We debated venues — rooftop garden vs. A lavish villa. I picked both. We booked both. Don’t ask.

Rohit offered to host a Bollywood dance workshop for everyone. “We’ll rehearse ‘Desi Girl.’ Shanaya will love it.”

“Shanaya will throw you off the roof,” I replied.

Everyone shut up when I pulled out my card and started placing orders.

Ranveer sorted the playlist. Veer called in favors for decoration. Rohit ordered custom invites that looked like old-school handwritten letters. Kartik quietly reminded me to include a “safe space” for Shanaya — a corner with just books, coffee, and fairy lights, in case she got overwhelmed.

That one made me pause. Because that was exactly what she needed.

“She’s gonna cry, isn’t she?” I muttered, leaning back as the boys continued yelling about flowers and balloon arches.

Kartik nodded. “Yeah. But happy tears.”

And suddenly, the stress didn’t matter.

She didn’t tell me about her birthday because it hurt. But I’d show her that she still deserves magic — not in the loud, dramatic kind of way, but in the way that whispers, “you’re loved.”

And when she walked in tomorrow, wearing that confused smile and wide-eyed look… I’d get to see her light up again.

Not because of the decorations.

But because she’d know I saw her — every version of her.

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Heyy guyss, so are you all excited for her birthday?? What do you all think did Mr. Singhania do justice for her birthday surprise? And how will she react? Stay tuned to find out. xxxx

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