The golden morning in Switzerland should've been perfect. But instead of joy, there was a heavy stillness in the air—a silence that wrapped around Romy like a warning.
Monty was curled up in his arms, eyes closed, lashes fluttering like delicate wings. Romy couldn't take his eyes off him. He looked so peaceful. So heartbreakingly beautiful. He leaned in gently and pressed a soft kiss to Monty's forehead.
"Morning, babe," Romy whispered, his voice barely above a breath.
Monty stirred and blinked up at him sleepily. "You're already awake?"
"I couldn't sleep," Romy said, brushing his fingers through Monty's messy hair. "I was too busy falling for you all over again."
As soon as Romy gently ran her fingers through Monty's fake hair, Monty smiled, took her hand, and softly placed it on his cheek.
Monty laughed softly, but his heart clenched. He was falling too—deeper and faster—but he knew the ground was approaching, and it was going to hurt.
"I was thinking…" Romy began hesitantly. "What if we don't go back today? What if I cancel the tickets? Just one more day, please."
Monty's eyes widened, but before he could respond, Romy's phone began to ring. The screen flashed: Papa.
Romy frowned and picked it up. "Hello?"
His father's voice came through, sharp and urgent. "Romy, come back immediately. Mr. Preem is very unwell. He's asking to see Preety. He says he doesn't have much time."
Romy froze. "What? Papa, but…"
"No arguments. Just come home. He's desperate."
Romy ended the call, confused and worried. He looked at Monty. "That was Papa. Something's wrong. Preem uncle is sick. He's asking for… you."
Monty's heart sank.
This is it. The truth was catching up.
He nodded quietly. "We should go back."
"But—" Romy started, then stopped. He could see something shift in Monty's eyes. A silent storm. "Are you okay?"
Monty forced a smile. "Let's pack."
The flight to India was long and quiet. Romy held Monty's hand the whole way, but Monty barely squeezed back. His mind was spinning.
This is the end. Soon, he'll find out I'm not Preety. That I'm just… Monty. A boy. A liar. And he'll hate me for it.
When they arrived at Preem's home, everything felt wrong.
Preem was lying on the couch, surrounded by cushions like a dying king. His eyes brightened when he saw Monty walk in, dressed in Preety's clothes, still pretending, still faking.
"Oh, Preety beta," Preem croaked dramatically, "You've come back. Now I can finally rest."
Romy rushed forward. "Uncle, are you okay?"
Preem waved him off. "I just need her close. That's all I ask. Leave her with me for a few days. Please."
Romy frowned. "But I—"
"Please," Preem insisted. "She's all I want."
Monty's throat tightened. Romy turned to him.
Monty nodded, though every bone in his body screamed no. "I'll be fine."
Romy's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he didn't understand yet. But in the end, he kissed Monty's hand and whispered, "Call me if you need anything."
Monty nodded again. He couldn't trust his voice.
And then Romy was gone.
Monty stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door like it had taken a part of him with it. His fingers trembled.
Preem's voice snapped through the air. Cold. Controlled.
"Well done, Monty. Now stay put. Preety's returning. And Romy will never know."
Monty turned away so Preem wouldn't see the tears building in his eyes. He walked to the guest room in silence, dropped onto the bed.
He buried his face in it and cried.
He cried for the love he felt, for the truth he couldn't hide much longer, and for the man he knew he'd lose.
Because Romy wasn't kissing him. He was kissing a lie.
And Monty had never hated himself more.