Smirk Of A Jerk

41. Iktaalees

I stood right there. Swamped by people from all around.

One of them fixed my dress, the other set my hair and another retouched my makeup. The feeling of a model behind the stage of a fashion show.

There was going to be photoshoot and half of the event in Indian ethnics.

And since they didn't have any of my pictures dressed like the famous Indian Brides, the event director and the creative manager made a fuss and got me into a red bridal ghagra with antique jewelry that covered my neck like a shield. My hair had been pulled back into a neat bun to accommodate the mathapatti and the transparent veil.

The dress was made up of holographic fabric that looked pinkish in the brightness of the sunlight and turned maroonish indoors.

It had been hardly two hours after Hamish Pablo had given us a 'visit', if one could call it that. And the life of the Raivardhans went on as if there wasn't a care in the world that they could bother about.

Pushing all thoughts about Pablo out of my head, I glanced at the setup behind me in the other room where the photographers were ready for a photoshoot. The white backdrops and those white umbrellas over spotlights and a mess of people crawling around to assist.

It would have been much better if I didn't have to witness the chaos unleashed out there.

The planner and organizer in me want to smack all their heads and draw out a plan for them to follow and not run around like headless chickens! This was such a headache to witness...

Breathe Natasha, breathe!

As they say - too many cooks spoil the broth.

I couldn't possibly get involved now and ruin the already edgy atmosphere and whatever they have achieved so far.

As far as I understand, there were two themes for the party that shall be followed. Firstly the ethnic and then the gala, of God knows what...

Surprisingly, not many people came in or went out unless it was an absolute necessity. Unlike some of the events back home in India that I had honour of witnessing.

The door opened letting the devil in, who was matching his outfit with mine by wearing a holographic red sherwani, looking as handsome as a dream. My thought were confirmed when the hairstylist gasped and froze with whatever she was doing with my hair. And following her were the squeal and jaw-drops around me.

"Come on, he's not that handsome either," the creative director rolled her eyes at the hormonal ladies after snorting unprofessionally.

"Don't mind her, she's a lesbo," the makeup artist fixing my makeup whispered after recovering.

"Of course," I gave her a practiced professional smile.

I kept hearing the flashes go off and photographers instruct Vikrant how they wanted him to pose for next fifteen minutes. And of course, I had been watching him every now and then from the mirror and witnessed him stare at me rather boldly with the entire audience.

The foundation on my face was of rather good quality and blush pigmented enough to securely hide the natural blush that the hotness of my blood was producing underneath my cheeks.