🎈👠 chapter eleven . . .
it was nice to take a break in between, you know?
they'd made a narrow escape from being found out yesterday, and she didn't want to risk it again by staying around the hotel while all the guests were arriving for tomorrow's engagement party.
so, no, staying was a huge risk—and simran didn't play with taking risks. that just wasn't her style.
so, simran and ayan had spent the next day going around town for a little sight-seeing (and lots of shopping, in simran's case!)
if you're taking revenge on someone, you might as well do it in style.
and her wardrobe needed a refresh anyway.
and now, they'd exited yet another shop, and ayan was carrying her bags behind her.
"you should buy something for yourself." simran remarked, because she'd brought at least four pairs of heels (from her credit card, of course) in the past three hours, and ayan hadn't even looked at anything for longer than three seconds.
ayan was carrying four bags on one arm, three on the other. he almost dropped one bag as he tried to keep up with her.
it wasn't too many bags, right?
ayan let out an awkward chuckle, "i'm trying to save."
trying to save? that made her feel like a huge spender.
her dad would say that she has a slight shopping addiction, but simran disagreed. you can never have too many clothes!
"good luck with that." simran replied. she was paying for their stay here, and he was still trying to save? chivalry is dead.
"so the engagement's tomorrow—" ayan began.
"oh, i know." simran replied, turning to him. the sound of her heels clicking against the tiles resonated around the place, "i haven't forgotten."
just taking a break . . .
"no, i mean, what's your plan, simran?" ayan asked.
ah. her plan. she was waiting for him to ask her that.
"we need to swipe rishabh's phone first, possibly tomorrow morning." she said, and she said it like it was the simplest thing ever.
ayan's eyes went slightly wide, "what?"
"swipe rishabh's phone, ayan. keep up." simran frowned.
simran thought that it might've taken ayan a moment to recover from that.
"what the fuck, simran?! that's a fucking offense!" ayan exclaimed, exasperated.
"oh please, ayan! don't be such a baby! we'll keep it back as soon as we're done." simran chided.
ayan just blinked at her.
listen, it's the only way that's gonna work, okay? simran knows what she's going for—exactly what she's going for.
"okay." ayan said finally, "suppose we did get his phone—what the hell are you gonna do with it?" he asked her.
"i heard from one of simone's uncles in the hallway that the groom's side is getting the cake for the engagement. now, rishabh's family doesn't give a shit. he's probably gonna get the cake by himself. we'll change the order—and give them a little 'message' from me." simran explained.
grand, isn't it?
ayan shook his head, "you're—"
"i am?" simran repeated, fixing him a pointed stare.
"nothing." ayan amended quickly.
that's what she thought.
"and then we'll call their designer." simran smiled.
ayan looked at her in utter disbelief.
"call their designer?" he repeated.
"yeah. i have a little surprise for simone." she smiled. simone had tagged her designer all over her instagram posts.
and, simone was very bad with dates and deadlines. simran assumed that she'd have probably asked rishabh to collect her lehenga (or whatever the heck she was wearing) from the designer.
("i'll forget. you do it." simran could almost imagine simone saying that in her sing-song, sweeter than nectar, voice)
"suppose rishabh has a password. how're you gonna crack that?" ayan frowned.
"please, ayan—i bet he still uses that password he used in college." simran replied.
his password was his date of birth, written backwards. and that ladies and gentlemen, is just how 'basic' rishabh mehta was—both in bedroom and otherwise.
now, simran wasn't a petty hacker. she's gonna let ayan do that part.
"simran—" ayan seemed truly speechless.
"i know, ayan." simran smiled, "but i don't like compliments."
but he could give her some, if he insisted.
"you're—this is too much." ayan said.
simran frowned at him, "this? wait till you see what i have in store."
🎈👠
(the next day . . . )
ayan was pretty damn sure that he was cursed, at this point.
he should've listened to his mother ramble about his horoscopes for this month—because he was sure someone had fucking cursed him and whatever little stability that he had in his goddamned life.
but he was pretty thankful that his eyes didn't pop out of it's sockets when he heard simran narrating her plan to him at the mall yesterday.
her plan was—he wanted to commit arson after hearing it. he'd rather have the cops put him behind bars than go along with simran and her weirdly twisted plan to get back at her ex-boyfriend/bestfriend.
but, as life (and the people pleaser in him) would have it, he was hiding behind the wall, acting as lookout for simran.
"ayan?" simran whispered through the phone, which was now in his pocket on but was connected to his headphones, "is he here yet?"
star of the hour—rishabh mehta!
"not yet." ayan said.
so this was the plan—ayan would give simran a heads-up when rishabh entered the elevator, simran would get herself inside the same elevator in some fucked up disguise on the floor right above the one he was on right now, ayan would go and mess with the fuse box (that was somewhere in a room next to the pool) so that the lights went out, and voilà —simran somehow got rishabh's phone!
pretty cool, right?
ayan hoped against hope that this fucking thing worked, although his pretty rational instincts told him that it wouldn't.
ayan was distracted for a minute, but he didn't miss it when rishabh walked into the lobby like he owned the goddamned place.
"simran! fuck, simran, he's here!" ayan exclaimed, unable to keep his voice at a normal decibel. a few people even side-eyed him as they passed.
you see, the thing about ayan is that once he was onto something (however unwillingly), he'll see it through entirely. yes, you can call him a perfectionist.
and now that he was already knee-deep in this mess with simran and her friends, he might as well see it through to the end. besides, it's not like he 'adored' rishabh mehta.
"he's here?" simran voice came back, and ayan couldn't say if she sounded nervous or excited.
rishabh was waiting for the elevator to come down, and he seemed pretty irritated.
the elevator doors finally slid open, and rishabh stepped inside.
"simran! he's in!" ayan exclaimed, and he took off running to the glass doors that led to the poolside.
"i'm on it." simran said, and cut off.
three cheers to whichever entity if they managed to pull this off.
🎈👠
simran had to say that this straw hat and this disposable mask was bothering her so much that her face was starting to itch.
she cut off the call when ayan exclaimed that rishabh had gotten into the elevator.
was she nervous that she was about to see her ex-boyfriend (and share the same cramped breathing space as him) after so long? hell no.
was she nervous that she was about to see her ex-boyfriend in this godforsaken sundress? yes.
to be very honest, simran was sure that her emotions were all fucked up from the moment she received that invitation in the mail. she wasn't feeling things she should be feeling, and she was feeling too much in places where she shouldn't be caring at all. but to think about that was like acknowledging it, so she avoided thinking about it at all.
she was gonna see rishabh again after so long? why didn't that sink in the way it should? was it because he broke her heart and her trust? with her best friend? and that simone just let him?
but emotions and revenge didn't go together—it should be just rage. that's what went with it.
so when the elevator opened, simran didn't feel much except for that overwhelming need to beat the fuck out of rishabh.
besides, she'd already seen him before that day in the lobby, so the changes he'd gone through in these last few years didn't really stick out.
nothing stuck out, to be honest—except for that fact that he was getting married to her best friend.
rishabh, however, seemed completely oblivious.
he was wearing his shades (inside the elevator? pathetic. but so was she?) and he had his hands inside the pocket of his jeans.
he didn't glance twice in her direction, which would've irritated simran if they were in a different situation—but this was exactly she wanted at this moment.
god, was he—was he happier with simone?
but no matter how strong she pretended to be, she could feel the tears sting her eyes behind the heavy black shades.
rishabh was—god, it felt so long away now—all those late night phone calls, all those over-the-top love confessions and nicknames, texting each other over lectures, and how she thought he was there for her during her parents' divorce. and now, thinking back, he wasn't there for her at all. it was just her, in a half-assed relationship, carrying both their baggage—his daddy issues and her parents's divorce.
and he didn't give a shit about all that, and she knew that he wouldn't have given a single thought to it before he began dating simone.
all her emotions, effort, time and trust went down the drain—with both of them.
did their relationship mean that little to them?
simran sniffled a little, and rishabh began turning towards her—
never again.
three, two, one—
that's when the lights in the elevator went out, and they were thrown in pitch black darkness.
"what the fuck?" rishabh said, at her side.
fuck you, asshole.
ayan said he'd give her a minute, before the staff try to figure out what's wrong.
simran slowly reached out her hand, and pulled his phone out of his back pocket as carefully as she could.
she quickly slipped it into her dress pocket, and she didn't even feel a morsel of guilt as she did so.
should've thought about this before going behind my back.
"what the fuck is happening—" rishabh began, but he didn't seem to have known that his phone was back.
and that was exactly her plan—rishabh was scared of the dark and she knew he would panic easily, and he wouldn't notice what's going on around him.
you see, that's the thing when you get into a relationship. you remember all the little details—and you could use that against them.
the lights came back on again, and simran saw the panic on rishabh's face fade slowly.
"what the heck was that?" rishabh leaned back, running a hand through his hair.
"whatever it was, they fixed it." simran replied simply.
it was surprising, how she could push any trace of emotions away from her voice when she wanted to—like they were total strangers, just exchanging a few casual sentences on an elevator ride up in some hotel.
except that they knew each other too well, and sirman would make him regret for that.
rishabh turned to her, and he was about to open her mouth—
the doors of the elevator slid open to the floor that simran wanted to go to.
she didn't look back as she strutted out. she just took her phone from the other pocket and called ayan.
"hello?" ayan picked up after four rings, and he sounded breathless. "please tell me you got it—"
"i got it." simran replied.
she never doubted herself, to begin with.
🎈👠
ayan was so nervous.
so nervous, that he had a mind to start chewing off his nails as simran was on the phone with the confectionary.
"hello?" simran asked, putting on her best impression of simone's voice.
damn. ayan never knew that simran could mimic someone so well. it wasn't exactly a match to simone's voice, but anyone who's only talked to her briefly could fall for this.
"yes, we'd booked an order under rishabh mehta's name from this number.?" she asked, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger.
this was working? ayan was so fucking scared, but they'd somehow got away with that 'heist' they'd pulled off a few hours ago. and he didn't know why, but he thought that simran was getitng more and more confident with all the bullshit that they were managing to get away with.
he thought that the dinner party incident would be simran's worse, but turns out that it was just the start.
"yes. i'm so sorry that i'm calling on such short notice, but i want to cancel this order." simran sounded genuinely sorry, that ayan thought that even he would've brought it if he was on the other side of the line.
"i'm so sorry." simran repeated, "but we had to postpone the engagement. my fiancé caught the flu." she sounded so freaking convincing, and ayan faked a few coughs in the background, just for the theatrics.
simran turned to ayan, and she had a small smile playing on her lips.
"thank you so much for being so understanding." simran said to the phone. "thank you. i would've let you know earlier, but we were checking if it'd get any better." she added.
and the oscars go to . . . miss simran sangha! ayan was sure that simran must've signed up for some acting courses at some point.
"thank you. bye. and once again, we're so sorry for the inconvenience." simran said apologetically, before lowering the phone from her ear.
she cut the call, and turned to ayan with a smile.
"hats off, simran." ayan remarked. "you're pretty convincing."
credit where it's due, okay?
"thanks." simran said, keeping rishabh's phone on the bed.
maybe ayan just had to admit it now—that simran was some sort of an mastermind. because like she'd predicted, rishabh had a passcode and it was his fucking birthdate written backwards exactly like she'd said it would be. he had no other added security whatsoever. and simran had managed to take everything forward in the way she'd planned it so far. impressive indeed. he would've just cried in his bed if he was her, truth be told.
"so that's the cake—" simran said, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.
designers? check. music? check. cake? check.
wow.
"now what?" ayan asked, looking down at rishabh's phone.
he'd himself on his wallpaper? that's—he didn't know how to feel about that.
"now what?" simran repeated, looking down at the phone too.
ayan looked up, and simran just smiled at him.
"they won't know what would hit them tomorrow." she replied.
ayan decided then and there that he'd rather leave country than face simran's wrath.