Page 136 of Glass Jawed
He’sstaring.
Staring right at me. Me—in the arms of someone else. Even if it is strictly PG.
And for a split second, there’s fury in his eyes. Raw. Unfiltered.
But then—just like that—it’s gone.
Wiped clean. A blank canvas.
I don’t have time to dwell on Lucian’s stare because the dreaded moment is here—the dance-off is about to begin.
Kashvi, two of my cousins, Simran (Ishika’s best friend), and I are repping the bride’s side. We’ll be going head-to-head with Vikram’s smug little army of cronies.
And me? I’m dressed for battle, bitch.
Ishika, in true chaotic fashion, is playing emcee for the night. She snatches the mic from the DJ like she owns the place and skips—yes,skips—to the center of the dance floor, glittering like a disco ball on a mission.
Vikram is right behind her, circling like he already knows he’s winning, a cocky little smirk playing on his lips.
This is war. With choreography.
The music fades into the background as Ishi grins at the crowd, cheeks glowing from excitement or alcohol—possibly both.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she begins dramatically. “Tonight’sSangeetisn’t just about singing and dancing. No, no. It’swar.”
The crowd laughs. She continues in a combination of Hindi and English.
“We’ve got Team Bride versus Team Groom! In one corner, we have me—your very fair and verybiasedhost—and in the other, my fiancé, Vikram, who I’ll marry only if he doesn’t embarrass us tonight.”
More laughter.
“Both teams have rehearsed. There’s sweat, there’s blisters, there are cousins threatening to disown each other—but tonight, we put all that aside. Because now? It’sshowtime!”
Cheers erupt around the courtyard.
I catch Lucian out of the corner of my eye. He’s standing at the edge, leaning slightly into my mom, who’s gesturing wildly with her hands, clearly translating everything Ishika just said. Lucian smiles—laughs even.
God. Why does he have to look so... soft? Sohere?
But the music kicks on and there’s no time to spiral.
We take center stage first—me, Kash, Simran, and my two cousins—striking poses we’ve practiced in front of mirrors like it was a religion. The opening beats of“London Thumakda”blast through the speakers, and suddenly I’m no longer thinking about heartbreak or betrayal or the teal sherwani in the audience.
I’m thinking about rhythm. Precision. Sass.
We twirl. We stomp. We laugh. Every coordinated turn makes the crowd scream louder. By the time“What Jhumka?”begins, my breath is short and sweat beads at the base of my neck, but Ilivefor this.
My dupatta flares behind me as I spin, arms raised. And that’s when I glance at Lucian.
He’s not laughing anymore.
He’s watching. Reverently. Like I’m something sacred. His eyes are locked on me, lips parted slightly, chest rising withthe kind of stillness that only comes when you’re afraid to even breathe. And maybe I’m imagining it, but I think he mouths something—
Beautiful.
And just like that, I almost miss my next step.Almost.
But I recover with flair and spin one last time, dropping into our final pose. We finish to thunderous claps and dramatic hooting from the bride’s side.
