Vansh, with his cause célèbre bleeding heart, couldn’t just walk in here and take clinics away from these women. Not when Naina had been waiting for ten years to find a way to pull her grand plan off.

Call me right now. Because I know where to find you, she texted Vansh.

Her phone rang almost immediately. It was a FaceTime call. She was at her desk, working, so she had to run to the hallway and check herself in the mirror. She pulled off the crab clip holding back her hair and fluffed it. Her hair hadn’t grown back after the disastrous Haircut to Save Yash that had proved to the entire world what a fool she was.

God, she hated video calls.

“Well, good morning to you too!” the brat said as soon as she answered, tone all sunny, as though he were not trying to steal her endowment.

Wait, was he shirtless? “What do you think you’re doing?”

“At this very moment, eating chocolate. Eighty-nine percent cacao.” He chewed. Dear God, he was eating chocolate shirtless in bed.

“You’re in bed. Eating chocolate.” When tongue-tied, say the most obvious thing.

“I often eat chocolate after I brush my teeth. There’s something about how the mint makes the chocolate taste.” From the way his eyes got all dreamy it had to taste pretty darn good.

How was it okay for a man to have eyes like this? There were enough lashes lining the dark caramel brown that he probably needed to brush them a few times a day to take out the tangles. They were even twisted together and flipping around in all directions. Like his hair.

This was why Naina never video-called people; the camera zoomed in on all sorts of details you didn’t have to deal with when the whole person was present and not just their face ten inches from yours.

“There’s something very wrong with you,” she said, looking at the contrast between their faces on her screen. She didn’t mean things like unfair lashes and shiny chocolate-stained lips that looked like they’d been pumped full of fillers. She meant her overworked scowl, which made her look like a frustrated witch, versus his self-indulgent smile, which made him look like a joyful angel. If that wasn’t technology bastardizing facts, she didn’t know what was.

“Can you please put a shirt on?” She hated that she sounded like a scolding auntie.

“Why?” He looked genuinely confused when he looked down at himself, which made the camera slide down his chest. And, well, what the hell? He was manscaped and glossy, and his muscles were cut in places where she’d never seen muscles cut before. At least not this close up and not outside of TV commercials and movies.

When had he gotten a tattoo? Did his mom know?