Eternal Sin

Vesha's POV:-

Why do all university trips have to be a special kind of torture?Honestly, when you picture a college trip with friends, what pops into your head? Me? I imagine somewhere alive—maybe a historical site that whispers secrets from the past, or a natural wonder that makes you stop breathing for a second. Mountains stretching forever. A lake so clear you could fall in and disappear.But no.

My university apparently thinks “fun” means dragging us to an art museum. For three hours.Three hours of staring at paintings that, I swear, were made specifically to confuse people like me.

“Feel the depth,” they said.

Sure. I felt the depth...of my own boredom.

And, of course, my soul sister decided this was the perfect time to ditch me for her sister’s wedding. I couldn’t be mad at her… well, maybe just a little. Still, I needed her here, not off negotiating menu arrangements while I sat drowning in abstract despair. I was trailing at the back of the group. Not that I didn’t know people, I knew everyone. Literally. But that didn’t mean they were my people.

Everyone else had their cliques, their whispered jokes, and shared glances. I felt like I had accidentally wandered into a world I didn’t belong to.

And this art… what was this? I stopped in front of a painting or whatever it called itself.

Four cubes.

Four.

Colored differently.

Supposed to be “deep,” apparently.

I blinked at it.

Depth? What depth could there possibly be in four squares on a canvas? I haven’t mastered painting myself, but even I could do this.I didn’t notice the rest of the group moving ahead until I finally tore my gaze from the absurd masterpiece.

Beneath it was a price tag.

A ridiculous, eye-watering price.

For this? Plain white paper and four colored squares.I shook my head.I could never understand these rich, snobbish people. Their obsession with wasting money on… this. Crossing my arms, I let my eyes wander, half out of boredom, half to escape the glaring absurdity of the painting.

That’s when I noticed him.

A man. We were supposed to be alone here. The university had booked the gallery just for our tour today, which meant no crowds, no distractions. And he… he didn’t look like he belonged here.

Not one of us, anyway.

I knew everyone. Everyone. And if I didn’t, I at least remembered the faces.He wasn’t one of ours.He was wearing a light blue shirt tucked into black slacks.

Tall.

My best friend would be swooning right now. She has a thing for tall guys. Not that I don’t notice, but… yeah. He looked good. Who was he?

Oh.

Maybe a worker. That made sense, there weren’t any other people around. A gallery guide, maybe. Someone here to explain the depth of the artist’s “vision.” So, should I step out of my comfort zone and ask him why this ridiculous piece was priced so absurdly high?

I mean, why not?

I’m here. I might as well use the “facilities” I paid for. Tourism fee: 2,000 rupees. Definitely not cheap.I walked up to him and tapped his shoulder.

Tall.

Too tall.

I hadn’t worn heels today because comfort won over everything, but I didn’t like this. Him towering over me while I was technically alone made alarm bells blare in my head.

But, motherfucking God…If that wasn’t the most breathtaking view of a man I had ever seen in my life. He had midnight-black hair and the kind of green eyes that made me question everything I thought I knew about beauty.

Green eyes!

I’ve never admitted this to anyone because, well, I didn’t want to seem shallow, but I have a thing for green eyes.

And his…

His were the most breathtaking shade of green I had ever seen, framed by lashes that could make me jealous—and I have pretty lashes. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. Okay, fine. Maybe not glass. I’m exaggerating.

But it was sharp.

And suddenly, I became painfully aware of myself. I was not exactly “put-together,” especially standing in front of a guy who clearly was. Some people just naturally exude it.

Like him.

I cleared my throat, which had gone embarrassingly dry, and forced a smile as sweet as I could muster.

“Hey… can you please explain the depth of this picture? And, um… why is it so ridiculously expensive?” I tried to keep my tone casual, but I was frustrated. This price felt absurd.There were countless local artists who deserved more than this—much more. I needed answers.

He looked at me, slightly confused. His green eyes narrowed, and the corners of his lips turned down just a fraction, assessing me in a way that made my stomach twist. I could feel his gaze, intense and clean, sweeping over me like a current, and I immediately wished I could disappear.

Because, of course, he looked perfect.

And I… did not.

I was a student from a reputed university, yet here I stood in a purple oversized hoodie, flare blue jeans, and sneakers. My hair had been in a ponytail, now flopped into a bun because it had been annoying me.My face betrayed every ounce of my nerves—the color draining, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

I felt completely exposed.

Whatever I felt—fluster, embarrassment, awe—was plastered all over my face.I’ve never been good at faking anything, and apparently, the universe had decided to make me very obvious right now. For a moment, he didn’t speak, and I could feel myself shrinking under his gaze.

What’s taking him so long?

What does he think he is?

Does he even care about giving me an answer?

I mean, it’s his job, right? He works here; explaining the art should be part of it.

Had I said something wrong? Stumbled?

Did I look like a tomato someone forgot to water?

My anxiety spiked, and my hand clenched into a fist, my thumbnail digging into my index finger like some weird nervous ritual.

He drew in a deep breath, slow and heavy, as if my question—or maybe just my presence—had shifted the entire weight of the room. Then, finally, he turned toward the painting.

His voice came out low, smooth, and utterly… sinful. Deep. Confident. Calm. Everything I was not at that moment. My nerves practically screamed in protest, and I had no trust left in my own mouth to speak.

I just listened.

“This one,” he said, gesturing toward the painting.

I blinked. My throat dry, I tried to gather myself.

“The four… colors?” I murmured, careful and hesitant, like I was asking permission to even speak.

“They are expensive,” he continued, his voice velvety, almost teasing. “Made from the finest, rarest, natural, exotic pigments. That is why the price is what it is.”

I tilted my head, confused.

“Isn’t every color… just a color? What’s so special about these colors that they’re… ridiculously expensive?” I blurted out, my earlier nervousness forgotten as a frown marred my face.

It’s not fair. Some rich artist can get away with a sky-high price for a ridiculous painting, while the ones who actually work hard, who can’t even afford these so-called exotic pigments—are ignored? No.

Art is supposed to describe the artist, not the color. Not the label. That’s the worst part.The ones with the real talent, the real depth, they never get the recognition. It’s not fair. Itwill never be fair.

I looked up at the handsome man in front of me, and my cheeks immediately reddened.

No.

Focus, Vesha. Focus.We don’t get distracted by attractive men who look like they could ruin the entire wiring of your brain.

He smirked, taking one hand out of his pocket while keeping the other tucked inside.

“This one is lapis lazuli, especially extracted from the mountains of Afghanistan. It’s known for its eye-catching deep blue shade, once considered even more valuable than gold.”

Whoa!

More valuable than gold?Can’t this shade be obtained by mixing some other colors? That’s how they make shades of different colors, right? What’s so special about it? I still can’t see it. Anyways, maybe it’s just my lack of artistic side—or it’s really ridiculous.

I put on a smile.

My way of making an awkward moment more awkward for myself. But I can’t help it. It's a defence mechanism.

“More valuable than gold? Wow. If I somehow could go back to that time and just trade this shade for gold, I’d get rich.” I chuckled at my own dumb joke.

And he didn’t even smile. Not even a twitch of his lip. Didn’t anyone teach him that we should smile to calm other people’s nerves? Stupid, stupid man. He just gazed at me as if I had suggested adding pineapple to pizza. I cleared my throat, removing my overly bright smile, and pointed at the other color.

“This one?”

He took a deep breath.

Again.

Why is this man hell-bent on making me feel annoying?

Am I annoying him?

But isn’t this exactly his job?Some people don’t even know how to do their job. He should be all smiley and happy to explain, not standing there like a tall statue.

Intimidating.

I controlled my urge to roll my eyes. No, Vesha. We shouldn’t be rude. Who knows what he is going through? It’s better to be on the safe side. You never know what someone is going through, and when damage is done, the only thing left is regret.

Regret.

A weight so heavy that it can crush you into pieces and pieces until there’s nothing left but dust.

Dust that is easily swept away by the wind.

“This is Tyrian purple. Made from the glands of marine snails. The production cost is really high, and it was a symbol of wealth and royalty in ancient times.” My eyebrows pinched together. And then I looked down at my hoodie.

Isn’t this the same shade of purple?

A weird smile spread across my lips before I quickly schooled my features, not wanting to look crazy smiling to myself.

Too late, I guess.

He was staring directly at my face.

Oh God! He probably thinks I’m a weirdo.I looked away, feeling my cheeks heating up. No, no.Don’t turn into a tomato!

Don’t betray me, please. I looked away, shuffling my feet, and pointed at the third color.

“Cochineal red. Extracted from crushed bodies of cochineal insects.” My eyes snapped to him. This painting is a graveyard of insects?

Ew!

Killing poor insects for color? That’s ridiculous and… yucky! Thank God it’s framed in glass. I wouldn’t even want to accidentally touch it.I don’t think I can bear this nonsense anymore.

So I turned to face him.

“Oh, okay. Thanks. That would be enough. I totally understand how talented the artist was,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, trying to keep the sarcasm in my tone at bay. Like, if the artist could afford those exotic paints, he should have at least drawn something.

Anything meaningful.

A scenery? A tree would work too. But four cubes? It’s still ridiculous and feels more like showing off than an expression of art. Ididn’t realize I was staring at him.

Unblinking.

Fuck. I’m zoning out again. I need to snap out of it. I need to. But I can’t. It’s like I’m trapped in my head. It feels so embarrassing when it happens.I blinked out of the trance when he snapped his fingers in front of my face.

Uff!

Thank God.

Oh no!

He must think I’m a creep, ogling at him. I’m not saying he is not ogle-worthy. But I was not ogling.My face instantly heated up, and I could feel the twitch in my fingers to grab something.

Anything.

Something to anchor myself. My heart thumped in my chest. I opened my mouth to say something, but no words came out. And the beating of my heart increased even more with a weird feeling in my tummy.

I can’t.

No.

No, someone can’t have a full-blown panic attack from zoning out, right?

RIGHT? After I somehow convinced my body to listen to my mind and finally look away, I heard someone—

No.

The art gallery manager. We had met him when we first arrived. He called him? Yeah, him. Because it’s just us here. The others had gone ahead.

And I’m not Mr. Malhotra for sure.

Wait…Mr. Malhotra?

“Mr. Malhotra, please come this way. Your purchase is ready to be transported.”

His words rang in my ears.

Mr. Malhotra? Purchase? So this guy wasn’t a gallery guide?

Oh fuck.

My head snapped back in his direction, and my expression was one of pure horror.

And he smiled.

A smug smile spread across his already drool-worthy face, making it somehow even more beautiful as if he was relishing the embarrassment apparent on my face.

And without a word, he turned around and walked away, leaving me frozen in place.

Who was he?