The heavy front door creaked open again and I instinctively straightened, footsteps echoing down the marble hall.
My heart skipped a beat, and I turned toward the sound.
Arvind Mehra, my father entered, tall and imposing, his presence instantly filling the room like a storm about to break. His tailored suit was flawless, but it was the steely calm in his eyes that commanded attention.
I stood, my heels barely making a sound on the marble floor. "Papa."
"Daughter," my father said smoothly, voice carrying its usual quiet authority. "This is Rivan Malhotra."
Yes, I've already met him.
Tall.
Composed.
Dressed in midnight black, with a watch that looked older than me and eyes that held nothing back.
Rivan Malhotra didn't smile.
He assessed.
Rivan's eyes met mine again — sharp, calculating, but with an odd flicker of respect. "Ishita," he said, his tone measured but not unkind. "I've heard much about you."
I forced a polite nod, trying to mask the swirl of emotions inside — curiosity, wariness, and something darker I couldn't yet name.
My father's gaze swept the room, then settled on me. "Rivan will be your guide in what's coming next. He's one of the most powerful men you'll ever meet — and one of the few you can trust in this game."
I swallowed, the weight of my father's words sinking deep.
Trust.
The word felt fragile here, like glass on the edge of breaking.
Rivan inclined his head slightly. "It's a pleasure, Ishita."
I held his gaze. "We'll see."
My father's lips twitched—approval, maybe.
He gestured to the table. "Let's sit. We have much to discuss."
I obeyed, but not before one last glance at Rivan.
He wasn't here to charm me.
He wasn't here to play games.
He was here to test me.
And I didn't plan on losing.
.
.
.
.
The private dining room in the Mehra estate was bathed in a soft golden glow, the crystal chandelier above casting delicate patterns across the long mahogany table.
A hush lingered in the air—the kind of silence that wrapped itself around you and refused to let go. The only sounds were the faint clink of silver being set and the rhythmic tick of the vintage grandfather clock by the window.
I adjusted the strap of my silk dress, the fabric hugging me like a second skin. My reflection in the darkened window stared back—composed, poised, unreadable.
Exactly how my father liked it.
But beneath the polish, my nerves were fraying.
Dinner was served, but the conversation that followed was more chess match than casual meal. Rivan spoke of alliances, threats, and the intricate web of power that ruled beneath the city's glittering surface.
And as I listened, I realized the world I was stepping into was far bigger — and far more dangerous — than anything I'd imagined.
The staff moved like shadows, placing silver-domed plates before us in synchronized silence.
Truffle risotto.
Seared scallops.
Every detail spoke of wealth, control, precision.
But my appetite was absent.
Something about Rivan's presence was too sharp—like sitting across from a blade.
My father, ever the conductor, lifted his wine glass. "To new alliances."
I raised mine with him, watching Rivan carefully.
He didn't hesitate.
He drank, eyes never leaving mine.
"So," I began, breaking the silence that followed. "What exactly am I being brought into, Mr. Malhotra?"
"Rivan," he corrected smoothly. "And you're not being brought into anything. You were born into it. You're just... late to the room."
I arched a brow. "Enlighten me."
He placed his glass down, fingers tapping against its stem in a deliberate rhythm. "Your family doesn't just own companies, Ishita. It owns leverage. Influence. Quiet power. But every empire has its enemies. And lately, some have grown bold."
I glanced at my father. "And I assume Rivan is our insurance policy?"
"No," Arvind said evenly. "He's the one who ensures the game doesn't slip beyond our control."
I turned back to Rivan, curiosity sharpening. "And what do you get in return for your loyalty?"
For the first time, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Loyalty is a transaction, Ms. Mehra. And I'm well compensated."
His calm unnerved me.
He didn't posture like most men in power.
He didn't need to.
I picked up my fork, voice quieter now. "Why now? Why me?"
My father answered before Rivan could. "Because things are shifting. Fast. And I won't always be the one at this table. You will."
That silenced me.
So, he is preparing me—not just to witness, but to lead.
Rivan's tone softened just slightly. "You're sharp. Observant. But instincts can be dangerous when unchecked. If you're going to walk into rooms like this, you'll need to learn when to speak... and when silence is power."
I stared at him.
He didn't look like a man offering guidance.
He looked like a man issuing a challenge.
And I never backed away from a challenge.
I set my fork down and leaned in, my voice low but certain. "Then teach me."
My father smiled faintly, satisfied.
Rivan's gaze flickered—surprised, maybe impressed. "Lesson one," he said smoothly. "Never ask to be taught. Just learn. Quietly. Ruthlessly."
The rest of the dinner passed with conversation layered like a chessboard—pieces moving, meanings hidden, alliances forming.
And somewhere between the first course and dessert, I realized:
This wasn't just a meal.
It was an initiation.
.
.
.
.
By the time dessert was placed—a delicate confection of spun sugar and saffron mousse—I hadn't touched more than a few bites of anything. Not because the food wasn't exquisite, but because everything else in the room demanded sharper focus.
Rivan wasn't just here to talk.
He was here to watch.
To evaluate.
And I felt it with every word, every glance, every silence that stretched just a second too long.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled. "Tell me something, Ishita," he said, voice deceptively casual. "What's the one thing you think matters most in a room full of power?"
My father observed silently, letting me answer.
I matched Rivan's gaze, refusing to flinch. "Control."
A flicker passed through his eyes—approval, maybe. Or interest. "Not loyalty?"
"Loyalty bends," I replied. "Control doesn't need to."
Silence settled between us for a breath, heavy and electric.
My father gave a low chuckle. "She listens."
"She calculates," Rivan corrected, eyes still on me. "Good."
The compliment wasn't warm.
It was clinical.
Like he was checking off boxes on a list I hadn't asked to be on.
I sat straighter, letting the weight of the moment press into my spine. This wasn't just about family anymore.
It was about me.
About what I could become.
And Rivan... he wasn't just a guide.
He was the first test.
As the plates were cleared and the wine refilled, the conversation turned to names I only recognized from headlines—industrialists, media barons, political families.
Power players.
Threats.
Possible allies.
And yet, it was Rivan's silence that spoke loudest.
He didn't overshare.
Didn't boast.
He observed everything.
Every twitch of my expression.
Every pause before I spoke.
He was the kind of man who weighed people in silence and measured them against outcomes only he could see.
When we finally rose from the table, my father clasped Rivan's shoulder. "She's in your hands now."
A beat passed.
Rivan looked at me, unreadable. "I'll return her sharp."
"I am already sharp," I said, chin lifting. "You'll just make sure I cut the right things."
His smile was faint—more shadow than shape. "Let's hope you don't turn the blade on yourself."
They left the room together, discussing something in low tones I couldn't catch.
I was left in the echo of crystal and candlelight, the weight of the evening settling like smoke around me.
This was it.
I wasn't just at the table now.
I wasn't just the part now.
I was now being asked to play.
And this game, could cost me everything.
★
Later that night, I stood on the balcony outside my room, the cool breeze threading through my hair, carrying with it the scent of gardenias blooming below.
The city glittered in the distance like a lie—beautiful, dangerous, full of things left unsaid.
This place had always been my fortress.
Now it felt like a stage.
And tonight, I'd been thrust into a performance I hadn't rehearsed for.
I'd grown up surrounded by it, wrapped in wealth, coddled by comfort—but tonight felt different.
Tonight, I was being unwrapped.
And examined.
One name echoed in my head like a warning.
Rivan Malhotra.
The way he looked at me during dinner—like he was sizing me up, calculating my worth—had left a bitter taste in my mouth. Not fear, not quite discomfort... just this strange sensation of being seen.
Not for who I pretended to be, but for who I might actually be underneath.
Inside, the house was still.
Silent, save for the occasional click of a security detail's boots on marble. I could still hear echoes of the evening—Rivan's calm voice, my father's deliberate silences, and my own heartbeat, loudest of all.
My hands gripped the balcony's stone railing.
Who does he think he is?
Walking in like he owns the room.
Speaking to my father like they're old allies.
Like he belongs.
He doesn't.
Not here.
Not in my father's world.
Not in mine.
The air was sharp, but it felt good against my flushed skin.
Too much had happened too fast.
One dinner.
One meeting.
One man disrupting everything I thought I understood about control.
Because that's what it came down to, didn't it? Control.
I'd worked my entire life to prove I was capable.
Ruthless when needed.
Strategic.
Being my father's only daughter, I had studied every angle, every power play.
I'd learned to read the room before stepping into it.
But tonight... Rivan had read me first.
That's the terrifying part.
I could still feel him reading me—layer by layer, unraveling everything I thought I was.
And I hated that.
There was something about the way he carried himself—casual, but deliberate.
Like every word he spoke was a chess move.
Like he was always three steps ahead and just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
Rivan Malhotra wasn't just powerful.
He was dangerous in a way I hadn't known power could be—quiet, deliberate, and unreadable.
Every word he said tonight had felt like a test, every silence a trap waiting to snap shut if I stepped wrong.
And I had held my ground.
But just barely.
I didn't trust him.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
(Never say NEVER)
But I knew this much: men like Rivan didn't walk into your life by accident.
They arrived—with purpose, with reason, with something to gain.
He wasn't staying with us, thank God.
That would've been unbearable.
Just few hours with him had thrown everything off balance.
I could still feel his presence like a fingerprint on my neck.
Get it together, Ishita.
He's just a man.
Just another pawn in my father's endless game.
But a part of me—the one that never speaks too loudly—whispered something else.
No.
He's not a pawn.
He's the man who moves them.
And he's watching you.
I closed my eyes and let the wind rush over me.
Tomorrow would bring more strategy, more meetings, more chances to prove I belonged.
And I would.
I had to.
Because no matter what Rivan Malhotra thought of me now...
He'd learn soon enough—
I'm not someone you underestimate.
.
.
.
.
The estate was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Most of the staff had retired.
The halls were dim, lit only by the faint golden sconces that flickered against the ivory walls like dying embers. I should've been asleep hours ago, but sleep never came easy when my mind was running loops around power plays and unsaid things.
I didn't bother turning on the lights as I padded through the corridor, the silk of my robe whispering at my ankles, my bare feet silent against the marble.
I needed air.
Or distraction.
Or both.
My fingers brushed the cool brass handle of the library door, a space I often claimed when I wanted to disappear without really leaving.
But as I pushed it open—
"Couldn't sleep either?"
The voice came from the shadows.
Deep.
Calm.
Unmistakable.
My hand tightened on the door.
Rivan.
I stepped in carefully, eyes adjusting to the low amber glow of the lamp beside the window seat. He wasn't seated at the desk. No — he was leaning against the far wall, one arm folded across his chest, the other holding a glass of what looked like bourbon, the ice inside barely melting.
He was still in the same clothes from dinner — black, crisp, commanding.
But the tie was gone.
The top buttons undone.
A softer version of him, but no less dangerous.
I didn't answer.
I just walked in and closed the door behind me with a quiet click.
"You always make a habit of lurking in dark rooms?" I asked coolly.
His mouth twitched. "Only when they're interesting."
I crossed the room slowly, letting the silence stretch, weigh, drag. My heart beat louder than my footsteps.
"You didn't say much at dinner," he said, watching me.
I shrugged, sinking into the chair across from him, legs folded. "I was listening."
"To what?"
"The way you don't answer questions directly. The way you don't blink when you talk about leverage and loyalty like it's currency. The way you look at people like you've already filed them away."
That smile — brief, sharp, knowing — surfaced again. "And where did you file me, Ms. Mehra?"
I tilted my head. "Still deciding, Mr. Malhotra."
His gaze sharpened, but he didn't press.
Instead, he set his glass down and walked toward the window. The night outside was pitch black, broken only by the distant city lights.
"My father trusts you," I said finally.
He didn't turn. "Your father knows I play to win."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he agreed softly. "It's not."
Silence stretched again.
Not awkward.
Just charged.
"Tell me something real," I said. "Something not rehearsed. Not tactical."
He turned then, and for the first time, something flickered in his expression — brief, subtle, but there.
"I don't sleep much either," he said.
I blinked.
Rivan walked past me, closer now.
The distance between us evaporated into a breath, a heartbeat. "Power has a cost, Ishita. And the bill always comes due at night."
My pulse skittered, but I didn't move. "Are you warning me?"
"No," he said, his voice low, eyes locked on mine. "I'm wondering if you're ready."
He was too close.
Too calm.
Too unreadable.
And yet—something in me stirred.
Not fear.
Not attraction either.
Recognition.
The kind that settles in your bones when you realize someone else speaks the language of control... and chaos.
"I guess we'll find out, Mr. Malhotra," I whispered.
He nodded once, stepping back. "Don't take too long to decide where to place me, Ms. Mehra."
And then he was gone—like smoke slipping under the door.
But long after he disappeared, the room still felt full of him.
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