Mornings in the Mehra estate had always felt sterile.
Too polished.
Too staged.
Like even the light was trained to behave.
I sat at the edge of the long sunroom table, untouched breakfast in front of me—freshly baked croissants, a medley of fruits I didn't ask for, coffee gone lukewarm.
Everything was perfect.
Everything was pointless.
My fingers toyed with the linen napkin as the staff moved about with quiet efficiency, never speaking unless spoken to.
I used to find comfort in the routine.
Now, it felt like watching a play I no longer believed in.
Last night hadn't left me.
He hadn't left me.
His voice was still in my head, low and deliberate, like the ticking of a clock just slightly offbeat.
"Don't take too long to decide where to place me, Ms. Mehra."
What the hell did that even mean?
I had been raised in boardrooms and flown first-class before I knew what economy looked like. I knew how to read profit charts, gut silence in a negotiation, dress like a Mehra and smile like one. But none of it had prepared me for him—for the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he had already solved.
He was too calm.
Too controlled.
Too... present.
I took a sip of my now-cold coffee and grimaced.
Why did he bother me this much?
Why did his words settle in my bones like they belonged there?
My phone buzzed.
10:00 AM – Strategy Briefing.
Right.
The reason I was here.
My father hadn't flown me home from California for croissants and nostalgia.
He needed me now.
And that meant one thing—I had to stop thinking like a daughter and start thinking like an heir.
I rose, smoothing the lapels of my beige blazer, every movement deliberate. I caught my reflection in the glass doors on my way out—composed, immaculate, unreadable.
Just the way Papa liked me.
But inside, something was shifting.
As I made my way through the long marble corridor, the hush of the estate wrapped around me again.
It was too quiet.
Like something was waiting.
And then—
A faint sound.
Leather against stone.
Movement above.
I turned the corner and—
There he was.
Leaning against the mezzanine railing like he owned gravity, dressed in a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, blazer tossed carelessly over his shoulder. His phone rested loosely in his hand.
And his eyes—
His eyes found mine instantly.
A flicker of awareness passed between us, electric and sharp.
He didn't smile.
Of course he didn't.
He never did.
"Morning," he said, voice low, like it was a secret he didn't mind me keeping.
I blinked, caught off guard by how casual he sounded.
How deliberately casual.
"Morning," I replied, carefully neutral.
My voice didn't betray the fact that my pulse had just kicked up a notch.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
A beat passed.
Then another.
What was he doing here so early?
Why did he look like he hadn't slept—and why did that feel oddly reassuring?
I straightened my spine. "Didn't realize you'd still be here."
His gaze didn't waver. "Didn't realize you'd be up this early."
Touche.
He pushed off the railing, slowly descending the stairs with the ease of someone who never had to rush. Every step echoed faintly in the vast hall, like a metronome counting down to something I couldn't see yet.
When he reached the bottom, he stopped just a few feet from me.
Too close.
Not close enough.
"You have a meeting," he said simply.
I tilted my head. "Spying on my schedule?"
"Reading the terrain," he said, the edge of something like amusement in his tone. "You'll learn that, eventually."
God, he is infuriating.
"Anything else I should be learning this morning, Mr. Malhotra?"
His expression shifted.
Just slightly.
But I caught it—the faint twitch of his jaw, the way his eyes cooled.
"Yes," he said softly. "Don't let people think you're predictable. Even if you are."
I felt heat rise in my chest. "And what makes you think I'm predictable?"
He leaned in, not touching me, but close enough that his next words hummed through the space between us.
"Because you came down here expecting a quiet morning. And here I am."
The silence stretched.
Thick.
Charged.
Laced with something unspoken.
I met his eyes, steady.
"I don't startle easy," I said, though my voice was lower now, throat tight.
"Good," Rivan murmured. "Then you might survive this."
And with that, he turned and walked down the corridor, his stride confident, his presence leaving behind something I couldn't quite shake.
Not fear.
Not curiosity.
Challenge.
And God help me, I didn't plan on backing down.
The click of his shoes on the marble faded, but the sound kept echoing inside me—like something unfinished.
Like something that wasn't supposed to matter but suddenly did.
I stood there, in the middle of the hallway, my breath held hostage by a man who hadn't even touched me.
God.
What the hell was that?
"You might survive this."
His voice replayed in my head, that maddening mix of teasing and threat.
I hated that I couldn't tell where he stood—enemy or... something else.
He unsettled me.
Not with volume.
Not with bravado.
But with the way he looked at me, like he already knew every move I'd make.
I'd faced worse.
Bigger men.
Louder rooms.
Sharper minds.
But this? This was different.
This was personal.
This was slow-burn sabotage.
And the target was my equilibrium.
I turned away from the corridor, heart thudding harder than I wanted to admit. My heels clicked as I moved again, this time slower, like I was afraid the air would betray me if I walked too fast.
My palms were sweating.
My mind—racing.
Why was he still in my head?
Why did it feel like he wanted me off-balance on purpose?
And worse... why did I want to meet him there—where things weren't safe, where things slipped?
I shook my head.
No.
This was temporary.
He wasn't staying here.
He wasn't even relevant.
He was just...
A blip.
An inconvenient distraction in a week full of important decisions.
I'd dealt with worse.
Much worse.
But even as I tried to shake it off, I knew something had shifted.
Something about the way he'd said my name—no smirk, no flirtation, just... focus.
Like I was a threat he respected.
Or a storm he was curious about.
And I—
I didn't want to admit it out loud, but I'd felt that electricity too.
Not attraction, not exactly.
Something more dangerous.
Like he saw through all my defenses.
All my polish.
All the carefully composed parts of me.
And that scared me more than I cared to admit.
Because if he could see the cracks...
He could split them open.
.
.
.
.
I didn't remember walking back to my room.
Everything after his voice—the voice in the hallway—blurred at the edges.
Rivan Malhotra had appeared like a ghost summoned by my pulse.
No footsteps, no warning.
Just a voice in the dark, low and unmistakably deliberate.
And now that voice was still tangled in my head.
I shut the door to my room quietly, pressing my back against the wood as if that would hold everything in.
My breathing was too shallow.
My hands were shaking just slightly—enough to notice, enough to hate.
What was it about him?
The way he looked at me like I was already in the middle of a game I didn't realize I was playing?
The way he didn't need to touch me to make it feel like he had?
I sank onto the edge of my bed, kicking off my heels with a sigh that felt too loud. The night hung heavy around me, thick with unsaid things.
I didn't like it.
This... effect.
This sense that someone else had momentarily stolen the upper hand in my story.
A flash of irritation flickered through me.
No man got to throw me off balance.
Especially not one with a perfectly tied cufflink and a voice made of smoke.
I pulled out my phone and hit dial without thinking.
"Meher," I said as soon as she picked up. "Tell me you're awake."
"You called me at 1:14 in the morning. You better be dying or falling in love."
I exhaled a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Neither. Unfortunately. Just... confused."
She was quiet for a beat. "Talk."
So I did.
Not everything.
Not yet.
Just enough.
The dinner.
The man.
The stare.
How he saw through things I hadn't spoken aloud.
How for a second—just one—I forgot my armor.
"You okay?" Meher asked after a pause.
I lay back on the bed, one hand draped across my stomach like I was trying to hold myself together. "Yeah. I think so. It's just... something shifted tonight. And I don't know if I'm ready."
"Well, then get ready," Meher said firmly. "Because ready or not, it sounds like he's already moving pieces around you."
I closed my eyes.
Her words hit too close to the truth.
"I don't like feeling cornered."
"Then don't be," she said. "Be the storm instead."
I let that sink in.
After the call ended, I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
One thing was clear.
Rivan Malhotra might be playing a game.
But he wasn't the only one with sharp edges.
And if he thought I'd unravel that easily...
He'd severely underestimated me.
But as the silence returned, I glanced back toward the closed door and whispered to myself,
"What are you really after, Rivan Malhotra?"
And why, despite everything, did some part of me want to find out?
★
The boardroom wasn't grand like the dining hall—it was colder.
All clean lines, smoked glass, and quiet power.
The kind of place where decisions were made with a flick of a pen and empires collapsed with a nod.
He was already there when I entered.
Seated at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a tablet in front of him.
No assistants.
No theatrics.
Just presence.
He didn't glance up when I walked in.
Which only made me walk straighter.
My father followed behind me with his usual calm, but I felt the subtle shift in the air when Rivan finally looked up.
Those eyes—clear, unreadable, sharpened like they'd already seen through me.
"Ms. Mehra," he said with that same measured neutrality. "Didn't expect you here."
"I'm full of surprises," I replied, taking the seat opposite him.
He didn't smile.
But something flickered in his expression—maybe approval.
Maybe warning.
My father sat beside me. "She'll be observing today."
Rivan's gaze didn't leave mine. "Let's see if she observes... or interferes."
I didn't flinch.
"I don't interfere. I listen. And I remember everything."
That got him.
The corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile, exactly.
More like a silent acknowledgment.
Then he turned to the documents on the screen, and just like that, I was dropped into the deep end.
Figures.
Threat assessments.
Whispers of competitor buyouts.
He spoke like a scalpel—precise, cutting, clean. My father occasionally interjected, but it was Rivan leading the flow.
Not with arrogance.
With control.
I watched the way his mind worked.
Sharp turns.
Calculated risks.
No wasted breath.
And slowly, something shifted inside me.
I wasn't intimidated.
I was riveted.
I started taking notes—not the numbers, but the strategies behind them.
The pressure points.
The weak spots Rivan exploited like a man who'd made a religion out of leverage.
Then he said something that jolted me.
"Sometimes power isn't about winning. It's about knowing when to make them think you've lost."
My pen paused mid-stroke.
I looked up. "So you manipulate perception."
He glanced at me, unfazed. "Everyone does. The smart ones admit it."
I held his gaze. "And what happens when perception becomes reality?"
His pause was brief—but loaded.
"Then you make a new reality."
The air thickened.
Words said in front of my father, but meant for me.
Challenge accepted.
.
.
.
.
I should've walked away.
The meeting was over.
The deal talk done.
My father and the assistant still murmuring by the far window. I had my excuse, my exit, my clean break.
But I didn't move.
And neither did he.
Rivan stood slowly, deliberately, collecting his tablet like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn't a game already spinning tighter between us.
"You're quick," he said without looking at me.
"Is that supposed to surprise you?"
"Impress me," he corrected, finally facing me. "You don't scare easily either."
I lifted a brow. "Was that the goal?"
"Wasn't it?"
He took a step closer.
I didn't back away.
There was maybe a foot between us now.
Maybe less.
The air crackled with the electricity of things not said. I could smell his cologne—woodsy, sharp, completely unfair.
I hated how calm he looked.
How he stood like he owned the damn room—and maybe, somehow, me too.
"Is this how you operate?" I asked. "You make people think they're in control... until they realize they're not."
He smiled—finally.
Slow.
Dangerous.
"Only the ones who underestimate me."
I folded my arms. "I don't."
He tilted his head slightly, like that amused him. "Good. Then we're not pretending."
Silence stretched between us—tense, loaded.
Then his voice dropped, softer now.
Not flirtation.
Something darker.
"You walked into this room to watch me. To understand how I work. But here's the thing, Ishita—if you're not careful, I won't be the one unraveling."
My breath caught.
He stepped past me like nothing had happened.
But just before he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder—barely.
"Don't look for me," he said. "I'll find you when it matters."
And then he was gone.
Leaving me standing in the hollow silence, heart racing, pulse screaming at the absurdity of it all.
At the truth in what he'd just said.
Because he already was under my skin.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
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