I woke before the sun.

My pulse was steady, but something deeper—more primal—was already stirring under my skin. Like flint against steel, like the memory of his voice just before he handed me that file. Like the faintest whisper of danger masquerading as destiny.

In the mirror, I didn't look like a girl standing at the edge of a war.

I looked like the girl who'd set the field on fire.

The silk blouse I chose was the color of blood roses—velvet, structured.
My pants were charcoal, sharp enough to cut.
And I wore no jewelry, no distractions. 

Just a watch. 

Downstairs, my father was already gone.
An early meeting in Nariman Point. 

I was grateful. 

I needed the silence.
The aftermath. 

The room still smelled like him—faint sandalwood, power, rules etched in stone.

But last night, I'd broken one of my own.

I'd gone to him.

Met him in the dark.

Taken the bait. 

But not like prey.
Like a predator curious enough to circle back.

At the office, the mood had changed.

I could feel it in the air.

They didn't look through me anymore.
They looked at me.

Not all with respect—but with awareness.

Some kind of internal shift had occurred. Subtle. Unspoken. But there.

I had arrived.

Rivan wasn't in yet. 

That alone was unusual. 

The man had a reputation for being everywhere before you even realized you needed him.
And yet, the seat beside my father's office—his temporary one—remained empty.

I didn't ask where he was.
And I didn't need to.

Because ten minutes later, I received another message.

From: Unknown
8:41 AM
You looked like a storm this morning.
Made it hard to look away.

I didn't respond.

But I didn't delete it either.

.

.

By noon, the office descended into chaos.

The Avasthra CFO had filed a restraining injunction.

Exactly what I'd predicted.
Exactly what Rivan had warned would stall us.

My father barked orders. 

His voice like a blade.

"Call legal. Loop in the crisis team. I want updates every twenty minutes."

I stepped into his office without knocking.

"I have a solution."

He turned, his mouth already half-open to argue.

I didn't give him the chance.

"They filed based on outdated merger language. The previous terms from last quarter. If we revise and submit a parallel counter-offer that bypasses their valuation strategy, the injunction becomes irrelevant. We sidestep their logic instead of fighting it."

For a beat, he just looked at me.

Then: "Do it."

.

.

It took four hours. 

Two phone calls with international legal.
A coded exchange with someone who once interned under the CFO's wife.
But when the press release went out at 5:14 PM, the stock price climbed. Slow but steady.

And Rivan?

He walked into the office at 5:28 PM.

Slightly windblown, like he'd been outside.
No jacket today.
Shirt sleeves rolled as always.
And a file tucked under one arm like he hadn't just vanished for most of the day.

Neither I looked at him.
Nor he spoke to me or looked at me.

Not until we passed each other near the elevators.

His voice low.
Intentional.

"You didn't wait."

"I didn't need to."

A flicker in his eyes.

Like respect.

Or something more dangerous.

Amusement.

"I was going to fix it."

"I already did."

He chuckled softly. "Remind me never to be late again."

"No," I said. "Be late. That's how I win."

★

That night, the suite felt colder.

Not empty.

Just paused.

Like something was about to happen. 

And the air was bracing for impact.

I stood by the window, wine untouched, fingers curled around the edges of the file he'd given me yesterday.
The ink still smelled new.
The pages had notes scrawled in sharp black pen—his, no doubt.

He wrote like he spoke.

Clean.
Unapologetic.

And now, so did I.

I opened my journal again.

Only this time, the words didn't come easy.

Because I didn't want to write about him.

I wanted to write to him.

But I wouldn't.

So instead, I wrote this:
There's a fire under my skin that I've stopped trying to name.
It isn't love. It isn't hate. It's something with teeth.
And every time he looks at me, it bares them.

I should run.
But where do you run when the war you fear lives inside you?

At 12:01 AM, another message.

Unknown
You rewrote the ending today.
I like your version better.

My fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Then I typed back:
I wasn't writing for your approval.

Typing...
I know.

That's what makes it good.

I stared at the screen.

Then closed the chat.

Power is a seductive thing.

But so is the truth.

And the truth was—
I wasn't playing to win anymore.
I was playing because it was mine.

The fire.
The fight.
The future.

And when I burned through all of it—

What would be left of me?
Not ash.
Not ruin.

But something even he couldn't shape.
Something I forged alone.
Something no one saw coming.

A reckoning.

My name.

Spoken not with fear.

But with awe.

Ishita Mehra.

The girl who didn't just survive the storm.

She became it.

Just after I shut the screen, after I'd closed my journal and breathed in the heavy, charged quiet...

There was a knock.

Not a soft one.
Not uncertain.

Three precise, deliberate taps.

I didn't move at first.

My mind did the math instinctively—security at the gates, cameras on every floor, fingerprint access to this suite. No one could get here without clearance. Without intention.

And there was only one man bold—or reckless—enough to test the boundaries twice in the same night.

I opened the door.

He didn't smile.

Neither did I.

"You know this is unprofessional," I said.

"So was rewriting our acquisition strategy behind my back," Rivan replied. "But you did it anyway."

I didn't step aside.

He didn't wait for an invitation and walked past me like he belonged here.

And somehow, the room didn't reject him.

It absorbed him.

Like it had been waiting, too.

"What do you want?" I asked, crossing my arms, refusing to let the lines between us blur.

"I want to understand you."

"You don't need to."

"That's the thing," he said, turning toward me, hands in his pockets. "You don't need me to. But I want to anyway. You don't bluff, you don't flinch, and you don't wait for permission."

"You say that like it's a flaw."

"I say that like it's dangerous."

I tilted my head. "And you like dangerous things."

He didn't deny it.

Instead, he stepped closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough to press heat into the air between us.

"Everyone in that boardroom," he murmured, "either wants your silence or your fall."

"And you?"

"I want to see what you do when they fail to stop you."

For the first time, I looked at him properly.
Not like a rival.
Not like the man whose presence sent quiet storms through my bloodstream.

But like someone already tangled in the same fire I was trying to master.

"You came here to warn me?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I came here because I don't know if I want to stop you... or stand next to you when it all burns."

My chest tightened.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Because I didn't know either.

The question hovered between us—unspoken but clawing to be answered.

What were we becoming?
Rivals with shared secrets?
Weapons forged beside each other?

Or something far more volatile?

The kind of collision that rewrites both sides of the war.

"I should ask you to leave," I whispered.

"But you won't."

I didn't.

Instead, I walked toward him slowly, every step deliberate.
Stopping just short of touching.

And said, quietly, "The next move you make defines what this becomes."

He looked down at me.

Not like a man standing above.

But like someone on the edge of something he couldn't name.

Then, finally—

"I came to offer you something."

"Besides cryptic messages and nighttime games?"

His jaw flexed slightly, amused despite himself.
Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a smaller envelope.
Thick, white, with no markings.

I took it, careful not to let our fingers brush.

Inside were photographs.

Not of me.
Not of him.

But of a man I recognized vaguely.
A political fixer.
One of the many wolves lurking in the shadow markets.

"These were taken two weeks ago," Rivan said. "He's been in touch with the Avasthra CFO's wife. This isn't just about profit. It's about sabotage."

I stared at the images, then back at him.

"You're giving this to me. Why?"

His voice turned steel. "Because if I use it, it's war. If you use it, it's strategy."

I raised an eyebrow. "And if I use it against you one day?"

His lips curled—not in a smile, but something sharper.
Something that tasted like inevitability.

"Then I'll know I was right about you all along."

We stood like that—on opposite ends of an invisible line.

Drawn to the same fire.

Waiting for the match.

Finally, I tucked the envelope away.

"We're going to ruin each other," I said again, softly.

He turned to leave, pausing only once.

His final words before disappearing into the hallway:

"Only if one of us stops burning first."

I stood there long after the door clicked shut.

Long after his scent faded from the air.
Long after the thrill receded into something colder.

Resolved.

Because now, I had a choice.

To play his game.

Or to rewrite it.

And tomorrow—

The storm wouldn't wait.

It would rise.

With me in it.

At the center.

Burning.