December 16th, 2029 – Mumbai
The morning after the accident carried the same pale chill. But Aanya knew something was wrong the moment her eyes opened.
Not wrong in a visible way. Nothing moved. Nothing creaked. Nothing screamed for attention.
But something was… off.
She didn't dream. She hadn't for years. Sleep, for her, was the mechanical closing of a system. Power down. Wake up. Move on.
But last night, there had been something. Not images. Not a story.
Just static.
And through it—"Nice brakes."
The voice echoed through the silence of her penthouse as if it belonged there. As if it had been waiting.
She shook it off.
Voices didn't matter. Voices were distractions. And distractions had no place in her schedule.
She rose. Followed the routine. Shower at 5:00. Blouse, trousers. Black pumps. One coffee. No sugar. No emotion.
She arrived at her office before the sun cleared the skyline.
Her team met her with silent precision, every movement calculated, every file delivered exactly how she liked it. Three merger proposals. She cut two. Approved one. Moved from meeting to meeting like a storm behind glass—seen, but never touched.
No one mentioned the bruise on her wrist. The one that bloomed purple beneath her sleeve.
No one asked why her heels still looked slightly damp from yesterday's rain.
And no one dared ask where she had been last night.
By evening, she almost forgot.
Almost.
She stepped out of the building at 6:28 PM sharp.
The sky was thick with clouds again, bruised grey and moody.
Her driver stood beside the car, engine running, door open.
This time, she let him drive.
"Where to, ma'am?" he asked, already sliding behind the wheel.
She paused. Her voice was even.
"Dadar. Trident Café."
For a moment, the only sound was the hush of traffic.
She saw the flicker of surprise in the rearview mirror. Quick. Subtle. Gone in a blink.
Aanya Rathore didn't go to Trident Café.
She didn't go on dates.
But tonight—She was.
Because her grandfather had made a decision.
And she had learned long ago that there were some wars she couldn't win. Not with him.
So she would go.
She would sit across from some overpriced heir, pretend to be interested, flash that polite, practiced smile she used to kill boardroom negotiations, and shut the whole thing down in under twenty minutes.
She didn't do relationships.
She did strategy.
And this—this was just another meeting.
Trident Café – 6:55 PM
The café was tucked between galleries and bookstores on a quieter stretch of Dadar. Too minimalist for charm, too expensive for comfort. The kind of place curated for people who wanted to be seen without seeming like they wanted to be seen.
Clearly reserved.
The maître d' led her through the mostly empty space, to a corner booth near the window.
She sat with her back straight, her coat still on, her bag beside her on the bench like a barrier.
She didn't look at the menu.
She didn't drink the water.
She checked the time.
6:57 PM.
Three minutes early. As expected.
She stared out the window, watching lights flicker to life in the distance, the city humming to itself in preparation for rain.
Then, at exactly 7:01, the chair across from her shifted.
Someone sat down.
And spoke.
"Small world."
Her eyes snapped to the source of the voice.
It took her one heartbeat to recognize him.
Two to register the absurdity.
Him.
The man from the accident.
Dev.
He wore a black shirt now. Clean. Hair slightly damp. Stitches visible near his hairline. No bandages. Just a subtle tiredness that made him look more real than he had on the road.
That same calm in his eyes.
That same goddamn smile.
"You," she said.
Not a question. Not surprise. Just… fact.
"Me," he replied, sitting back like he belonged there. "Apparently, your Dada thinks we'd be a good match."
Silence followed. Not awkward. Not hostile.
Just sharp. Tight.
Like string pulled too thin.
He reached for the menu.
She didn't move.
He looked up. "I don't usually get hit by women who then try to marry me. New experience."
"I didn't know it was you."
"I figured."
Another pause.
"You paid my hospital bill."
"I didn't do it for you."
"I know," he said, smiling faintly. "That's what makes it interesting."
She hated his voice.
Not the sound. The weight. The way it filled space like he owned it.
He reached to call the waiter.
She stopped him. "We won't be staying long."
"Shame. I was just beginning to enjoy myself."
She tilted her head, studied him.
"Do you even know who I am?"
He didn't blink. "Aanya Rathore. CEO of Rathore LuxTech. Ice Queen of Indian Retail. Emotionless, ruthless, untouchable."
His tone was maddeningly casual.
"Is that enough?" he asked.
She hated that he made it sound like a compliment.
"And you?" she asked, voice like glass.
He smiled again. "Dev. Just Dev."
"That's not an answer."
"No. But it's the truth."
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far away.
The storm wasn't close.But it was coming.
She glanced at the window, then back at him. His expression hadn't changed.
He didn't look like a man playing a role.
He looked like someone who didn't need to.
That unsettled her more than anything else.
For the first time in a long time, Aanya Rathore didn't know how a conversation would end.
And that made her nervous.
Which made her angry.
She stood. "This won't work."
He didn't argue.
Didn't even blink.
"I didn't think it would," he said. "But your grandfather did. And I don't say no to that man easily."
She paused.
"Why?"
He looked at her, head tilted slightly, as if deciding how much to reveal.
Then: "Because he saved my life. A long time ago."
Her hand froze on the back of her chair.
That hadn't been part of the story.
Dev saw it. The way her shoulders stiffened.
"He didn't tell you, did he?"
"No," she said.
And it bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
"Then maybe," Dev said, rising from his seat, "it's not the worst idea for us to meet again."
He picked up his jacket.
"Next time," he added with that maddening half-smile, "you can drive slower."
He nodded once. Like a man closing a deal.
And walked out.
Aanya sat back down.
Her hands were still. But her thoughts weren't.
She didn't look out the window this time.
She didn't check the time.
For once, she didn't care.
Because for the first time in years—She didn't feel in control.
Not even close.