The college fest was chaos wrapped in glitter — music thumping, lights strung like constellations across trees, and the scent of butter popcorn mixing with teen spirit and knockoff cologne. The courtyard looked like a YRF set gone wild.
Near the mocktail counter, Junaid, Zain, and Alzan were cracking jokes, rating outfits, and pretending not to be invested in the crowd — but that was all before she appeared.
"Bro, I swear, if I see one more dude wearing sunglasses at night like he's in Gully Boy—" Junaid started, mid-laugh.
And then… she arrived.
She didn't just walk in. She entered — like a plot twist, like the main character, like everything the night had been waiting for.
The deep wine-red dress she wore wasn't just fabric — it was a statement. It hugged every inch like it had been sculpted on her. The slit on the side? Illegal. The bare back? Disrespectful in the best way. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun that somehow looked like poetry, and her lips were painted that sharp, femme-fatale red.
Time. Just. Collapsed.
Every single guy turned — no, snapped — their head like they'd been yanked by a magnetic force. Conversations stalled. One dude legit dropped his plate of momos. The juniors? Whispering. The seniors? Staring. And the worst part? She didn't even try.
And as she headed straight toward the mocktail counter, their mocktail counter, all three boys locked in.
Junaid let out a low whistle. "Bro... is this girl made of sin?"
Alzan stepped back a little, hand on chest. "Bhai, this is criminal activity. Someone call security."
Zain just stood there — completely still — like someone had punched him in the lungs. His jaw clenched, eyes tracking every slow, confident step she took.
And then… she glanced their way.
That tiny, killer smirk.
That playful wave.
Like she knew the effect. Like she chose to let them suffer.
But she didn't keep her distance — no, she walked right up to them. Bold. Untouchable. Glowing like a goddess under fest lights.
"Bas, ab fest shuru hua," Junaid said, voice low, eyes fixed only on her.
Zain reached for her hand like he'd been waiting all night. "You're not even in the fashion show yet and you've already won."
Alzan leaned closer, a teasing glint in his eye. "If this is how you show up casually… what are we supposed to do when you're actually trying?"
She laughed — soft, smug, lethal.
"Maybe I am in the fashion show," she said, licking the corner of her lip just slightly, "and maybe I dressed up just for you three."
That line? Destroyed them.
Junaid let out a groan, head tipping back. "Sunshine, have some mercy."
Zain was still staring. "No thoughts. Just you."
Alzan smirked. "If this is war, I surrender."
Somewhere behind them, the emcee called out for participants to line up for the fashion walk.
She turned her head slightly, giving them a wink. "Guess you'll have to watch me from the front row."
Then she walked off, hips swaying like sin in motion.
And the boys?
Ruined. Absolutely ruined.
FASHION SHOW – FIRST ROUND
The stage was lit up like a dream — golden lights chasing each other across the floor, smoke machines puffing like the clouds were summoned just for drama. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, phones held up like a sea of stars, flashlights ready to capture everything.
Backstage, she stood tall.
Chin high, lips curled in that "I-know-I'm-that-girl" smirk. Her outfit for the first round? A black satin corset top with silver embroidery hugging her waist, paired with wide-legged pants that flowed like a river when she walked. Minimal jewelry. Just a pair of silver ear cuffs and a single ring. Hair in a sharp high ponytail. Eyes lined sharp enough to cut hearts.
The host called her number.
And then…
She walked.
No. She owned the ramp.
Each step was calculated, slow, deliberate — heels clicking against the stage like a war drum. She didn't glance at the crowd. She didn't have to. The silence was proof enough — jaws dropped, hearts stopped, time bowed.
But Zain, Junaid, and Alzan? They didn't just watch.
They burned.
Front row, all three of them. And for once, not a single joke. Not even a smirk.
Just… awe.
Zain's fingers drummed on his knee, jaw tight. His gaze never left her, eyes hungry, but silent. Like if he blinked, he'd miss a miracle.
Junaid tilted his head, a sinful smile playing on his lips. "Bro… I'm actually scared. That walk? That look? She's not walking the ramp. She's walking over souls."
Alzan muttered under his breath, "Mere future plans shake ho rahe hain, yaar."
And then — midway — she paused.
One slow turn. Eyes locked right on them. That look? Direct hit. No survivors.
She smirked.
Blew a kiss.
And walked off.
The crowd lost it. Cheers, screams, claps — it was a riot. But for those three boys? That kiss wasn't for the crowd. It was personal. And all three felt it in their chest.
Alzan: "I'm in love."
Junaid: "You're late, bro. I've been in love."
Zain: Silent. Still. His knuckles white on the armrest.
The second round was fire. Spotlights flared as the music dropped — bass heavy, heart-thumping, and the entire crowd buzzed with anticipation. The stage now had a dim red glow, moody and electric, the kind that screams drama. The theme? "Glam After Dark."
The contestants came out in pairs now — bolder, fiercer, more flirt in their walk. Simran stepped out with a different energy this time. No more the silent storm — this was power. She wore a sleek black jumpsuit, deep V neckline, cinched waist, flared bottoms that moved like liquid confidence. Hair? Down and wavy. Eyes? Lined sharp enough to kill. Lips? Still that venom red.
Junaid was already at the side of the ramp, jaw clenched, arms crossed — but his eyes never left her. She wasn't walking. She was devouring every step.
And then the moment happened.
She reached the edge of the runway — paused — and locked eyes with him in the crowd. The crowd didn't matter. It was just them. And then, like something straight out of a fever dream, she winked. A slow, smug, devastating wink.
Junaid leaned forward, breath hitched.
Zain muttered, "She's gonna kill someone today."
Alzan was full on clapping, whistling like mad. "Bhai, agar yeh dream hai toh mujhe mat uthana."
Backstage, her partner for the round — a senior boy named Aarav, charming smile and sharp cheekbones — took her hand as they posed together for the final shot. His arm slid around her waist casually, and the crowd went feral.
Junaid's jaw locked. His stare darkened.
Zain whispered, "Control, bro."
But Junaid wasn't listening. His hand balled into a fist in his pocket. That dude touching her? That smug, too-friendly touch? Nah. That wasn't sitting right.
As she walked back, she threw one last glance over her shoulder — just enough for Junaid to catch. That look said it all:"This is war. And I'm winning."
Simran didn't break her stride.
And Junaid? Already plotting his next move.