Moments before,
Secretary Pathak had been uneasy when Rohit was randomly picked by Masato Fujimura. He had always been dismissive of Rohit, as Mrs. Singhania's had strict orders to not let the boy get involved in any controversy.
Yet, despite the warning, Pathak had secretly given Rohit the task of trying to gain influence, as he wanted to test for himself whether Rohit truly had the makings of a successor to the family he served.
His expectations were low; after all, Rohit's memory loss meant there was little he could do in such a setting. In fact, it had even been Pathak's idea to persuade Mrs. Singhania to invite him tonight, especially after Rohit had called her in phone earlier.
At first, Pathak watched with satisfaction. Rohit wasn't making a fool of himself.
He simply carried a silent anguish as the other heirs effortlessly scored points and earned influence.
That restraint, to Pathak, was proof of potential and evidence that Rohit might indeed be worth serving. Smirking behind his glass of whiskey, he felt quietly satisfied.
But then Masato himself approached Rohit. And in that instant, the entire equation flipped. Suddenly, Rohit was in the spotlight, and Pathak realized he had no way to help him—except to pray.
To his relief, Rohit rose to the moment. He drew on fragments of knowledge he had picked up during his hospital days, weaving them into something sharp, strategic, and unexpectedly brilliant.
Truthfulness gave weight to his words, and before long, he had not only earned Masato Fujimura's favor, the most critical endorsement of the evening, but also brought immense prestige to the Singhanias, especially their direct branch.
Pathak felt his chest swell. As applause erupted around him, he clapped harder than anyone else, tears brimming in his eyes. For the first time, he saw Rohit in a new light—not as a liability, but as a rising force.
Just then, Mrs. Singhania, finally freed from her round of formal meetings, turned toward the commotion.
She was startled to see Rohit at the center of attention and moved closer to ask what had happened.
But before she could, a beautiful young woman took command of the hall. Her fingers danced across the piano, her melodious song capturing every ear, shifting the crowd's focus yet again.
Back to the present,
Rohit's breath caught as the new sight registered before his eyes.
A girl, no older than her early twenties, was skillfully playing the piano.
He didn't even notice when his legs carried him closer, as if pulled by the sound itself, eager to glimpse the person behind such music. And then came the twist.
It was her. The same girl he had encountered near the washroom. The same one who had smirked at him before vanishing into the crowd—leaving him with questions that never found answers.
And now she was here, weaving a haunting melody. A mix of Indian tones with English and Japanese lyrics, each note tugging at his chest. For a moment, time itself seemed to blur.
Rohit's gaze lingered, unwillingly drinking in her presence.
She was draped in a designer, pearl-studded blue one-piece dress, the floral shimmer catching every stray glint of light.
Long, curly black hair framed her oval face, cascading down her shoulders. A golden bracelet hugged her pale wrist, a diamond pendant rested at her throat, while tall earrings swayed like silver fire beneath her hair.
Her lips were painted with a soft pink, their curves as if straight being drawn out of a portrait. Her green irises shone sharply against the black stretch of her lashes. And her figure: every curve seemed cut to perfection.
'Nine out of ten.. and there is potential for growth' Rohit found himself thinking before he could stop.
Then her eyes met his.
Her gaze didn't wander, didn't hesitate as it locked on him.
And with the faintest smile, she played on, her fingers gliding effortlessly across the keys as though the entire song was meant only for him.
A chill crawled his skin. Rohit clenched his fists as if by insticts. 'Damn… she's a stalker.'
His brain screamed at him. 'It can't be coincidence. Not twice. Why here, why now? And who the hell is she?'
Before he could untangle his racing thoughts, a male voice in low whisper brushed against his ear.
"She is marvellous. isnt she?"
Rohit spun around and froze.
Standing there was none other than the infamous spoiled brat, the so-called 'unreliable heir' of the Chambani Group.
On the other hand, the infamous spoiled brat turned out to be surprisingly easy-going and polite. He stretched out his hand with a grin.
"Hello, I'm Nayan. Scion of the Chambanis. And that.. ", he tilted his head toward the stage ,"..is my sister. How about we be friends?"
The music was too good for anyone else to be distracted, the atmosphere still serene and celebratory. But Rohit wasn't enjoying it at all. His mind was overloaded, trying to piece together too much information in too little time.
First, the piano girl turned out to be the same mystery stalker from the washroom incident. Then she is identified as elder sister by this dim-witted, spoiled heir of the Chambanis—a family so powerful that everyone here was scheming just to get a glimpse of their attention. And now this fool had walked up to him personally, asking for friendship?
Did that mean the girl he had dismissed as a weird stalker was actually the eldest daughter of the Chambanis—the one widely considered the most sensible heir of the group? Was this a joke?
But then another thought stabbed him—why had this so-called Nayan greeted him out of everyone? And why was his sister watching him so intently earlier? Sure, he had earned Masato Fujimura's favor, but would that really explain 'her' behavior?
Before he could untangle his thoughts, Nayan studied him closely.
"If I'm not wrong… you're Rohit Singhania, right?"
"Yes," Rohit admitted, shaking his hand so as not to appear rude. "Sorry, but have we met before?"
Realization dawned on Nayan's face. He scratched his head with a sheepish grin.
"Ah—my bad. I didn't tell you how I know you."
He pulled out his iPhone, tapped quickly, and then shoved the screen at Rohit.
"Got introduced to you on YouTube. And now we meet here by chance. Fate's kinda crazy, huh?"
On the screen played a viral clip—Rohit shouting his own name after the fight against the bullies: "It's Singhania! It's Rohit Singhania!"
Rohit slapped a hand over his face, peeking out between his fingers in embarrassment.
The crowd around them had started murmuring.
"He is showing a video."
"Is he crazy, who shouts like that?"
"Why he is shouting his name?"
Even the piano music faltered for a beat. Heads turned—Rohit could feel the weight of their stares.
Completely oblivious, Nayan grinned wide.
"Dude, I'm a huge fan! That video is criminally underrated. The way you took them all on—brutal! And with bandages on too? Man, that was so cool!" He stopped, corrected himself awkwardly. "I mean… not cool that you were hurt. But still, damn impressive!"
Rohit finally relaxed a little, realizing this Gen-Z brat was just hyped over the fight and nothing else. Still, befriending him sounded like inviting disaster. Best to de-escalate.
"Young master Chambani, I'm flattered, but you're giving me too much credit."
But Nayan only waved it off, puffing out his chest.
"Dont be ridiculous! Enough with the 'young master' formality crap. Call me Nayan! I told you—we're friends now. Come on, it'll be fun." He thrust his fist forward for a bump.
Just then, a bodyguard slipped in, firm hand on Nayan's shoulder.
"Young master, it's time. Please."
Nayan scowled. "Hey, what are you doing? I'm not done talking!"
The bodyguard's voice dropped to a desperate whisper. "Everyone's watching. Please don't make a scene."
Nayan snapped, voice rising. "To hell with your scene! Why should I care about these lower-class nobodies? They don't even—"
He didn't finish. The bodyguard clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes pleading silently at Rohit. Nayan still held his fist out, struggling.
Rohit sighed and tapped his knuckles against it, forcing a smile. "Okay, buddy. See you around. Surely you wouldn't want me to leave a bad impression on your parents. I am sure they are here nearby."
Nayan tried to retort through the muffling hand, "Who would dare—" But the guard dragged him back, stifling his protests.
Before Rohit could breathe, a cold voice sliced through the air.
"Rohit… you had a fight in school?"
He turned stiffly. There stood Mrs. Singhania, his adoptive mother—arms folded, gaze sharp as a blade. Beside her, Secretary Pathak watched with a smug little smile.
"Did he really fight bullies at school?"
"Isn't he still injured?"
"What's the video called?"
The guests buzzed in hushed tones, the tension thickening—until the host's announcement broke through.
"Thank you, Miss Naina, for your spectacular performance! Please applaud for the elder daughter of the Chambani Group!"
Thunderous applause erupted, filling the hall. Mrs. Singhania's expression eased only slightly, but her next words made cold sweat slide down Rohit's spine.
"Come with me."