The park was alive with children's laughter, the rustle of leaves, and the occasional bark of a stray dog, but for Rehaan Arora, the world had narrowed into a single point. Her.
Aanya Singhania.
He leaned against the shadow of an oak tree, cigarette untouched between his fingers, not because he cared for the smoke but because it made him look casual. His sharp eyes tracked her movements with the precision of a predator—how she brushed her hair behind her ear, how her fingers trailed the strings of the swing she had chosen, how she tilted her face upward as if daring the sunlight to touch her.
Too unguarded, he thought. Too soft for this world. And yet… there's fire. I can see it in her eyes.
He should have walked away. He never lingered. He was Rehaan Arora—the elder son, the face of danger, the name whispered like a curse in underworld corridors. People moved when he passed, not because he asked, but because they valued their lives.
But something about her had anchored him in place.
When Aanya finally noticed him—because how could she not, his presence was as heavy as storm clouds—her brows knitted. She slid off the swing, dusting her palms against her dress, and marched closer with that reckless courage only she seemed to have.
"Why are you staring at me?" she demanded, her voice sharp but carrying a tremor she wished he wouldn't notice.
Rehaan's lips curved in the faintest smirk. "Do you always accuse strangers in parks, or am I special?"
Aanya crossed her arms. "You've been standing there for fifteen minutes. Watching. Following. That's not normal."
He let out a low chuckle, stepping forward, letting the sunlight catch the sharp cut of his jaw. "Normal is boring. And I don't do boring."
Her chin lifted, fire flashing in her eyes. "Then find another hobby. I'm not a show to be watched."
Rehaan's gaze swept her face, lingering too long, too deeply. "You're wrong. You're the only thing worth watching here."
The words unsettled her, but Aanya refused to give ground. "Stop talking like that. You don't even know me."
He took another step, reducing the distance until she could feel the heat of his presence. "Don't I? You carry yourself like you want to be invisible, but your eyes… they scream to be seen. You don't laugh easily, but when you do, it changes the air. And right now—" his smirk darkened, "—you're furious that I've read you this fast."
Aanya's breath caught, though she masked it with defiance. "You think you know me because you've been staring? That's pathetic."
Rehaan tilted his head, his voice dropping low, intimate. "Or maybe it's fate."
Aanya rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you're one of those men who believe in fate. I thought men like you only believed in power."
That made him pause. She didn't know him—couldn't know him—but her words struck close. Rehaan's smile faded into something more dangerous. "Careful, sweetheart. You sound like you know me already."
Her pulse quickened at the endearment. She hated it. She hated how easily his voice slid under her skin. "Don't call me that. And don't follow me."
He leaned closer, enough for her to catch the faint trace of his cologne—spice, smoke, danger. "What if I already decided that I will?"
"Then I'll call the police."
His chuckle was dark velvet. "Do you think they'll save you from me?"
The words weren't a threat—they were a promise. And yet, instead of fear, Aanya felt something worse: curiosity.
"Who are you?" she whispered, almost against her will.
Rehaan studied her like a puzzle, like a woman who dared question his shadow. He could have told her the truth. Mafia heir. King in waiting. The kind of man mothers warned their daughters about. But instead, he bent lower until his lips brushed the shell of her ear.
"Someone you'll never forget."
Aanya's heart stuttered.
She shoved him back, more for her own sanity than for defense, and stormed away, muttering under her breath, "Arrogant jerk."
Rehaan let her go. For now. His eyes followed every furious step she took, and when she finally disappeared into the crowd at the far end of the park, his smirk returned.
Unforgettable.
That's what she would be. And she had no idea that from this day forward, she belonged to him—even if she hated him for it.
---
But fate wasn't done testing her.
As Aanya left the park, she didn't realize two men had started tailing her, eyeing her bag, whispering to each other. Rehaan noticed, of course. He always noticed. His jaw tightened, his calm shattering into lethal focus.
"Wrong girl to follow, boys," he muttered under his breath.
He moved like a shadow, weaving through the crowd until the moment one of them reached for her bag.
Before Aanya even had the chance to scream, a strong hand yanked the thief back by his collar. The man crashed into the trunk of a tree with a strangled cry, Rehaan's grip merciless.
The second man froze. Rehaan's eyes met his—cold, merciless, a silent warning. The man bolted, vanishing into the street.
Aanya stood frozen, her bag clutched tight, her eyes wide. "You…"
Rehaan didn't glance at her. He leaned closer to the thief still in his hold, voice soft but deadly. "If I see you near her again, I'll break more than your pride."
He shoved the man away, letting him stumble into the dirt before sprinting off.
Only then did he turn back to Aanya.
"You're welcome."
She blinked, torn between gratitude and anger. "I didn't ask for your help."
Rehaan stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "You didn't have to. I'll always help you—even when you don't want me to."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, his nearness suffocating. "Why? Why me?"
His smirk softened, but his eyes burned. "Because the moment I saw you, I knew one thing. You're mine, Aanya Singhania. Whether you fight it or not."
She gasped. "You don't even know me—"
"Yet," he cut in smoothly. "But I will. I'll know everything. And the day you realize you're mine, sweetheart…" His eyes lingered on her trembling lips, "…that day will destroy you. And you'll thank me for it."
Aanya's heart raced, fear and heat colliding in a storm she didn't understand. She wanted to slap him, scream at him, run away—but her legs wouldn't move.
Rehaan smiled at her silence, stepping back at last. "Go home, angel. Before I change my mind and don't let you."
And with that, he turned, vanishing into the crowd like smoke.
But his words clung to her, searing into her soul.
Unforgettable.
She hated that he was right
Ishita Singhania had always found her peace in books.
Unlike Aanya, who carried storms inside her, Ishita carried silence—heavy, dignified silence. She was the eldest daughter, the one who kept the family's strings together, the one who never let her siblings see her stumble.
And maybe that was why she loved the library so much. Here, no one asked her to lead. No one expected her to protect. In these shelves of dusty words and faded ink, she could breathe without wearing armor.
She was seated at the far corner, her hair tied loosely, a pen tucked behind her ear, flipping through a thick novel. The world outside didn't exist.
But someone else had made this world his territory long before she stepped in.
Arjun Arora.
Middle son of the Aurora empire. Known for his ruthless business moves, feared for his temper, and whispered about for his… writing. Unlike Rehaan, who painted danger with his fists and guns, Arjun painted danger with words—stories so dark, so twisted, that even hardened men flinched reading them.
And today, his story wasn't on paper. It was sitting three tables away, completely unaware that she had wandered into his cage.
He had noticed her the moment she entered. How could he not? She walked like she owned the ground beneath her, yet her eyes carried a secret sadness. That contrast was his drug.
Arjun leaned back in his chair, his leather jacket creasing, his fingers twirling a black pen. He wasn't writing today. He was watching. And Ishita Singhania, lost in her book, was his latest chapter.
Minutes ticked by. She finally looked up, sensing the weight of his stare. Her brows arched.
"Do you mind?" she asked sharply, her voice carrying that elder-sibling authority she was born with.
Arjun's lips curved in a lazy, mocking smirk. "Not at all. In fact, I was hoping you'd notice."
Her frown deepened. "You're being rude."
"Am I?" His voice was low, velvety, the kind that slid under skin. "I call it research."
"Research?"
"Yes." He rose, moving toward her table with deliberate slowness, his every step echoing in the silent library. He placed one palm on her table, leaning closer, eyes locked on hers. "I write people. I break them down into words. And you…" His gaze dragged over her face, lingering on her parted lips. "…you're my favorite paragraph already."
Ishita's heartbeat stumbled, but she covered it with icy composure. "You're insane."
Arjun chuckled. "Possibly. But you're still sitting here, talking to me."
"I don't have a choice. You're invading my space."
He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Sweetheart, if I invade, you won't even be able to breathe. This—" he gestured between them "—this is just foreplay."
Her breath caught. The audacity of this man. She snapped her book shut and stood. "You don't know me. And whatever game you're playing, I'm not interested."
Arjun blocked her path effortlessly, his body towering, his scent—ink, leather, and something darker—wrapping around her. "That's the problem, Ishita. You think I don't know you. But I already do."
Her eyes narrowed. "How could you possibly—"
"You wear perfection like armor," he interrupted softly, his words striking with precision. "Everyone thinks you're unshakable. Strong. But I can see it—the way your hands tremble slightly when you think no one's watching, the way your smile falters when your siblings aren't looking. You're tired of being perfect. And you hate yourself for wanting someone to notice."
Silence.
For the first time in years, Ishita had no reply. He had peeled her open with words sharper than any blade.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
Arjun leaned closer, his voice a whisper meant only for her. "That's what I do. I see what others can't. And once I see…" He smirked, dark and certain. "…I don't let go."
Ishita shoved past him, her composure cracking, her footsteps hurried. "You're delusional."
Arjun let her go, his eyes following her like shadows follow light. He didn't chase—not yet. He didn't need to.
Because Ishita Singhania would be back. Not because she wanted to. But because he had already written her into his story.
And Arjun Arora never left his stories unfinished.
---
Later that night…
Ishita stood at her balcony, staring at the city lights, still shaken by his words. She hated him. She hated how easily he had read her, how his voice echoed in her chest like ink staining paper.
Why did it feel like he saw everything I hide?
As if summoned by her thoughts, her phone buzzed. An unknown number. Against her better judgment, she answered.
A voice poured through the speaker, low and familiar.
"Chapter Two," Arjun said.
Her breath caught. "What?"
"Every story has chapters. Ours started in the library. Next… who knows?" His chuckle was slow, dangerous. "But make no mistake, Ishita. You're already my heroine. And I'm a very possessive author."
The line went dead before she could reply.
Her heart thundered, her hand trembling around the phone. She told herself she hated him. That he was nothing but a menace.
But deep down, she knew one terrifying truth.
He wasn't lying
---
Episode 3 (Part III) – The Firefly and the Flame
Riya Singhania hated being underestimated.
She was the youngest, and people always treated her like a child—delicate, naïve, harmless. But what they didn't realize was that she burned inside. Her fire was quieter than Aanya's storms or Ishita's steel, but it was fire nonetheless.
So when she slipped away from her family that evening, wandering into the city fair, she felt… free.
The bright lights, the chaos, the smell of roasted corn—it was nothing like the polished ballrooms her family dragged her to. Here, she wasn't a Singhania heir. She was just Riya.
And then she crashed into trouble.
Literally.
She collided with a tall figure in the crowd, spilling his drink all over his black shirt.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry—" she began, fumbling for tissues.
The man looked down at her, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. And then he smirked.
"Well, well. If it isn't a Singhania playing commoner," he drawled.
Her head snapped up, and she froze. Aryan Arora. The youngest of the infamous Aroras. His reputation preceded him—cocky, reckless, sharp-tongued. But what unsettled her most wasn't his reputation.
It was the way he was looking at her. Like she had wandered into his hunting ground.
Riya straightened, her chin lifting. "I said I'm sorry. No need to gloat."
Aryan wiped his shirt lazily with a tissue, then tossed it aside. "You think this is about the drink?" He leaned closer, his grin wicked. "No, sweetheart. This is about fate. Of all the people here, you bumped into me. That can't be an accident."
She rolled her eyes. "Or maybe you're just standing in the middle of the path like an idiot."
Aryan's grin widened. "Sharp tongue. I like that."
"I don't care what you like," she shot back, brushing past him.
But Aryan was faster. He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Careful, princess. You don't walk away from an Arora like that."
Her eyes blazed as she yanked her hand back. "Watch me."
Aryan's laughter followed her, low and dangerous. He didn't chase—not yet. He wanted to see how far she'd go. And oh, how he loved the way her stubbornness flared.
---
Minutes later, she found herself at a game stall. The challenge was simple: shoot balloons with a toy gun. Riya's competitive streak kicked in. She grabbed the gun, narrowed her eyes, and fired. Pop. Pop. Pop. She hit them all.
The stall owner clapped. "Winner!"
She grinned, triumphant—until a familiar voice purred beside her ear.
"Cute. But you're holding the gun wrong."
Riya startled, nearly dropping it. Aryan stood behind her, his body close, his breath warm on her neck. He reached over, adjusting her grip casually, like he had every right to touch her.
"Like this," he murmured, his fingers brushing hers. "Steady. Confident. You have good aim, but you rush. That's your problem."
She pulled her hand away, cheeks flushing. "And why do you care?"
Aryan's eyes glittered with mischief. "Because I like fixing problems." His grin turned sharper. "And because you look damn good holding a gun."
Her heart skipped, but she masked it with sarcasm. "Wow, smooth. Do you use that line on everyone?"
"Only the ones worth my time," he said simply.
She rolled her eyes, turning back to the stall owner. "I'll take the prize, please."
But before she could reach for the teddy bear, Aryan snatched it, holding it out of her reach.
"Hey! That's mine!"
"Correction," he smirked. "It's ours. A memory of tonight. You spill my drink, I teach you to shoot, and we win this together. Fair trade."
"You're unbelievable," she huffed, trying to grab it.
Aryan held it higher, enjoying her frustration. "And yet, you're still here arguing with me instead of walking away. Why is that, princess?"
Riya froze. He was right. She could've left. But she hadn't. Something about him—his cocky grin, his dangerous energy—pulled her in, no matter how much she denied it.
She snatched the teddy from his hands, glaring. "Don't flatter yourself. I stayed because I hate losing."
Aryan leaned down, his voice dropping low. "Good. Because with me… losing isn't an option."
Her breath hitched, but before she could reply, he walked off into the crowd, leaving her clutching the teddy bear, her heart pounding.
---
Later that night, back at her room, Riya stared at the teddy on her bed. She told herself she should throw it away. That keeping it meant something.
But she didn't.
And she hated how much she wanted to see Aryan Arora again.
---
Meanwhile, Aryan sat in his car, the city lights flickering across his sharp features. He spun a lighter in his hand, smirking.
"She burns," he muttered to himself. "And I like fire."
For Aryan Arora, this wasn't the end. It was the beginning of a game he had every intention of winning