The Storm Before the Bid
Rain swept across Mumbai in glittering veils, soaking the rooftops and chasing yellow reflections down the glass sides of high-rises. From the private balcony of her suite at the Imperial Hotel, Disha Rathore leaned on the railing and let the mist brush her face.
She had spent the entire afternoon telling herself she was calm, but the city's restless weather seemed to echo the tension curling in her chest.
Tonight mattered.
The auction downstairs wasn't merely a charity spectacle; it was her chance to secure an exclusive collection of vintage sketches for her couture line — sketches everyone thought her family had buried along with her confidence.
She glanced at her reflection in the sliding door behind her. The tailored emerald suit she wore looked like a challenge thrown across the night: wide-shouldered blazer cinched to a narrow waist, trousers cut perfectly to her frame, silk blouse disappearing beneath the lapel. She had chosen the outfit deliberately. She needed to look like the kind of woman who could walk through fire and negotiate with storms.
Disha's gaze drifted toward the street below. Limousines nosed up to the entrance of the hotel, releasing a parade of sharp suits and shimmering gowns beneath umbrellas. Valets darted between puddles. The rhythm of engines, splashing tyres, and muffled horns mixed with the percussion of rain against stone.
Somewhere down there, she thought, Rudra Singh was stepping from one of those sleek cars. Even from a distance she could imagine the way he moved — a controlled, unhurried stride, the look of someone born to claim space.
For months they had circled one another in the business pages, names linked through acquisitions and whispered rivalries. Rudra Singh: thirty, billionaire, disruptor in the luxury-tech sector. Every rumour described him the same way — brilliant, composed, impossible to intimidate. And, maddeningly, never careless with women.
He was a man who lived on rules of his own making, a man who would treat competition as sport.
And tonight, she was the only competitor who could match him.
Disha set her clutch on the balcony ledge and rested her hands on the cool marble rail. She had come far from the girl who once measured her worth through relatives' approval. After the betrayal that pushed her out of her family's house, she had built a brand with stubbornness and sleepless nights. Every investment, every risk, had led her here.
A gust of wind swirled rain against her sleeves. She smiled faintly and whispered to herself, You belong in that room, Disha Rathore.
The thought steadied her heartbeat.
Inside, the suite glowed with lamplight, reflecting gold off polished floors. She gathered her bag, gave her reflection one final, appraising glance, and squared her shoulders. The storm might keep the city guessing, but she would not let it dictate her evening.
When she opened the door to leave, a ripple of anticipation ran through her — the quiet certainty that fate was already moving pieces across the board.
Somewhere below, Rudra Singh was waiting.
Rainlight and Rivals
The corridor outside the suite was hushed, softened by the thick carpet and the faint perfume of lilies placed in tall crystal vases. Disha walked with measured steps, every click of her heels a small declaration that she belonged among the city's power players.
By the time she reached the grand staircase that swept toward the Imperial's ballroom, she could already hear the pulse of the evening: low jazz, a scatter of applause, clinking glasses. A hush of voices, polite yet restless, floated up to meet her.
At the bottom of the stairs the doorman swung the polished brass handle, and the room opened before her like the inside of a jewel box.
Crystal chandeliers shimmered above a sea of umbrellas drying by the cloakroom. The parquet floor gleamed, reflecting pinpricks of light from the rain-streaked windows. Along the edges of the hall, waiters in white jackets slipped between guests, balancing silver trays of champagne and tiny tartlets.
Disha paused at the threshold, letting her gaze sweep the crowd. Every detail—the scent of roses from towering arrangements, the smooth cadence of the auctioneer greeting patrons, the hush of expensive fabrics brushing against one another—felt heightened, as though the storm outside had tuned the world a half-step sharper.
She signed her name at the registration desk, sliding the elegant bidder's card into her clutch. A quick inhale steadied her. *Business, not nerves. Focus on the goal,* she reminded herself.
And then she saw him.
**Rudra Singh** stood near the centre of the room, framed by the gleam of the stage lights. He was taller than she remembered from the photographs that floated through business magazines: broad shoulders filling a charcoal suit, posture relaxed but calculated. The rain had left a darker sheen on the edges of his hair, and the effect only added to the precision of his presence.
He was listening to the curator, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable save for a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
When his eyes swept the hall and landed on her, the conversation around him seemed to fade. Grey met brown across a gulf of people and polished wood.
Something unspoken tightened in the air.
Disha didn't let herself look away first. She held his gaze, chin tilted, a faint smile curving her lips—the same expression she used when facing investors twice her age.
Rudra's lips moved into what might have been the hint of a smile, or perhaps the opening move of a chess match. Then, with deliberate calm, he excused himself from the curator and began to make his way toward her through the crowd.
Each step was measured, smooth, as if he had rehearsed the distance between them.
Disha's heartbeat quickened, but her face remained an unbroken mask of cool amusement. She lifted a glass of champagne from a passing tray, letting the stem rest lightly between her fingers.
*Let him come,* she thought. *This is only round one.*
A Calculated Spark
Rudra closed the last few steps between them with an easy, unhurried stride. Rain still clung to the edges of his dark hair, catching in the ballroom light like silver threads. The faint scent of cedar and rainwater followed him, subtle but steady — a quiet announcement of his presence.
Disha raised the champagne flute halfway to her lips, allowing herself a slow, measured glance over the rim. His gaze held hers with the focus of someone who rarely needed to repeat himself.
"Ms. Rathore."
His voice was deep, smooth, with a faint rasp that sounded like it had been polished against midnight. "The last person I expected to see tonight."
She arched an eyebrow. "Surprised? I thought you had an algorithm that predicts everyone's next move."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not yours, apparently." His eyes swept her suit with an appreciation so subtle it could have been mistaken for analysis. "You make a rather striking entrance."
"Better than a quiet exit," she replied, letting the words slide out light as silk.
He studied her for a beat longer, then accepted a glass from a waiter without looking away. When he spoke again, his tone had softened, but the undercurrent of challenge remained.
"So, tell me, Ms. Rathore — should I be worried? Or are you here for charity rather than conquest?"
"I don't mix charity with conquest," Disha said, placing her flute back on the tray. "Tonight is business. A very specific business."
"And you believe you can outbid me?"
"I don't believe," she corrected. "I plan."
For a moment, silence hummed between them, threaded with the quiet percussion of rain against the tall windows. Around them, other guests moved in ripples of conversation, but the space directly between them seemed to have been claimed by some private current.
Rudra tilted his head, assessing her with the same composure he used in boardrooms. "Careful," he said softly. "I'm not known for losing."
Disha's answering smile was quick, precise, a glint of steel wrapped in velvet. "Then tonight may be educational."
His laughter — low, brief, unexpectedly warm — startled a small smile from her before she could stop it. He set his glass down on a nearby table, the sound barely audible over the music.
"Enjoy the lesson, then," he said. "Just don't expect me to go easy because you look like you walked out of a magazine cover."
She met his gaze evenly. "Good. I'd hate for you to underestimate me."
A chime rang out, calling bidders to their seats. The auctioneer's voice echoed through the hall, inviting everyone to take their places. Rudra gestured toward the rows of chairs near the stage.
"After you," he said, a faint curve at the edge of his lips.
Disha inclined her head — not submission, but acknowledgment — and strode toward the front, her heels tapping a quiet rhythm of confidence against the polished floor.
Behind her, she felt the steady weight of Rudra's attention, like the first warning rumble of thunder.
Opening Moves
The ballroom lights dimmed slightly, focusing attention on the walnut stage where the auctioneer stood. Behind him, a velvet-draped easel displayed the first item of the night: a charcoal sketch of an evening gown from a legendary Parisian atelier — one of only three remaining in the world.
Disha slipped into her reserved seat in the second row, placing her clutch neatly on her lap. She felt Rudra settle into the chair just behind her, a faint rustle of fabric, a presence steady and deliberate.
The auctioneer cleared his throat, voice smooth and commanding.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Imperial's Spring Gala Auction. Tonight's proceeds will support art preservation initiatives across Asia."
Applause rippled through the crowd, fading as the man continued.
"Our opening piece: a rare original design sketch by Alaric Fontaine, circa 1968. Starting bid: ten lakh rupees."
Cards lifted across the room.
Disha raised hers without hesitation. The number flashed across the screen beside the stage.
Almost instantly, Rudra's card rose higher.
She didn't turn, but she felt the shift in the air, the subtle invitation: Your move.
"Fifteen lakh," the auctioneer called.
Disha raised again, calm as a lake. The corners of Rudra's mouth curved — she could sense it even without looking.
"Twenty."
The bids climbed, a quiet duel masked as philanthropy. Around them, the other guests watched with polite interest, but none dared to join for long. The tension between the two of them had claimed the sketch as its own battlefield.
At thirty lakh, the auctioneer's eyes flicked between them, clearly enjoying the drama. "Do I hear thirty-two?"
Disha lifted her card, fingers steady, heart tapping an uneven beat.
"Thirty-two lakh," announced the man.
A pause. Rudra leaned slightly forward in his chair, the faintest shadow of amusement in his expression. He raised his paddle with a relaxed flick of his wrist.
"Thirty-five."
The audience murmured.
Disha inhaled through her nose, spine straight. The piece meant more than prestige — it symbolised freedom from every whisper that said she was only a product of her surname. She pictured her future studio, sketches on the wall, her own name stitched inside a finished gown.
She raised her card again. "Forty lakh."
The number landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Rudra didn't blink. He studied her profile for a long moment, then slowly set his paddle on his knee, tapping it once against the fabric of his trousers.
The auctioneer scanned the room. "Forty lakh going once… going twice…"
A faint smile ghosted across Rudra's lips, but he stayed silent.
"Sold! To bidder one-two-seven — congratulations."
Applause fluttered through the hall. Disha lowered her card, exhaling quietly, pulse still thrumming from the silent contest.
As the attendants removed the sketch, she felt Rudra lean just close enough for his words to reach her ear without anyone else hearing.
"Well played, Ms. Rathore," he murmured, voice like velvet laced with warning. "But the night isn't over."
She turned her head slightly, meeting his eyes over her shoulder.
"Good," she said softly. "I'd hate for you to surrender so soon."
His answering look promised a game far from finished.
**An Uneasy Alliance**
A soft clink of glasses signaled a short interlude while staff prepared the next item. Murmurs filled the ballroom, but Disha stayed seated, posture composed even as her pulse settled from the last battle. She allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder.
Rudra was watching her, elbow propped against the armrest, fingers resting lightly along his jaw. The weight of his gaze was steady, deliberate — an invitation and a challenge wrapped into one.
The auctioneer's voice rose again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our next lot is unique. An original set of blueprints from the late architect J. P. Khurana — a private island retreat he designed for the Maharaja of Indrapur. The proceeds will go to fund scholarships for young women in engineering."
A murmur of appreciation swept the room. On the screen behind the auctioneer, slides of sun-bleached sketches appeared: sweeping terraces, infinity pools, hidden gardens.
Disha's eyes narrowed. She knew of Khurana's work — the rights to this property were a potential gold mine for whoever developed it. She straightened, readying her card.
"Bidding opens at fifty lakh," the auctioneer announced.
Rudra moved first, a single, fluid gesture: *Seventy.*
Disha countered: *Eighty.*
The room hushed, sensing another duel.
"Eighty-five," Rudra said, voice calm enough to sound almost bored.
"Ninety," Disha replied, her tone satin over steel.
At one crore, a few competitors sighed and dropped out. Only two paddles remained — theirs.
Then the auctioneer added, "Note, the winning bidder must agree to preserve the original structures and fund part of the scholarship trust."
A faint flicker crossed Rudra's eyes — respect, perhaps. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, and raised again.
"One crore ten."
Disha hesitated, calculations spinning behind her eyes. It was a steep commitment, but her instincts whispered of something bigger: legacy, impact, proof that she could shape more than fashion sketches.
She raised her paddle. "One crore fifteen."
Rudra leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. For a heartbeat, she thought he would outbid her again. Instead, he set his paddle down and spoke quietly, just for her.
"Join forces."
She blinked. "What?"
"Split the bid," he murmured. "Ownership fifty-fifty. We protect the site, fund the trust — and you don't drain your war chest on night one."
She studied him, weighing the offer. Partnering with Rudra Singh was risky; he didn't share power without a price. Yet something in his voice — steady, low, edged with a faint smile — suggested this wasn't only strategy.
The auctioneer's gavel hovered. "One crore fifteen, going once…"
Disha turned fully, meeting Rudra's dark eyes.
"Terms," she said softly.
A flicker of amusement curved his mouth. "Equal vote. No interference in your brand. And dinner to discuss logistics."
"Dinner?" she asked, arching a brow.
His smile deepened, almost imperceptibly. "Purely professional. Unless you're afraid."
"I don't scare easily," she replied, and raised her paddle a final time. "One crore fifteen — shared."
The auctioneer nodded. "Sold to bidders one-two-seven and one-three-three as joint proprietors!"
Applause broke out, louder this time. Around them, guests leaned together, whispering about the unexpected alliance.
Rudra extended a hand toward her across the aisle, palm steady, a silent agreement. She hesitated for only a second before sliding her hand into his. His grip was warm, firm, lingering just long enough to send an unwelcome shiver of awareness up her arm.
"Looks like we're partners, Ms. Rathore," he said quietly.
"On paper," she answered, extracting her hand with careful composure.
But the tiny curl of his lips — and the spark running like quicksilver through her chest — warned her that paper was rarely where Rudra Singh stopped.
**Rain in the Garden**
By the time the auctioneer's gavel came down on the final lot, the hall had softened into low chatter and the quiet clink of glasses. Staff cleared empty flutes while guests compared purchases, their laughter rippling through the room like silk in the breeze.
Disha stepped away from her seat, smoothing an invisible crease in her jacket. The air inside felt suddenly heavy; she needed space to breathe. Beyond the tall windows, the rain had eased into a silver drizzle that misted the garden beyond.
She slipped through a side door and out onto the stone terrace. A scent of wet roses rose from the hedges, mingling with the fresh bite of rain. Lanterns glowed faintly along the gravel path, their reflections trembling in puddles.
Footsteps followed a few moments later — deliberate, unhurried.
"You disappeared," Rudra said, his voice low, threaded with the softness of damp air.
"I needed a moment." She didn't turn, only folded her arms and watched raindrops bead on the terrace railing.
Rudra came to stand beside her, close but not crowding. His suit jacket was open now, a faint breeze lifting the edge of the fabric. Raindrops caught in his dark hair, bright against the warm undertone of his skin.
"You handled yourself well tonight," he said. "Most people fold when I raise the stakes."
Disha gave a half-smile. "Maybe you've been playing against the wrong people."
"Or maybe you're the exception." He looked at her, eyes dark and unreadable in the rainlight. "You don't rattle easily."
"Is that supposed to make me reckless?" she asked.
"It's supposed to make you interesting." His lips curved slightly, almost a smile, but something steadier hid beneath. "Partnership or not, I don't underestimate people who can stand their ground."
She studied him in profile: the clean cut of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the quiet control in the way he carried himself. There was danger there — not the kind that threatened safety, but the kind that could rearrange everything if she let it.
"You really think I'll let you steer this deal?" she said, breaking the silence.
Rudra's chuckle was low, a rumble that settled somewhere uncomfortably close to warmth. "Steer? No. I think we're both holding the wheel."
"Then don't try to take my lane," she warned, though her voice lacked real bite.
A glimmer of amusement flickered in his eyes. "You're assuming I drive in straight lines."
Rain whispered through the garden, dripping off rose petals, softening the edges of the world around them. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet stretched — not heavy, but taut with something unnamed.
Finally, Rudra shifted, offering her a faint smile that didn't quite hide the curiosity behind it.
"Dinner tomorrow," he said. "We need to decide how to divide the work on the Khurana project."
Disha tilted her head. "Business dinner?"
He met her gaze squarely. "That's how it begins."
Her pulse thudded once, then steadied. She nodded, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve like the motion could smooth the ripples inside her.
"Text me the time," she said.
As she turned back toward the ballroom, she caught the hint of a smile on his face — something unreadable, quiet, and dangerous in a way that made her fingers tighten aroun
The rain glittered in his hair, and for one fleeting heartbeat, she wondered if maybe every storm carried its own kind of invitation.