Calculated Bids
The ballroom was still alive with murmurs after the final gavel. Waiters whisked away empty glasses, and a soft ripple of jazz spilled from a corner trio. Disha remained near the terrace doors, her bidder's card tucked into her clutch like a trophy.
She could still feel Rudra's handshake — steady, deliberate, far too memorable for a business agreement.
When she turned back, he was watching her across the room. Not staring — assessing, as though the night's victory had only shifted the game's starting line.
"Enjoying your moment?" His voice was low when he reached her side.
"I am." She angled her chin toward the sketches being wrapped in archival paper. "It isn't every day you win something people swore you couldn't handle."
Rudra's eyes glinted. "Careful, Ms. Rathore. Winning a battle doesn't mean you've won the war."
"Was there a war?" she asked, calm as crystal.
"Not officially." He allowed himself a faint smile, one that didn't touch the steel in his gaze. "But unofficially… let's say I don't make a habit of losing."
Their words wove a quiet thread of challenge between them. Disha let it stretch, then broke it with a laugh soft enough that only he could hear.
"Good," she said. "A boring opponent is worse than a bad one."
For a moment his expression flickered — surprise, interest, something unguarded. Then the mask of composure returned, sharper this time.
Before either could speak again, the auctioneer invited guests to a closing toast. Crystal flutes gleamed in lamplight, catching the last sparkle of rain through tall windows.
Rudra accepted a glass and offered another to her. "To new ventures," he said, voice rich and smooth.
Disha touched the rim of her flute to his. "To ventures worth the risk."
The glasses chimed, a sound that seemed to settle between them like an unspoken pact.
But when she sipped, she caught the flicker of calculation in his eyes — as if, even while toasting, Rudra Singh was already plotting the next move.
Dinner on the Horizon
The clink of glasses faded as guests drifted toward the exit, voices low with talk of traffic and after-parties. A few paused to congratulate Disha on her bids, but she could sense their curiosity shifting toward the man beside her. Rudra's reputation travelled faster than introductions; people watched him the way they watched a sudden break in the weather.
He didn't seem to notice—or maybe he simply didn't care. His attention stayed fixed on her, steady and deliberate, the way a sailor watches the tide before deciding where to set anchor.
"Are you always this composed after a win?" he asked.
"I don't see the point of gloating." Disha set her empty glass on a passing tray. "There's always another deal waiting to test you."
"Practical," Rudra said, studying her profile as though the line of her jaw could tell him a secret. "But tonight wasn't just business. You fought for something personal."
She hesitated, a flicker of caution crossing her features. "Maybe I did. And maybe that's what makes me dangerous."
His laugh was quiet, low enough to vibrate against the hum of conversation. "I don't doubt it."
For a moment they stood in companionable silence, watching rain slide down the windows in silver threads. Then Rudra shifted, sliding a phone from his pocket.
"We need to discuss the Khurana project," he said. "Tomorrow night—dinner."
Disha raised an eyebrow. "Straight from an auction floor to a negotiation table?"
"Think of it as fieldwork," he replied, scrolling briefly before meeting her eyes again. "Neutral ground. I'll book a place that lets us talk without interruptions."
"And if I refuse?" she asked, half testing, half teasing.
"Then you'll miss a chance to shape the deal." A faint smile curved his lips. "And I don't think you're the kind who likes giving up leverage."
She tilted her head, weighing the invitation. "All right, Mr. Singh. Text me the details."
His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, thoughtful, before he nodded. "You won't regret it."
That, she thought as she watched him walk toward the cloakroom, was yet to be proven.
Outside, the rain eased into mist, softening the glow of streetlamps beyond the hotel's awning. Disha slipped her clutch beneath her arm and followed the departing guests, the echo of Rudra's promise threading through her thoughts like a line cast into deep water.
Edges and Mirrors
Morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of Disha's apartment, stretching across polished wood and the neat stacks of sketches on her desk. Mumbai had shaken off the night's storm; the air smelled faintly of wet earth and fresh chai from the street below.
She stood before the mirror in her bedroom, a steaming mug balanced on the windowsill. Her reflection looked back at her: calm, deliberate, as if last night's auction were only another line item in her planner. But beneath the careful surface, something restless hummed.
Dinner with Rudra Singh.
Her fingers tightened around the mug. She had faced investors twice his fortune, journalists digging for gossip, even relatives who tried to chip away at her confidence. None of them had unsettled her with a single glance the way Rudra had.
"Focus," she murmured to herself. "It's a meeting. Just business."
But part of her knew the word just was a fragile shield.
She set the mug aside and opened her wardrobe. Rows of sleek suits, sharp dresses, and silk blouses waited like soldiers. For a long moment she stood still, letting memories creep in—the rainy evening she'd left her parents' house with a single suitcase; the cousins who had whispered that she would crawl back within a month. She hadn't. She had learned to stitch together ambition and defiance until they fit like a second skin.
Her hand paused on a midnight-blue sheath dress, elegant yet unpretentious. She paired it with a cream blazer, heels the color of polished mahogany. Power and quiet grace — a message she wanted clear.
While fastening a slim watch around her wrist, her phone chimed.
Rudra Singh: 8 p.m. The Lantern Room. Private terrace. I'll handle the reservation.
She studied the message longer than necessary, searching for hidden meaning. The Lantern Room was one of the city's most discreet restaurants — all soft lights, quiet corners, and an open balcony overlooking the sea. He could have chosen a boardroom or a noisy café. He hadn't.
Disha set the phone down, smoothing her blazer. Whatever game Rudra Singh was playing, she would meet him step for step.
She slipped a notebook into her handbag, along with a pen and the folded brochure from the auction. Business first. Always.
But as she caught her own gaze in the mirror one last time, she couldn't quite ignore the faint spark of curiosity flickering behind her steady eyes — the question of what might happen if, for once, she let a storm pull her closer instead of holding her ground.
Lanterns on the Water
The evening sky over Marine Drive burned a quiet orange as Disha's car curved along the boulevard. The city was shaking off the last traces of rain; puddles mirrored the fading light, and palm trees dripped silver drops onto the promenade. Ahead, The Lantern Room glowed at the edge of the Arabian Sea, its paper lamps swaying gently over a terrace that seemed to float above the water.
She stepped out, smoothing the line of her blazer. A valet hurried forward to take the car, but Disha barely noticed—her focus was on the restaurant's entrance, where a pair of lanterns framed a path into warm light.
Inside, soft jazz tangled with the scent of roasted sesame and sea air. Low tables and silk-draped alcoves gave the room an intimacy that business meetings rarely allowed. A hostess approached with a practiced smile.
"Ms. Rathore? Mr. Singh is expecting you."
Of course he was.
Disha followed through a corridor lit by tiny candles, her heels whispering against polished stone. At the far end, glass doors opened onto a private terrace. Lanterns swung in the sea breeze, their glow throwing warm halos across the marble floor.
Rudra stood near the railing, phone in one hand, jacket off and sleeves rolled to the elbow. Evening light caught the edges of his profile, sharpening the line of his jaw. He looked like he belonged there—at ease, self-contained, the tide moving because he allowed it.
He turned as she stepped onto the terrace. For a heartbeat his gaze traced the shape of her dress, but his expression remained composed.
"You're on time," he said. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
Disha walked toward the table set for two, each step deliberate. "Why? Did you expect me to be intimidated by a dinner invitation?"
His mouth curved just slightly. "Not intimidated. Selective."
The waiter appeared silently, pulling back a chair for her. As she sat, Rudra set his phone aside and poured water into crystal glasses. The gesture was smooth, almost courtly, though his eyes never quite left hers.
"I appreciate punctuality," he said. "It tells me you value the work."
"And what work exactly?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "The Khurana project, or whatever game you've decided to play?"
Rudra leaned back, letting the sea breeze lift the corner of the white tablecloth. "Both, perhaps," he admitted. "But tonight, let's start with the project."
Disha folded her napkin onto her lap, settling into the chair with quiet poise. Beyond the terrace, the tide rolled in, carrying the reflection of lantern light across the dark water. For a moment she let herself simply breathe — then she met his gaze head-on.
"Fine," she said. "Business first."
Conversations Over Lantern Light
The waiter moved with quiet precision, setting a small candle between them and unfolding menus printed on thick cream paper. A faint scent of ginger drifted from the open kitchen; beyond the terrace rail, the sea sighed against the rocks.
Disha let her eyes travel over the list of dishes — delicate seafood, handmade noodles, seasonal greens — though she was more aware of the man across the table than of any words on the page. Rudra's focus was on the menu, yet every so often she caught the flicker of his gaze, as if he were cataloguing more than entrées.
"Any preferences?" he asked, finally looking up.
"Something light," she said. "I don't like to be slowed down by dinner."
"Efficient," he murmured, amused. "I'll order."
He signaled to the waiter, placing a request that balanced elegance with simplicity: steamed snapper, jasmine rice, stir-fried vegetables, a bottle of crisp white wine. When the server retreated, Rudra leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table.
"Now," he said, "let's talk Khurana."
Disha straightened, business sliding back into her voice. "The site's potential is huge, but the original sketches will need conservation. I intend to bring in a heritage architect before we touch a stone."
Rudra nodded. "I agree. And we'll need a hospitality partner who understands discretion — that island can't become a playground for influencers."
"I was thinking of a boutique firm from Bali," she replied. "They've done quiet eco-resorts. Low impact, high standards."
His lips curved slightly, approving. "You've done your homework."
"It's my project too," she reminded him.
"Fair." He lifted his water glass, the candlelight catching in the clear surface. "To partnerships — the ones worth building."
She hesitated, then touched her glass lightly to his. "To partnerships."
For a heartbeat the clink of crystal felt louder than the surf below. Rudra's gaze lingered over the rim of his glass, steady and unreadable, until he set it down.
"Tell me, Disha," he said, voice low, "how did you learn to keep people guessing?"
"By necessity." She folded her hands together on the table, nails gleaming pale against the wood. "When everyone expects you to fail, surprise becomes a habit."
His eyes darkened with something she couldn't name — respect, perhaps, or a quiet challenge. "Maybe that's why I enjoy our conversations."
Disha held his gaze, refusing to give ground. "Enjoy them, or look for weaknesses?"
"Both," he admitted, a faint edge of humour warming his tone. "Though I haven't found many yet."
The food arrived, fragrant and perfectly arranged. As they began to eat, the conversation wove between strategy and personal histories, neither quite willing to surrender the upper hand. Outside, lanterns swayed in the breeze, their light trembling across the water like scattered gold.
For the first time since the auction, Disha felt the evening slide out of strict business and into something more elusive — a current that carried questions neither of them had spoken aloud.