Mumbai — Present Day
In Aanya Kalantri's personal ranking of terrible days, today officially placed second.
First place was still held by the day she accidentally sent a snarky meme to her division head instead of her best friend. But today was trying very hard to steal the title.
The office cafeteria was packed—noisy, chaotic, the usual Monday haziness hanging in the air. Aanya balanced her laptop, ID card, phone, and a dangerously full cup of cappuccino that sloshed like a tiny storm every time she took a step.
Her boss had messaged her at 7:13 a.m.:
Client meeting moved up. 9 a.m. sharp. Bring the wireframes. Don't be late.
Translation: sprint through life and pray breakfast doesn't choke you.
Her phone buzzed again.
Zoya:
Still alive or dead already?
Aanya typed with one hand:
Barely alive. Coffee is my only hope.
She hit send.
And destiny—who clearly had personal issues with her—decided to strike.
Someone turned the corner at the exact same time she did. The collision was sharp, sudden, and absolutely catastrophic.
Her fingers loosened.
Her breath caught.
The cappuccino lifted into the air in a perfect, slow-motion arc, as if mocking her.
Then gravity won.
The drink splashed across the man in front of her, soaking his shirt in a sweeping, dramatic pattern that looked expensive in the worst way.
Aanya's eyes widened in horror. "Oh no. No no no no—"
He stood perfectly still.
She looked up.
And immediately regretted existing.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. Broad shoulders carrying the kind of authority that made people straighten automatically. His expression was unreadable, carved with quiet control, and his eyes—dark, steady—focused on her like she was an unexpected puzzle.
A few people in the cafeteria froze mid-bite.
Someone gasped.
Someone else lifted their phone.
"Is that… Riyan Vardekar?"
The name punched the air out of her lungs.
Riyan Vardekar.
CEO of Vardekar Global.
The kind of man whose presence reduced boardrooms to silence.
Rumored to operate on 90 percent logic, 10 percent caffeine, and zero tolerance for nonsense.
And she had just drenched him.
"I—I'm so sorry," Aanya blurted, her voice cracking under panic. "I swear I didn't see you. I'm usually very aware of my surroundings. Well, not always. But I promise I wasn't trying to attack you with coffee. Does this shirt look expensive? Oh God, it looks expensive. Please tell me it's machine-wash safe."
The corner of his jaw tightened slightly, not with rage but with an effort to maintain composure.
He looked down at the coffee spreading across his shirt, then back at her.
Calm. Quiet. Contained.
"No permanent damage," he said, his voice low and controlled.
She almost melted with relief. "Thank you—thank you. I mean, your shirt has damage, but—not permanent. Probably. Hopefully. I'm going to stop talking now."
Someone snorted.
Someone else whispered, "This is definitely going viral."
Riyan's eyes flicked toward the cameras. His expression sharpened, something cold and assessing slipping through. Not vanity—awareness. As if he understood instantly what this moment would become.
Aanya didn't know he'd received a threatening message that morning.
She didn't know someone was watching him—and now watching her.
She didn't know how quickly a single accident could tangle their lives.
Riyan stepped closer, reducing the noise of the cafeteria to a faded blur.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Aanya," she whispered, wishing she could evaporate into the floor.
"And your surname?"
"Kalantri."
He repeated it softly, and something about the way he said it made her heartbeat trip.
His gaze moved back to the growing audience around them. Aanya could practically see her embarrassment being uploaded in real time.
"This will spread," he said.
Her shoulders slumped. "I know. I'm going to wake up tomorrow as a meme."
"Possibly," he replied, tone maddeningly neutral—but his eyes held the faintest flicker of amusement, quickly hidden.
Phones clicked again.
Riyan studied her for a moment longer, his expression settling into something firm, inevitable.
Finally he said,
"Ms. Kalantri… we need to talk."
Not angry.
Not loud.
Just final—like the opening move of a game she didn't know she was playing.
Behind them, someone uploaded the video with a caption already catching fire:
"When Coffee Meets CEO. #CappuccinoDisaster #RiyanVardekar"
Aanya closed her eyes.
Her day had just become unforgettable in all the wrong ways.