Chapter 2 – The Night the Queen Took the Crown
Ishqi Singhania's POV only
Mumbai, Grand Hyatt Ballroom
Economic Times Business Awards 2025
9:42 p.m.
The air smells like money, champagne, and barely concealed hatred.
I step onto the red carpet in a backless black saree, the kind that costs more than most people's annual salary and still manages to look like I woke up lethal.
Six-inch stilettos. Blood-red lips. Diamonds only on my ears (because I don't need anything else to shine tonight).
Cameras flash like gunfire.
Reporters scream my name.
"Ishqi ma'am, one smile for the camera!"
I give them half a smirk.
Enough to trend, not enough to look friendly.
Because tonight I'm not here to make friends.
I'm here to bury Rudransh Malhotra.
Six months ago, Singhania Global was bleeding out after Papa's death.
Tonight we're the fastest-growing conglomerate in Asia.
And the award for Business Leader of the Year?
It has my name written all over it.
I walk past the life-size posters (mine and his, side by side like some cruel joke).
His face stares down at me: sharp jaw, storm-grey eyes, that infuriating half-smirk that makes women stupid and men nervous.
Rudransh Malhotra.
The man who's been trying to choke my ports, my routes, my very air supply for the last two years.
Tonight I choke him back.
Inside the ballroom, the energy shifts the moment I enter.
Conversations hush.
Heads turn.
I feel his stare before I see him.
He's at the bar (black tux, no tie, sleeves rolled up just enough to show that stupid dagger tattoo).
One hand in his pocket, the other swirling whiskey like he owns the laws of gravity.
Our eyes lock across the room.
Game on.
He tilts his glass slightly.
A mock toast.
I tilt my chin.
A declaration of war.
I don't walk to him.
I make him come to me.
And he does.
Like a panther who's been starving for months.
He stops a foot away (close enough that I smell oud and smoke, far enough that the cameras can't catch what he says).
"Singhania," he murmurs, voice low enough to vibrate in my ribcage. "Black saree. Bold choice for a funeral."
I smile with teeth.
"Yours, I hope."
His eyes drop (slow, deliberate) down the length of me and back up.
"Careful, Ishqi. Keep looking at me like that and I'll forget we're in public."
Heat licks up my spine, but I don't let it show.
"Keep dreaming, Malhotra. The only thing you're getting tonight is second place."
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear (not touching, never touching in public).
"We'll see who ends up on their knees by the end of the night."
My breath catches.
I hate that it does.
Before I can snap back, the host takes the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the nominees for Business Leader of the Year are…
Ms. Ishqi Singhania, Singhania Global…
and Mr. Rudransh Malhotra, Malhotra Imperium."
The room erupts in polite applause.
I don't clap for him.
He doesn't clap for me.
The envelope opens.
"And the winner is…"
I stop breathing.
"…Ms. Ishqi Singhania!"
The spotlight hits me like a crown.
I walk to the stage like I was born for it (because I was).
The trophy is heavy, cold, perfect.
I smile for the cameras, but my eyes find him in the crowd.
He's clapping.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His gaze never leaves mine.
And for one terrifying second, I think he looks… proud.
I shake it off.
This is war.
I take the mic.
"Thank you," I begin, voice smooth as silk. "This award belongs to every person who bet against me when I was twenty-six and grieving. To every board member who said a woman couldn't run an empire built by men."
I pause.
Let the silence stretch.
"And to the one man who made it his mission to destroy me… thank you, Rudransh Malhotra. You were excellent motivation."
The room gasps.
Then laughs.
Then applauds like I just declared world peace.
I step down.
He's waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
I expect fury.
I get a slow, dangerous smile instead.
He offers his arm like a gentleman.
I ignore it, walk past him.
He falls into step beside me.
"Congratulations, Your Highness," he says softly. "Enjoy the throne."
I stop.
Turn to face him fully.
"It's not a throne if you're still breathing, Malhotra."
His eyes darken.
He steps closer (too close for cameras, too close for sanity).
"Then maybe," he whispers, "you should try harder to kill me."
My pulse is a war drum.
Because the truth is, I've spent two years trying to destroy him in boardrooms…
and three months trying to forget how he tasted in the dark.
I open my mouth to cut him again.
The lights dim.
The host announces the next award.
And in the sudden shadows, his fingers brush mine (just once, feather-light).
I yank my hand away like I've been burned.
But the damage is done.
Because for one heartbeat, I wanted to hold on.
I walk away before he sees it.
Before I see it.
But I feel him watching me leave.
And I know (God, I know) this war just got a lot more dangerous.
Because the line between hate and want has never been thinner.
And I'm not sure which side I'm standing on anymore.
(To be continued…)