The private cabin door slid shut behind her with a soft hydraulic sigh.
For a moment she stood still in the corridor, letting the temperature shift from insulated luxury to the neutral chill of the terminal. Inside the private lounge everything had been muted—carpeted silence, discreet staff, filtered lighting. Out here, the airport breathed. Announcements rolled across the ceiling like distant thunder. Wheels dragged over polished floors. Voices collided and dissolved into a restless hum.
She adjusted the strap of her handbag and stepped forward.
Across the open hall, he had already drifted toward the cafeteria.
He moved without hurry, hands in his pockets, gaze wandering across illuminated menus and glass displays. The smell of fried snacks, brewing coffee, and reheated meals hung heavy in the air. He inhaled once, slow and unembarrassed, like a man who had learned to enjoy simple things without apology.
He leaned toward the counter, scanning the options.
"Not bad," he muttered to himself. "We'll eat properly here. Then pack something light. And eat again on the flight."
It was half a joke, half a plan. Food first. Everything else later. That had always been his way.
The words floated a little too clearly in the space between tables.
She heard them.
Her lips curved—not in amusement, but in disdain.
"Bloody idiots," she said under her breath, though loud enough to carry. "They don't even know you can't take outside food on a commercial flight. I don't know how people like that even survive here."
The sentence cut sharper than she expected. Perhaps because she hadn't intended to speak it aloud.
He straightened slowly.
For a second he didn't look at her. He picked up a bottle of water, set it down again, and only then lifted his gaze.
Their eyes met.
Her posture was immaculate—chin slightly raised, shoulders squared, the kind of composure learned from a lifetime of being watched and judged. Her clothes were understated but expensive, the kind that announced wealth through fabric rather than logos.
"Who are you," he asked quietly, "to judge me?"
His tone wasn't loud. That made it worse.
She arched a brow. "Excuse me?"
"Where are you from?" he continued, voice still level. "Some rich father's princess who thinks she knows everything?"
A flicker passed through her eyes—surprise, then irritation.
"You're acting like you're right," she shot back. "Tell me honestly—have you ever even traveled by flight?"
He held her stare. "Yes."
"Liar." She gave a short, humorless laugh. "I saw you come out of the private cabin area. Do you think that section is for commercial passengers?"
The corner of his mouth tilted.
"Interesting assumption."
"Oh?" she said coldly.
"You're very confident for someone making guesses."
She folded her arms.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with a deliberate slowness that unsettled her more than any raised voice could have.
"Sounds to me," he said, "like you're the one stuck. Plane issues? Or did daddy's jet refuse to start?"
Her jaw tightened.
"Do you even know who you're talking to?"
He shrugged. "I don't care."
The words were simple. Honest.
"I don't need to know who you are."
For a heartbeat, something dangerous entered her expression.
"You're speaking to me like this?" she said softly. "I could buy you while you're standing there."
He looked down at himself theatrically, then dragged the chair back and sat fully, spreading his hands.
"I'm sitting now," he said. "Go ahead. Buy me."
Several heads nearby turned.
She stepped closer.
"My yearly pocket money," she said, each word precise, "is more than your entire net worth."
He didn't flinch.
"You're trying very hard to make me angry."
"And you," she snapped, "are unbelievably cheap."
The word hung between them.
A child began crying two tables away.
High-pitched. Persistent.
She closed her eyes briefly, irritation flaring beyond proportion.
"Stop crying," she snapped, turning toward the child. "You don't scream like that inside an airport."
The mother froze, startled. The child hiccupped, wide-eyed—and fell silent, more from shock than discipline. He retreated toward his mother's legs.
He watched the exchange carefully.
"You don't even know how to talk to a child," he said quietly.
Her gaze whipped back to him.
"I don't know what kind of family you're from," he continued, voice low but cutting, "but arrogance isn't education."
She laughed once, disbelieving.
"Do you know what my company earns in a week?" she demanded. "Your entire family wouldn't see that money in a lifetime."
He tilted his head.
"And?"
The word carried no weight, no envy.
It irritated her more than any insult.
And then—
Something shifted.
He felt it first as pressure behind his eyes. A subtle tightening, like a lens focusing. The noise of the terminal dulled—not in volume, but in significance. His attention sharpened, narrowed, refined.
Her breathing.
The tremor in her left hand.
The faint smudge near the zipper of her bag.
Details began arranging themselves without effort.
The world slowed.
He watched her pupils constrict when she mentioned turnover. He noticed the micro-hesitation before the word "my." The slight defensive emphasis.
The truth wasn't in her words. It was in the fractures around them.
He exhaled once.
Calm.
"You came to Punjab with friends," he said evenly.
Her expression faltered—barely.
"They left," he continued. "You're still here. Private cabin exit—but you're waiting outside instead of boarding. That means your aircraft isn't ready."
Silence gathered around their table.
"You're wealthy," he said, "but not independent. The bag? Limited edition. Bought for you. Not by you."
Her fingers tightened around the strap.
"You don't run a company," he went on. "You use your father's name."
Color drained slightly from her face.
"Stop."
Her voice had lost some edge.
He leaned forward, eyes steady.
"You're waiting for a replacement aircraft. Something went wrong."
Her phone rang.
The screen lit up.
Daddy.
He noticed the way her breath hitched before she answered.
She shot him a warning look and stepped aside, turning her back slightly.
"Yes?"
The voice on the other end was loud enough to bleed through.
"What have you done?" her father barked. "You invested all the money I transferred this year into the stock market? And lost it?"
Her spine stiffened.
"It was my money," she said defensively. "So what if I lost some? I get more."
"It's not about that," the man snapped. "If you need more funds, you ask."
He listened.
Every syllable felt amplified.
Her jaw clenched as she turned away further, but he had already heard enough.
He rose from his seat.
"Uncle," he said loudly, stepping closer, ignoring her horrified glare. "Don't worry."
She tried to cover the microphone, but it was too late.
"Your daughter is safe here," he continued coolly. "She won't need much money in India."
She stared at him, stunned.
"And instead of sending another plane," he added softly, almost conversationally, "maybe send an ambulance. Just in case she needs a direct ride to a psychiatric ward."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Even the announcements seemed distant.
Her face burned—not with embarrassment alone, but with something deeper. Rage. Humiliation. A fracture in the armor she had worn so confidently.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
Not angrily.
Demandingly.
He met her gaze, and for the first time, there was something unreadable in his eyes.
"A nobody," he said.
But his mind was still sharp. Still humming. Still processing.
He saw now what others would miss—the exhaustion beneath her arrogance, the insecurity hidden behind inherited wealth. The desperate need to be seen as more than someone's daughter.
And he recognized it.
Because somewhere beneath his own sarcasm and defiance, he carried something similar. A refusal to be underestimated. A hatred of being reduced.
The tension between them thickened, no longer loud but electric.
The airport continued moving around them—flights boarding, children laughing, screens flickering.
But for a suspended moment, they stood facing each other in a silence that felt heavier than their words.
She lowered the phone slowly.
"You're going to regret this," she said.
He gave a faint, almost amused smile.
"Maybe."
And somewhere deep inside him, the strange clarity pulsed once more—quiet, waiting, awake.