Aarohi Sharma stood near the edge of the ballroom, clutching her tablet like a shield.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting golden light over silk gowns, diamond necklaces, and expensive cologne. Laughter echoed—polished, practiced, powerful.
She didn't belong here.
Her navy blazer was neat but plain. Her heels were sensible, not designer. She had come for one reason only: deliver the final proposal to a potential client and leave quietly.
"Thirty minutes," she muttered to herself. "Just survive thirty minutes."
As she turned toward the refreshment table, someone bumped into her.
The tablet slipped.
A hand caught it mid-air.
"Careful."
The voice was deep. Calm. Commanding.
Aarohi looked up—and froze.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. Black suit tailored to perfection. His eyes were dark, cold, and assessing, like he could read people in seconds.
"Thank you," she said quickly, taking the tablet back.
Their fingers brushed.
Electric. Uncomfortable.
Before she could step away, a sudden shout erupted behind them.
"Mr. Malhotra! Over here!"
Cameras flashed.
Aarohi turned just as reporters rushed toward them.
The man beside her stiffened.
And in that instant, she knew—
she had stepped into something dangerous.