“Sometimes, the best things in life are not planned. Like biryani leftovers or mistaken job offers.” – chaavi mehra

Mumbai, 9:45 AM

“Excuse me, ma’am. You’re not allowed to park your scooty on the red carpet,” the security guard said, horrified.

chaavi mehra looked up from her half-crushed bag of mint candy. “Red carpet? I thought it was just a dirty maroon mat.”

Behind her, her battered lavender scooty leaned dangerously close to the rotating glass doors of Kapoor & Co.—one of India’s biggest fashion empires. Ahead of her, a line of glossy interns in stilettos stared like she’d walked in from another planet. Probably because she had.

Because chaavi was not supposed to be here.

Her actual interview was two buildings away, at a startup called SniffIt!, which made pet perfumes.

But thanks to Google Maps, her death with driving skills, and a wildly misread office directory, she’d parked herself outside the very empire of Ruhan Kapoor, a man rumored to fire people for breathing too loudly.

And now, thanks to one slippery step, a ripped tote bag, and a flying résumé… she found herself in the elevator, escorted by a peppy HR girl named Ananya, who chirped, “Mr. Kapoor’s been waiting for a personal secretary. You’re just in time!”

chaavi blinked. “I think there’s been a—”

DING.

The elevator doors opened. Silence. Cool air. Marble floors that looked shinier than her future.

And in the middle of it all… him.

Ruhan Kapoor.

Black suit. Black coffee. Black expression. Like a living Vogue spread, except ten times more intimidating and a hundred times more allergic to nonsense.

He looked up. “You’re late.”

She cleared her throat. “Technically, I wasn’t even hired—”

“Sit.”

She sat.

And just like that, chaavi, who was supposed to be at a pet perfume startup, became the personal assistant to Ruhan Kapoor—the grumpiest, sharpest, and most dangerously attractive CEO in all of India.

And worse? She had no clue what a “procurement spreadsheet” was.

10:30 AM – CEO Cabin, Kapoor & Co.

Ruhan Kapoor was having a good morning.

Until she spoke again.

“So… how do you feel about office plants?” chaavi asked, twirling in his vintage leather chair like a child in a candy store. “Because I feel like this office screams I’m rich but emotionally unavailable. A cactus would really vibe with you.”

Ruhan blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then picked up his pen and muttered, “Are you always like this or is this a performance for your dismissal package?”

“Excuse me,” she said, hands dramatically on hips, “I saved your company from being labeled emotionally sterile. You’re welcome.”

He closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “You're supposed to be scheduling my meetings.”

“I did,” she said, waving a crumpled post-it. “You have ‘Torture with Ties’ at 11, ‘Devil’s Denim Board’ at 1, and a ‘Zoom of Doom’ at 3.”

His jaw clenched. “Those are client meetings. With people who pay us crores.”

“Oh. Right.” She coughed. “Should I rewrite them or... add emojis?”

There was a long pause.

And then—like the sound of hope dying—he said, “You’ve got ten minutes to retype my entire day’s schedule. In proper format. In silence.”

chaavi froze. “Silence? You mean like, actual no-talking silence or pretend silence like in temples where everyone still gossips in whispers?”

Ruhan just stared.

She mimed zipping her lips. “Fine. But if I explode from unspoken thoughts, it’s on you.”

11:10 AM – Meeting Room

chaavi sat beside him during the presentation, trying not to snort as Ruhan grilled a manager with the intensity of a courtroom judge.

“Why is the campaign late?” he asked coldly.

“Sir, we ran into a few creative blocks.”

chaavi whispered under her breath, “Like not having any creativity at all.”

Ruhan turned slowly, eyes flickering with warning. “Ms. mehra.”

“What? That was my inside voice,” she whispered.

“That was a megaphone voice.”

The manager, clearly sweating, stammered something about deadlines, while chaavi tried to discreetly chew her pen lid—until it snapped.

And flew.

And landed.

In. Ruhan. Kapoor’s. Coffee.

Dead silence.

chaavi turned to him with a nervous laugh. “I believe that’s what we call ‘extra flavor infusion’?”

He looked at his coffee. Then at her. “Are you sent by my enemies?”

“Technically, I was sent by HR.”

1:00 PM – Lunch Break (Sort of)

“Do I get a lunch break?” she asked, following him into the elevator.

“You’ve had three coffee breaks, a YouTube break, and fifteen minutes of gossip with the receptionist.”

“Okay first of all, her name is Simran and she’s heartbroken, Ruhan. Heartbroken. I was emotionally supporting her.”

“It’s Mr. Kapoor to you.”

“Right. Ruhan Kapoor. Ru…Kap. Sir. Sorry.”

He sighed as she stumbled into the elevator wall. “Do you trip this much at home too?”

“Only emotionally,” she said brightly.

4:00 PM – CEO Cabin, Round 2

chaavi returned with a tray of fresh coffee—determined to redeem herself.

“Peace offering,” she said, placing the cup carefully in front of him.

He took a sip.

Paused.

Then looked at her in disbelief. “This is… sweet.”

She grinned. “Exactly! I used jaggery instead of sugar. Healthier. And a little desi. Like me.”

“Did I ask for healthier?”

“You never ask for anything except silence, meetings, and revenge. It’s honestly impressive.”

For a second, Ruhan actually looked like he might smile.

Almost.

But then he said, “You’re fired.”

chaavi gasped. “What?!”

He leaned back. “Kidding. Unfortunately.”

She exhaled. “I almost fainted. And I’m not even dramatic.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She smiled. “Okay. A little dramatic.”

To Be Continued...

so guys..I have been thinking of creating a chat story of the same couple...the story and conversations, Will be different from these...I am still not sure about this..but if I will be able to write then I will surely create..so guys please read the chat story too✨❤️

“Revenge is a dish best served in heels and a blazer—preferably with coffee in one hand and a resignation letter in the other… just in case.” – Chaavi Mehra

4:45 PM – Office Lounge

The staff was gathered in the lounge for an impromptu birthday celebration for one of the creative heads. Balloons. Cake. Awkward singing.

Chaavi had just taken a big bite of pineapple pastry when someone whispered behind her—

“Is she really Mr. Kapoor’s secretary or the courier girl who never left?”

A few stifled laughs followed.

She turned, blinking.

A tall, high-heeled intern with contour sharper than Ruhan Kapoor's jawline looked her up and down. “That kurti looks... vintage,” she said sweetly. “Is it from your college days?”

Chhavi smiled, still chewing. “Thank you. I did go to college before this century.”

The girl blinked.

“But you’re not exactly the ‘Kapoor & Co.’ aesthetic, are you?” another intern chimed in. “More… Kapoor & Chaotic?”

The laughter grew.

And that’s when it happened.

Chaavi stepped backward, accidentally tugging the hem of her long kurti...

RRRIIIIIP.

A clean tear. Not too long, but right down the side seam of her kurti. Just enough to reveal the bright red polka-dot shorts she was wearing underneath.

Shorts.

With strawberries.

There was a full beat of silence before the room exploded in laughter.

Even Ruhan—who had entered just in time to witness the scene—froze mid-step.

Chhavi turned slowly.

Eyes met.

And then she said, very calmly:

“I'm launching a new office trend. Called ‘Strawberry Power Pants.’ Catch up, fashion peeps.”

And walked out—head high, dignity somewhere between the copier and the leftover cake.

9:15 PM – Chaavi’s Apartment, Mumbai

The door clicked shut behind her, and silence fell like a curtain.

Chaavi Mehra stood in the dim hallway, her shoes kicked off without care, her dupatta crumpled in her grip. Her reflection in the mirror showed traces of the day she wished she could erase—the whispers, the glares, the click of camera phones when her dress betrayed her at the birthday party.

She didn’t cry.

She never cried.

But her jaw was tight. Her fingers, clenched.

She dropped her phone on the kitchen counter, eyes blank. Then, suddenly, as if remembering something, she picked it up again and dialed.

“Harsh?”

His voice came groggy. “What the hell, Meow? It’s past nine—”

“Meet me there in thirty. Don’t make me wait.”

The line went dead.

No explanations. No jokes.

Only adrenaline.

She strode to the wardrobe, yanked open the hidden side compartment, and there it was—the black leather suit. Zipped, gleaming, and untouchable. Like armor.

Within minutes, she was out the door.

She wasn’t supposed to race today. But after the humiliating birthday, the coffee spill, the wardrobe malfunction, the taunts—something inside Chaavi had snapped.

9:45 PM – Shared Basement Parking

In the dim underground lot, her footsteps echoed like a countdown. She stopped in front of the farthest bay, covered in tarps and dust. One sharp yank—and a sleek, matte-black Ducati stood revealed.

Not hers.

But the only thing that ever listened to her.

She strapped on the helmet. No face. No name. No past.

Just Viper.

10:20 PM – Underground Racing Circuit, Mumbai Outskirts

Harsh, her oldest friend, had seen her at her worst—ice cream crying, helmet tantrums, Excel-induced panic attacks. But tonight? He saw something else.

“You okay?” he asked as she pulled on her gloves.

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

The roar of engines. The smoke of fuel. The hunger of watchers pressed against rusted fencing.

Everyone turned when the bike rolled in.

Viper.

The silent legend. No one had seen her face. No one had dared beat her yet.

Someone revved beside her.

A tall man in red gloves stepped forward, cocky smirk beneath his tinted visor. “Heard the queen’s back. How about we un-crown her?”

“You sure you wanna do this, sweetheart?” he smirked.

She tilted her helmet slightly. “Sweetheart might just leave you in the dust.”

She straddled the bike, fingers flexing once. Challenge accepted.

Engines growled.

Lights dropped.

And in a blur of neon and smoke, they were off.

The city blurred. The track twisted. But she didn’t. Every turn she took was deliberate, calculated. Like her heart had synced with the machine.

And when she cut the final corner, trailing fire behind her, there was no question—

She won. Again.

She removed the helmet only when the crowd couldn’t see, back near the trailers. Harsh passed her a water bottle, still speechless.

“You ever gonna tell anyone?” he asked softly.

She wiped her face. “What’s the point? No one ever listens to Chhavi Mehra.”

“But they remember Viper.”

She looked away, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “Exactly.”

NEXT MORNING – 8:58 AM, Kapoor & Co.

The elevator doors slid open.

And silence fell in the lobby.

Four-inch heels clicked on marble, sharp and steady like war drums. She walked in dressed in all black—tailored power suit, sleek ponytail, blood-red lips. Not a wrinkle in sight. Not a pause in her step.

But it wasn’t just the look.

It was the energy.

People turned. Whispered.

Same girl. Different aura.

Deadlier.

She didn’t even glance at the reception. Her ID card dangled off her pocket as she strode straight toward the elevators like the whole damn company owed her answers.

Inside, the office buzz stopped like someone had pulled the plug.

Ruhaan looked up.

And for a second—just a second—his mind blanked.

Because this wasn't his annoying intern.

This was a woman who owned every eye in the room.

Unbothered. Undistracted. Untouchable.

She passed by his glass cabin.

Didn’t even spare him a glance.

And just like that—Kapoor & Co. had a new storm brewing.

And it wore heels......

By now, the office had entered Phase 2: The Gossip Spiral.

“Is that really Chhavi?”

“She’s got lip tint on!”

“Did she… steam her clothes? Since when?”

Meanwhile, Chhavi sat at her desk, focused. Clicking through emails. Cross-checking data.

And then she spilled coffee.

On herself.

In slow motion.

White blazer. Brown splash. Direct hit.

She froze.

Everyone else froze.

And then she calmly stood, wiped it off, and said, “On the bright side, now I match the aesthetic of my boss: emotionally bitter with hints of espresso.”

People blinked.

Then giggled.

She was still her.

Just... shinier.

“They told me to dress for the job I want. So I wore confidence, sarcasm, and a hint of chaos.” – Chaavi Mehra

Ruhan’s POV – 10:30 AM

He couldn’t focus.

Not on emails. Not on spreadsheets.

Not when she was sitting outside his cabin, organizing things like she’d been born with a planner in one hand and a highlighter in the other.

Yesterday, she was chaos in sneakers.

Today, she looked like an editorial intern from Vogue Business.

But what really got him?

She was trying.

Not just pretending. Actually trying.

To show up. To shut them up. To change.

Why?

And why did he care?

---

Chhavi’s POV – 11:15 AM

She wasn’t doing this for anyone.

Not for Ruhan.

Not for the gossiping interns.

Not even for her own self-respect.

She was doing it to remind herself she could.

Because if a birthday disaster, a wardrobe malfunction, and an espresso assassination couldn’t kill her spirit—she figured, might as well weaponize it.

But she was still her.

Still spreading unsolicited inspiration to the receptionist.

Still stealing mints from accounting.

Still leaving inspirational sticky notes on office doors like:

“Keep your chin up. Or double chin. Either way, own it.”

“If coffee can survive being ground and boiled, so can you.”

“Monday is a concept. Be a rebel.”

She was Chhavi Mehra.

Just a little more… dangerous in heels.

12:00 PM – Le Meridien, South Mumbai | High Stakes Meeting

Crystal chandeliers. Suits sharper than knives. Espresso in porcelain cups too tiny to satisfy any real caffeine need.

And then—heels clicked in. Heads turned.

But not for the usual reason.

Because the woman walking in wasn’t just stylish—she was stormy. Pin-straight hair pulled into a sleek bun, black pencil skirt hugging her curves, maroon blazer hugging her confidence. Minimal makeup. Maximal attitude.

Chaavi Mehra had arrived.

A new woman on the surface.

But the moment she tripped slightly on the plush carpet and caught herself with a whisper of “bloody luxury trap,” Ruhan didn’t even flinch. Because he knew. Deep down, she was still there.

His walking-talking headache. Wrapped in heels.

“Glad you could join us,” he murmured without looking at her.

She smiled sweetly. “Glad you didn’t fire me yet.”

Author’s POV

The meeting was with a French luxury brand looking to enter the Indian market. Half the boardroom looked like a page from GQ. The other half looked terrified of accidentally using the wrong spoon.

And then there was Chaavi—taking notes with a glitter pen.

“Can we also suggest a collab with desi influencers?” she asked, mid-discussion. “Like, imagine high-end meets high-on-spice. Your perfume bottle with a little ‘mirchi’ charm attached—BOOM. Viral.”

One of the French execs blinked. “Euh… mirchi?”

“She means chili,” Ruhan translated dryly.

“Oh,” the man nodded. “Interesting.”

Ruhan side-eyed her. “You’re aware this is a billion-rupee pitch, not a Dilli Haat flea market?”

“And you’re aware viral marketing doesn’t come with a tie and an accent, right?”

Touché.

The French guy smiled. “Actually… I like it. Very bold. Very local.”

Chaavi winked. “Bold is my accidental middle name.”

Later – Rooftop Café Meeting Spot

Ruhan had agreed (reluctantly) to a post-meeting debrief over coffee. It was partly networking, partly damage control, and mostly because he was afraid she’d pitch “perfumed gol gappe” next.

“I’m impressed,” he admitted, sipping espresso. “You managed not to embarrass us.”

She beamed. “That’s the nicest insult you’ve ever given me.”

He looked at her—really looked. “What happened, Mehra?”

“To what?”

“This.” He gestured. “The hair. The outfit. The lipstick that looks like it came with a ‘don’t mess with me’ label.”

She smiled faintly. “Let’s just say… I remembered who I am. And also, that Harsh threatened to break my scooter if I didn’t dress like a human adult.”

Ruhan chuckled under his breath. She heard it. And froze.

Did he just… laugh?

Nah. Must’ve been a hiccup.

8:30 PM – Chaavi’s Apartment

“Harshhhhhh!” she yelled on the phone. “He laughed. I swear he did.”

Her best friend’s voice crackled through the speaker. “I don’t believe it. Was it, like, an evil laugh or a ‘maybe-I-have-a-heart’ laugh?”

“Half-half. Like a budget villain having a soft moment.”

Harsh cackled. “He’s catching feelings.”

“Shut up. I’m catching deadlines.”

---

Meanwhile – Ruhan’s Penthouse

Ruhan stared at the campaign proposal she’d edited. Somehow, her goofy suggestions had actual strategy. He flipped a page, frowned, and muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Zoya, his housekeeper, peeked in. “Sir, everything okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. Just trying to figure out if my assistant is brilliant… or accidentally brilliant.”

She smiled. “Can’t she be both?”

He didn’t reply. But the idea lingered.

Next Morning – Kapoor & Co. HQ

The office was buzzing. Word had spread that “The Intern-Turned-Tornado” had slayed in the meeting.

“Is it true she shut down Mr. Malhotra’s ego with a pun?”

“Did she really compare French couture to samosas?”

“She’s a legend.”

And Chaavi? Walked in like none of it mattered.

Still stylish. Still unbothered.

Still spilled her coffee three feet from her desk.

But she just grinned, wiped it with tissue, and said, “At least it’s not on the CEO’s laptop this time.”

From inside his cabin, Ruhan looked up.

And smiled.

Just a little.

---