Chapter 1: Collision

The day began the way most of Aaravi Mishra’s days did — with ink on her fingers and verses in her throat.

The sky outside the old bookstore had turned the soft orange of late afternoon, casting long golden streaks across the dusty glass windows. A ceiling fan spun lazily above her, barely pushing the warm Jaipur air. The scent of sandalwood incense mixed with the worn paper and leather bindings of old books. This place, her mother’s bookstore, was her haven — a corner of the world where nothing loud could touch her. No chaos. No unpredictability. Just pages, silence, and the quiet rhythm of poetry whispered aloud while she rearranged shelves.

She stood barefoot on a wooden stool, trying to reach an old edition of Gitanjali. Her dupatta had slipped down her shoulder, and a few curls escaped her braid. The fan hummed above her head, drowning out the world outside.

And then, the door creaked open.

She didn’t hear the bell chime — not right away. She only turned when the voice came, smooth and quiet, but holding something heavy. Something dangerous.

“You don’t belong here.”

She froze, hand halfway to the book, body still facing the shelf.

It wasn’t the words that unsettled her. It was the tone — like someone speaking a truth too precise to be accidental. Like someone who had seen her and somehow… known.

Aaravi slowly stepped down, heart thudding. When she turned, the man standing at the threshold didn’t belong to her world — not even a little.

He looked like violence made beautiful. Towering and composed, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit despite the heat. No tie. The top buttons of his shirt open just enough to show a sliver of a gold chain. Sunglasses in one hand, watch on the other wrist catching the sunlight. His skin was olive-toned, his jaw sharp, and the dark stubble lining it only made his lips look crueler. But his eyes — green, impossibly cold — were the kind that didn’t blink. Didn’t soften.

And they were staring directly at her.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, voice tighter than she liked.

The corners of his mouth tilted up, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “I meant this place,” he said, stepping inside without invitation. “This bookstore. This city. You look like you belong somewhere else.”

Aaravi crossed her arms, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “And you look like you’re lost.”

That got a real smile. Still not kind. But amused. “Fair enough.”

She watched him as he slowly moved through the store, his eyes barely flicking over the books. He didn’t seem interested in reading. But he studied everything else — the furniture, the corners, the windows. Like a man who scanned rooms for exits before he sat down.

“I’m looking for something,” he said.

“What kind of book?”

He glanced at her. “Something rare. Like you.”

Aaravi took a half step back. That wasn’t flirtation. That was… something else. A test? A warning?

She moved behind the counter, putting space between them. “This is a family store. We don’t carry collector editions. Maybe try one of the big chains near the hotel district.”

“I didn’t come here for a book.”

The air thickened.

He took another step toward her — slowly, deliberately. Not threatening, not quite. But every inch of him screamed control. The way he moved, like he could strike or seduce in the same breath.

“My name is Matteo Leone,” he said, and it was a name that didn’t belong in Jaipur.

Leone.

Aaravi had heard it before. On a news snippet her father had quickly changed. On a whispered business conversation between foreign men staying at a heritage hotel nearby. It was the kind of name you didn’t say twice unless you were sure no one was listening.

She kept her voice neutral. “And what brings Mr. Leone to my quiet little corner of the city?”

He stepped close enough for her to see the scar that curved faintly along his jawline. “Business.”

“You don’t look like a book distributor.”

He tilted his head, amused again. “And you don’t look like a woman who pretends not to know who I am.”

Aaravi’s heart stilled.

He knew she’d recognized him. And he didn’t care.

Instead, he glanced around, then walked straight to the poetry shelf. He picked up a worn copy of Rumi and flipped it open, though his eyes didn’t move across the page. “Do you believe in fate, Aaravi Mishra?”

She didn’t remember telling him her full name.

She swallowed. “Not particularly.”

“I do,” he said softly. “I believe in moments like this.”

“And what moment is this?”

He looked up. “The kind where two people from separate worlds meet. And nothing after that stays the same.”

Her breath caught.

She knew she should ask him to leave. Knew she should call her father. Knew — with some primal part of herself — that this man didn’t enter rooms without purpose. And yet, she stood there, rooted like the very poems on her shelves.

“Do you always talk like this?” she asked, trying to steady herself.

“Only when I find something rare.”

Her throat tightened.

Matteo placed the book down gently. “You have the eyes of someone who dreams in silence,” he said. “And the mouth of someone who doesn’t know how much power it holds.”

Aaravi blinked. “Why are you here, really?”

His gaze darkened, flicking to the door behind her. “To see if the rumors were true.”

“What rumors?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned, walking toward the door with the same unhurried, dangerous grace.

Before he exited, he glanced back. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Save me a poem.”

The bell above the door rang as he left, and she stood in stunned silence, one hand gripping the counter.

She wasn’t sure if she felt breathless… or hunted.

—

He returned the next day. And the day after that.

Each time dressed in effortless black, his eyes unreadable, his presence like storm clouds that refused to rain.

He never touched her. Never crossed the invisible line she kept drawing. But he asked her questions. Strange, intimate ones. About books, about her childhood, about what kind of love she believed in. And she, like a fool caught between curiosity and caution, answered them.

She started saving him poems.

He started bringing her flowers he never admitted he bought.

And each night after he left, Aaravi sat on her rooftop and tried to convince herself she wasn’t falling into something with no bottom.

Because men like Matteo Leone didn’t fall in love.

They claimed. They consumed. They destroyed.

And she… she was already bleeding a little under the skin.

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