CHAPTER:1

I didn’t come to the art auction for the paintings. I came to claim .The Taj Mahal Palace was dressed in gold tonight—chandeliers shimmering like flirtatious eyes, servers floating past in black tuxedos holding trays of champagne I had no intention of sipping. Art collectors hovered like moths around canvases worth more than most people's lives.

But all I wanted was the butterfly.

Not the painting.

There was a girl ,She stood at the far end of the gallery, alone, in a wine-colored satin dress that hugged her like it had secrets. She wasn’t the type to wear jewelry—too obvious. Her wrist held a vintage gold watch, and her neck was bare. Vulnerable. Daring.

She was studying the Lalithya Monarch, the butterfly oil painting that had stirred an uproar in the art world for its sensual overtones. The wings looked like torn silk, the body delicate but powerful.

Much like her.

“Who is she?” I asked the auction manager, who practically tripped over his tongue.

“Oh she ? ” he muttered. “Private collector. Built her own art fund. Ruthless at auctions. Doesn’t lose , I don't know her name exactly but i have heard that she is not someone to be dealing with"

I grinned,then I walked.

She didn’t look at me as I stopped beside her. Didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Only said, “If you’re here for the painting, you’re already too late.”

Her voice—calm, cool, like she owned room and the silence inside it.

“And if I’m here for something else?” I asked, letting my eyes linger on the curve of her mouth.

She turned her head slowly. Hazel eyes. Full

lips painted a deep, dangerous red.

“You’ll still leave empty-handed,” she said.

Fuck. She was exactly the kind of trouble I didn’t know I needed.

“I’m Veer.”

“I didn’t ask.” She said .

I laughed, low. “I like how you assume I lose often.”

“I don’t assume,” she said, stepping closer. “I observe. You’re rich. Bored. Spoiled. You’ve probably never wanted anything enough to fight for it.”

“And you?”

She tilted her head. “I want only what I earn and that painting is mine.”

“I could buy it out from under you.”

“You could try.”

God, she was fire wrapped in silk.

The auction started. I took a seat two rows behind her, watching the way her bare back flexed slightly as she raised her paddle. She didn’t hesitate. Every move was calculated, deliberate, confident.

The price climbed. So did the heat in my chest.I kept bidding—not because I wanted the damn painting, but because I wanted to see her eyes when I stole it.

She turned once. Looked straight at me. And smiled.

Predator to predator.

When the final bid came, I raised my paddle with the calm of a man who’d just lit the match.

The gavel fell.

" Sold ".

The room buzzed, but all I could hear was her heels as she walked straight toward me.

She stopped, so close I could smell her perfume—jasmine and ambition.

“That was a mistake,” she murmured.

“I like mistakes that taste expensive.”

She smiled like she’d already planned her revenge.

Then, without warning, she reached into her clutch and handed me a card. White, clean, embossed in gold.

One Night. No Names. No Feelings. No Repeats.

Her personal contract. Sex. Just sex. No strings.

“Meet me at this hotel tomorrow night,” she said. “Bring the painting.” Then she walked away.

I stood there holding the card, heartbeat pounding in my throat. I hadn’t even touched her yet. But I already knew—She was the butterfly. And I was about to get burned.

The St. Regis suite was pure luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows glowing with the Mumbai skyline, velvet drapes drawn just enough to let the city watch if it wanted to. I arrived with the painting in one hand, a hard-on in the other.

I don’t usually get nervous before sex. I like it wild, fast, dirty. No names, no games.

But this? This was something else.

Her contract card burned in my pocket. One night. No names. No feelings. No repeats.

I was already planning to break all three.

She opened the door herself, barefoot, wrapped in a black satin robe. Her hair was up again, messy like she'd just stepped out of a dream. Her eyes flicked to the painting I held, then to the bulge beneath my slacks.

"Right on time," she said.

I stepped inside, letting the door shut behind me. "Always am. I brought what you wanted."

"Which part?" she asked, walking away without waiting for an answer.

I followed her in. She led me to the bedroom. No pretense, no champagne, no music. Just her and me and the pull of something dangerous.

She pointed to a low marble table beside the bed. "Put the painting there."

I did. Then turned.

She was undoing the sash of her robe slowly, like she knew I was watching.

I swallowed hard.

"Are we sticking to your contract rules?" I asked, voice rough.

She let the robe fall to the floor.

My mouth went dry.

She wore nothing but heels and a small gold anklet. Her body was art—sculpted, sensual, utterly confident. No hesitation. No shame.

"You can leave if you’re scared," she said, stepping toward me.

I grinned. "Scared? I haven’t even started yet."

She walked up close, until her bare chest brushed against my shirt.

"No talking during," she said.

"No problem."

Her hand reached down, unzipping my pants with a single, fluid motion. I kissed her then—hard. She didn’t moan, didn’t melt. She kissed me back with teeth and challenge.

We crashed onto the bed like two storms meeting mid-sky.

I pinned her wrists above her head, mouth tracing down her throat, over her collarbone, to the curve of her breast. She arched but didn’t beg. Her silence was louder than any scream.

She let me take control.

But never once did she surrender.

I tasted every inch of her—slowly, deeply. She gasped when my tongue circled just right, and her legs clamped around me like steel. I didn’t stop. Didn’t let her catch her breath.

By the time I slid inside her, she was drenched and breathless.

So was I.

She gripped my back, nails sinking in as I moved—slow first, then faster, deeper. Every thrust dragged a sound from her lips that she tried to swallow.

She was fire beneath me. And I was already burning.

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