Chapter 1

Abhishree’s POV

India didn’t greet you gently.

It wrapped around you like silk in the heat, heavy with spice and perfume, voices and footsteps blending into a constant, restless hum.

Five years in Russia had trained me to walk through snowstorms without flinching, to let icy winds sharpen my resolve. But this—this was different. This was home, and home didn’t whisper; it roared.

The chauffeur met me at the terminal, my name printed neatly on a placard. My luggage disappeared into the trunk with practiced efficiency. I slipped into the cool leather backseat, watching the city blur past—neon signs, markets spilling into the streets, the familiar chaos I’d once thought I’d escaped.

We didn’t go home. We went straight to the Oberoi Grand, its chandeliers blazing in the night like a crown for the city’s elite. The Rathores didn’t miss parties like this—not when politics and business were politely dressed in champagne flutes and designer gowns.

Inside, the air was heavy with perfume and ambition. Laughter rose and fell in waves, masking the low, guarded tones of conversations that mattered. My father stood near the center, his suit flawless, my uncle at his side with that easy smile that could disarm anyone. My younger sister Aaradhya was with them, radiant in emerald silk, already in the middle of a conversation with a doctor I vaguely recognized.

I made my way over, exchanging polite greetings, answering questions about Russia that no one really cared to hear the answers to. My father’s arm settled briefly around my shoulders before he turned to introduce me to a man standing just beside him.

“Abhishree, this is Ekansh Rajvanshi—my business partner.”

I had heard the name before. You couldn’t avoid it if you lived in our world. Rajvanshi meant money, power, and influence that seeped into every corner of the city.

He was taller than I expected, dressed in a black three-piece suit that fit too perfectly to be anything off-the-rack. His hair was neatly combed back, his gaze sharp but unreadable. There was nothing warm in it, nothing inviting—just calculation and composure.

I shook his hand. Firm grip, cool skin. Professional.

“A pleasure, Mr. Rajvanshi,” I said, my tone steady.

He inclined his head, a polite acknowledgment, and that was it. No lingering stares, no unnecessary pleasantries. My father was already turning back to another guest, and so was I.

The night stretched ahead—music, conversation, the quiet machinery of alliances turning in the background. I didn’t come here to make friends, and certainly not to read too much into introductions.

Ekansh Rajvanshi was just another piece on the board.

And I had no intention of playing his game.

Zara Oberoi slid in next to me like she owned the place, eyes sparkling with mischief. One look between us and we both knew we were thinking the same thing—this party was painfully boring.

“Welcome back, drama queen,” she whispered. “Promise me you won’t flip a table tonight.”

I grinned. “No table-flipping. But I might throw a chair.”

She choked back a laugh. “Make sure it’s not at the dessert table. Priorities, babe.”

I sipped my drink. “If the food’s bad, I’m setting the chef on fire.”

Zara nodded seriously. “That’s the Abhishree I missed.”

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