The storm had passed, but its memory lingered in the wet streets and heavy clouds that still clung to the sky. Zoya walked briskly down the footpath, her heart beating faster than her steps. The cold wind cut through her soaked clothes, but she hardly noticed. All she could think of was the way that man — Ayaan Malhotra — had looked at her.
Not with anger. Not with arrogance. But with something she couldn't name, something that left her unsettled.
In his luxury car parked at the corner, Ayaan watched her retreating figure through the rain-streaked glass. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Why did her words cut deeper than any business rival's insult ever could?Why did her eyes — those defiant, fire-filled eyes — haunt him?
He shook his head, as if trying to throw off the feeling. He was Ayaan Malhotra. He didn't chase after anyone. People came to him. Women fell over themselves for his attention. So why was he still sitting there, watching a girl who clearly wanted nothing to do with him?
The next day, the city moved on, as if the storm had never happened. But Ayaan couldn't. He found himself restless, distracted during meetings. The proposals and contracts that usually excited him felt like meaningless paper.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he called his assistant.
"Find out who she is," he ordered.
"Who, sir?"
"The girl from yesterday." His voice was low but firm.
His assistant hesitated. "You mean... the one with the boy and the bicycle?"
"Yes."
Meanwhile, Zoya tried to push the incident out of her mind. She focused on her classes, on helping her mother at home, on guiding Armaan with his homework. But no matter how hard she tried, the memory of that encounter crept back — the rain, the heat of anger in her chest, and the strange softness she had seen flicker in Ayaan's eyes.
She scolded herself.What does it matter? He's no one. Just a spoiled rich man who'll forget you by tomorrow.
But Ayaan didn't forget.
Two days later, he was standing outside the small community school where Zoya taught. His driver had tried to talk him out of it, but Ayaan ignored him. He leaned against his car, watching the children spill out as the day ended, his eyes searching for the girl who had stormed into his life.
And then, there she was.
Her dupatta fluttered in the breeze, her hair loose, her face tired but still holding that quiet strength.
Zoya felt his gaze before she saw him. When she did, she froze for just a heartbeat, then quickly looked away, hoping he would leave if she ignored him.
But Ayaan wasn't the kind of man who gave up that easily.
He stepped forward, blocking her path.
"We need to talk."
Zoya crossed her arms. "No, we don't."
"Zoya, I—"
"Don't say my name like that."
Her voice was soft but firm, and it surprised them both how much weight it carried.
"Why are you here?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Ayaan hesitated. For once, he didn't have a smooth line ready, no practiced charm.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I just... couldn't stop thinking about you."
Zoya stared at him, stunned. She had expected arrogance, maybe mockery. But this raw honesty? She didn't know how to handle it.
"Look, I don't know what game this is, but I'm not interested," she said, trying to move past him.
But he caught her wrist — gently, not to hurt, but enough to stop her.
"No game," he said, his eyes searching hers. "I don't play games. Not with this."
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The busy street faded, the noise dulled. There was only the heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze, and the storm that raged between their hearts.
Then Zoya pulled her hand free.
"Don't come here again," she said, her voice trembling. Whether from anger or something else, she wasn't sure.
And she walked away, leaving Ayaan standing alone, watching her disappear into the crowd — more determined than ever to break down the walls she had built around her heart.