December 15th, 2029. Mumbai.
Before the city moved, she was already awake.
Aanya Rathore didn't wake to alarms. She never needed one. Her eyes opened at 4:45 AM sharp. No hesitation. No indulgence. Just motion—deliberate, practiced.
The sky outside her Malabar Hill penthouse was slate-grey, the kind of color that promised rain without confirming it. Inside, the lights were on—cool white, not warm. Not dim. Just right. Efficient.
She walked to the shower. Cold. Five minutes. No music.
By 5:15, she was dressed.
White blouse. Grey trousers. Diamond studs so small they were almost invisible. Hair pinned back, not for style, but for purpose. Precision was her aesthetic.
Her coffee was already waiting—black, no sugar. Her housekeeper placed it silently on the counter and stepped back like a shadow disappearing behind curtains. No greetings. No conversation. The rule was simple:
Don't speak unless spoken to.
Aanya sipped once. Checked the time. 5:30.
At 6:00, her driver stood beside the black Mercedes downstairs, holding the rear door open, as he did every day.
But today, she stopped.
"Not today," she said.
His brows twitched. Just slightly.
"Ma'am—"
She was already in the front seat, closing the door herself.
He didn't argue.
The roads were quiet. For now.
Mumbai always started like this—slow, almost shy. But by eight, it would boil.
Aanya didn't care. She wanted the noise. She wanted the distraction. Today, for reasons she hadn't yet acknowledged, she needed to feel something off-script.
Rathore LuxTech's tower sliced through the clouds like a silent threat. 59 floors of glass and metal and money. Her office faced west, but she never looked out.
Views were for people with regrets.
By 7:59, she sat at the head of the boardroom table. Alone.
At 8:01, the directors started arriving.
At 8:05, she began.
"Let's start."
No greetings. No eye contact. Just numbers.
The quarterly performance review was brutal. She cut three project heads in under ten minutes. No anger. No coldness. Just… detachment.
One man objected. Rahul Mehra. Older. Too confident.
"No woman without emotion can lead forever," he said, like he was offering her a glass of advice.
She didn't blink.
"You just proved why emotion fails."
Silence followed. Heavy. Final.
By noon, his resignation hit her inbox.
She drove herself out of the garage.
Rain tapped lightly on the windshield. Not enough to distract. Just enough to suggest.
Her hands stayed steady on the wheel.
No music. No radio.
Only her thoughts. Which were louder than traffic.
She passed a child playing in the rain near Grant Road. Laughing. Barefoot. Spinning.
She hated that it got to her.
She hated even more that she noticed.
Her phone buzzed—an urgent mail from legal.
She reached for it.
Just one glance.
THUMP.
The world shifted.
The car jerked. Her breath caught. Tires screeched against slick asphalt.
She slammed the brakes.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Through the rain-smeared windshield, she saw him.
Sprawled. Unmoving. A man.
His body half-curled. Blood spreading slowly from his temple. Rain making rivers across his face.
She didn't move at first. Couldn't.
Then she opened the door.
Her heels hit the ground with two hollow clicks. She stepped forward. The road was slick, the air metallic with tension.
A crowd was forming.
Phones were out.
Voices rose.
But none of it touched her.
She knelt beside him.
He was young. Late twenties. Sharp jaw. Dark hair. Long lashes. Unconscious, or maybe worse.
She didn't speak.
Then—he stirred.
Slowly. Barely.
One eye opened.
He smiled.
"Nice brakes," he whispered.
Then passed out.
Sai Veda Hospital. 1:46 AM.
The waiting room was cold.
Not in temperature. In design.
White walls. Steel chairs. Silence wrapped in antiseptic.
Aanya stood behind the glass, watching nurses wheel him into surgery. His face pale. His shirt torn. Blood soaked through a gauze patch on his forehead.
A nurse approached.
"Name of patient?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "Dev. Dev Khurana."
"Relation?"
She hesitated.
"No relation."
The nurse frowned. "Ma'am, there's no ID, no—"
"Just make sure he lives."
A pause.
The nurse nodded and walked off.
Aanya sat. Alone.
Hands in her lap. Clothes still damp. Heels together. Spine straight.
She didn't cry.
She didn't blink.
She waited.
3:00 AM.
The doctor returned.
"Minor trauma. Concussion. No internal bleeding. He'll wake up soon."
She nodded once.
Then stood.
But didn't leave.
She turned. Walked to the ICU window. Looked through.
He lay still.
Calm.
There was something in his expression—an ease that didn't match the room he was in.
She stared longer than she intended to.
Then walked away.
Home greeted her like a stranger.
Lights on. Curtains drawn. Everything in place. Sterile.
She peeled off her clothes, towel-dried her hair, changed into silk. White. Weightless.
Then walked to her drawer. Pulled out a black leather notebook.
She sat at her desk. Pen in hand.
Wrote:
"I hit a man tonight. He smiled."
Then underlined it.
Then stared.
Until the ink dried.
And then, a little longer.
7:00 AM.
Phone rang.
Once.
She picked up.
Her grandfather's voice filled the line. Deep. Distant.
"Tomorrow. 7 PM. Dinner."
Aanya didn't answer.
"You're meeting someone."
"I don't do matchmaking."
"You do what's required."
Silence.
"I don't need anyone."
A beat.
"That's what frightens me."
Click.
She set the phone down.
Looked out the window. Grey skies again. The rain hadn't left.
She whispered to herself, like it was a promise:
"One dinner. One lie. That's it."
She had no idea.
She'd already met him.
And his name was Dev.