December 18th, 2029 – Mumbai
There were few things in the world Aanya Rathore couldn't find.
She could uncover off-shore accounts with a phone call. Expose secret mergers before they went public. Track down defectors, blackmailers, leakers—everyone left a mark somewhere. A trail. A receipt. A ripple.
But not him.
Not Dev.
She stood in her study, bathed in the silver light of a rain-threatened morning, tablet in hand, bare feet sinking into the plush rug like anchors. Around her, silence pressed in, broken only by the occasional chime of filtered air conditioning.
On the screen: zero matches.
Three private investigators. Two deep-channel informants. A dark web query run through an old favor owed to her by a Delhi-based ethical hacker.
Still nothing.
No academic records. No digital footprint. No property. No passport. No phone registration.
Not even a damn tax record.
It was like chasing fog.
The only hit? A hospital record from Sai Veda. Logged under the name she had given the nurse herself—Dev Khurana. But even that, she now realized, had been erased.
Quietly. Discreetly.
Somewhere between midnight and morning, the hospital entry had vanished.
No trace. No invoice. No log of discharge.
Gone.
Like he'd never existed at all.
She sat down, tablet on her knees, fingers motionless.
She hadn't even realized how many strings she'd pulled until she reached the end of the chain.
Until she saw how deep she'd gone.
For what?A dinner?
A man who smiled too easily?
A voice she couldn't stop replaying?
She scowled.
She was better than this.
But the screen stayed blank.
And that blankness whispered something she didn't want to hear.
Either Dev didn't exist… or someone was keeping him hidden.
And Aanya hated both of those possibilities equally.
Colaba – 10:12 AM
Far across the city, down a quiet alley lined with shuttered art galleries and old Parsi cafes that hadn't seen real customers in years, Dev walked like a man with no destination—but every intention.
A drizzle had started. Barely mist.
He didn't wear a jacket. Didn't flinch at the wind.
He moved like someone who belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.
He paused at a nondescript metal door, scratched with age.
Knocked twice. Quick. Rhythm sharp.
A narrow slit opened.
"Name," came a gruff voice.
"Dev."
The slit shut.
Three seconds later, the door clicked open.
Inside, the contrast was jarring.
Dim lighting. Silent ventilation. Clean walls embedded with cameras. Noise-cancelled panels. Surveillance feeds flickering across multiple screens. A sterile hum buzzed in the bones of the floor.
A man in a grey jacket turned from a monitor, arms crossed.
"You were supposed to stay invisible."
Dev stepped in. Unhurried. Calm.
"I did," he said, brushing a droplet from his forehead. "Mostly."
"Mostly?"
Dev perched on the edge of the steel desk.
"She hit me with her car," he said. "You want me to play dead next time?"
The man didn't smile. "You shouldn't be near her."
"I'm not," Dev replied. "Not officially."
"You're on camera. With her. Twice."
"By accident."
"She searched you. Ran background checks."
"And found nothing. Which tells you—I did it right."
The man turned back to the screen. "She's dangerous."
"So am I."
A beat.
"You're playing with fire," the man muttered.
Dev's eyes flicked toward the screen. It showed a freeze-frame of Aanya in her car. Wind in her hair. Eyes unreadable.
Beautiful. Sharp. Untouchable.
He smiled faintly. "Maybe she is, too."
3:00 PM – Juhu Public Gardens, Mumbai
Aanya stood before a podium, smile carefully sculpted.
Behind her, a banner read: Rathore LuxTech Social Trust – Women in Education Grant Launch.
The cameras flashed. Reporters swarmed.
She posed. She shook hands. She answered soft, useless questions with clean, rehearsed lines.
"Yes, we're proud to support educational access.""Yes, equality begins with opportunity.""No, we don't comment on internal board strategy."
It was all script.
She was good at scripts.
But her mind… wasn't here.
It was spinning.
Looping over everything that didn't make sense.
Why had her grandfather set them up?
Why had Dev disappeared from every system?
Why had he appeared at her door like some misplaced chapter in her otherwise controlled life?
And beneath all that—
Why did she care?
She left early.
Let the driver take her home through longer streets, under heavy skies, her thoughts as grey as the clouds above them.
She didn't speak the entire way.
Didn't return calls.
Didn't answer texts.
The glass between her and the outside world felt thicker than usual.
But somehow, she didn't feel safe behind it.
6:30 PM – Malabar Hill Penthouse
The wind had picked up. The sea below was angry now—white-tipped, restless.
Aanya changed out of her tailored dress. Slipped into an oversized sweatshirt, soft socks. Poured herself a glass of wine she didn't plan to finish.
Then did something she hadn't done in months.
She sat on the floor.
No laptop. No meetings. No deadlines.
Just silence. And the small wooden coffee table she rarely acknowledged.
She reached for the black leather notebook—the one hidden behind accounting manuals and sealed contracts.
She flipped to a fresh page.
Picked up the pen.
And wrote:
"He doesn't exist. I made him up. And yet… he looked at me like he knew everything."
The ink pooled too long on the period.The line bled.
She didn't move. Just stared at the sentence like it was a message written by someone else.
Maybe it was.
Because this version of her—sitting on the floor, wine untouched, pen trembling slightly in her grip—felt unfamiliar.
Too human. Too soft. Too curious.
She closed the notebook.
Set it down.
Stood up.
The glass of wine barely shifted.
Then—The doorbell rang.
Aanya froze.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
No one came to her door unannounced. Her penthouse had layers of clearance, a digital concierge, a live-in security detail one floor down.
No one rang the bell.
She walked toward the door slowly.
Looked through the digital feed.
And stopped breathing.
It was him.
Dev.
Standing outside like he belonged there.
Like he'd always belonged there.
No flowers. No excuses.
Just a small wave.
And that infuriating smile.
Her hand hovered near the door handle.
But she didn't open it.
Not yet.
They stared at each other through the glass.
On his side—calm.
On hers—confused. Cautious. Maybe a little drawn.
The moment stretched.
The glass between them felt too thin.
Thinner than it should've.
As if the barrier wasn't meant to keep him out.
But to keep her in.