Rain caressed the skin of Mumbai like a lover's whisper, tracing neon reflections down the glass of the Kapoor estate. From her penthouse throne, Aaravi Kapoor watched the city writhe below—its chaos predictable, unlike the storm now brewing in her world.
She stood barefoot on the marble floor, draped in a black silk robe that barely held to her curves, the amber liquid in her whisky glass catching the city lights like fire. The scent of sandalwood clung to her skin. Her lips, bare and parted, curled slightly as she stared down at the dark streets.
To the world, she was the Ice Queen of Indian cricket. Billionaire. Powerbroker. Puppet master.
But alone, behind tinted glass walls, something else pulsed beneath her calculated calm—a flicker of ache, old and unfinished.
Across the table lay a folder. Not business. Not legal. Personal—the only kind of danger Aaravi still respected.
She opened it slowly, her fingers running over the edge of a photo. A face stared back. Sharp jaw. Wild eyes. A ghost.
Veer Kapoor.
Her brother. Her twin in spirit. Dead for seven years—until now.
The whispers were back. A name surfacing in the underworld. A new betting syndicate rigging scores, altering outcomes, breaking the code of the game she ruled. All signs pointed to a leader who knew too much. Moved like Veer. Thought like Veer.
Was it really him?
The intercom buzzed, slicing the tension. Aaravi didn't flinch.
"Ma'am," her assistant's voice crackled. "The analyst is here."
She didn't turn. Just sipped her whisky and smiled faintly. "Send him in."
Vivaan entered like a misplaced file—precise, nervous, and trying too hard to appear invisible. His navy shirt was buttoned wrong at the collar. Glasses fogged slightly. He clutched his data pad as if it might save him from the firestorm ahead.
Aaravi didn't speak. She let silence press on him like a vice.
"I—uh—ran the pattern recognition on the Chennai league anomalies," he said. His voice cracked slightly. "Betting odds, player rotations, substitution timings—they don't match any legal algorithm."
She moved a step closer.
Vivaan blinked. Swallowed. Fidgeted.
"There's more," he added. "The patterns—some of them match a London-based shadow firm shut down years ago. Their strategist was code-named VK7. That firm once... had connections to your brother."
He hesitated.
"I thought Veer Kapoor was dead."
Her gaze darkened, unreadable. "So did I."
Silence.
Aaravi circled him now, the hem of her robe brushing against the marble like silk over ice. The scent of jasmine and aged whisky surrounded him.
"Do you know," she said softly, "what excites me more than a man's body?"
Vivaan blinked. "Wha—no, ma'am."
"A man who sees the whole field. Who looks beyond numbers and into shadows. Who finds the truth even when it's buried in blood."
She leaned in, her breath brushing his ear.
"Do you see truth, Vivaan?"
His hands trembled slightly. His rational mind screamed for space. But his body… didn't listen.
Aaravi moved away just enough for him to breathe again. Her robe fell open at the thigh—deliberately, carelessly. A glimpse. A trap.
"I want everything on this Syndicate," she said, voice suddenly cool. "Names, locations, leverage. You'll dig. And you'll report only to me."
Vivaan tried to nod. Couldn't. "Y-yes. I can handle it."
Her eyes met his like a challenge. "Good. Because this isn't cricket anymore."
As she turned, Vivaan's eyes lingered—on the woman, on the power, on the fire she concealed beneath her stillness.
He hadn't touched her. But something inside him already belonged to her.
And this was only the first over.