The night felt… different.
Aarohi couldn't put her finger on it.
Maybe it was the stillness in the air, the way the lights flickered once before settling, or the tightness in her chest that hadn't eased since they pulled up to the grand entrance of Hotel Maharaja Palace.
It was supposed to be a celebration—some elite political anniversary or birthday, she hadn't bothered to ask. Meera had begged her to come. "Just one night, Aarohi. Wear something pretty, eat desserts, look at rich men and judge them silently. For me?"
So, she came.
Wrapped in a deep navy-blue anarkali, her long dupatta fluttering in the breeze, she stepped out of the car with caution. Everything seemed perfect on the surface—glittering chandeliers, the rhythmic fall of water from the grand fountain, valets standing like statues. But something about it all felt… off.
Too clean. Too polished.
Like a smile hiding broken teeth.
She walked up the steps, clutching her clutch a little tighter.
The hall buzzed with tense elegance. Soft sitar music floated through the air, mixing with the clinks of champagne glasses. Conversations were lively but rehearsed. People smiled, but their eyes were always scanning—measuring each other's status, clothes, watch brands.
Aarohi hated these parties.
But she'd promised Meera.
So, she wandered in, kept her head low, and did what she always did when surrounded by shallow luxury—she headed straight to the dessert table.
There they were. Her salvation. Gulab jamuns glistening in syrup. Rasmalai soaked in cream. The comfort of sugar wrapped in familiarity.
She popped a piece into her mouth, closed her eyes, and let the sweetness wash away her discomfort.
And then… it happened.
That shift.
The moment when the background music fades, when the air seems to still, and your skin tingles with something you can't see.
She didn't see him at first.
She felt him.
A storm had entered the room.
She turned, her hand still holding her spoon—and froze.
A man had just stepped into the hall.
Tall. Impossibly tall. Broad shoulders in a jet-black suit that seemed to drink in the light. He didn't wear the suit to impress. No. It looked like it had been made for him. Like it was a uniform. Like danger had chosen Armani.
His steps were slow. Purposeful.
And without a word, without looking directly at anyone, the crowd parted for him. Ministers, businessmen, socialites—they instinctively moved aside.
Who was he?
Aarohi had never seen him before. She would've remembered. His presence was undeniable. Heavy. Commanding. Like every shadow in the room had to answer to him.
And then… he looked up.
At her.
His eyes locked on hers like a sniper's scope.
Aarohi's breath caught in her throat.
She didn't blink. Couldn't.
He didn't smile.
Didn't smirk.
Didn't flirt.
He just watched her.
And then he walked.
Not toward the politicians in the center.
Not toward the powerful host.
Straight. Toward. Her.
Her hands gripped the edge of the dessert table. The rasmalai trembled in her plate.
Every instinct screamed: Move. Look away. Pretend you're busy.
But she couldn't.
He reached her in seconds.
Close.
Too close.
His scent was clean. Expensive. A trace of something dark—like rain on fire.
"You're Aarohi."
His voice was low. Not a question. A statement. Like he already knew.
She blinked, startled. "Do I… know you?"
"No," he said. "But I know you."
The calm certainty in his voice sent a chill down her spine. It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't curiosity.
It was knowledge.
And that was terrifying.
She swallowed. "How?"
He reached into his pocket and handed her a card. Black. Matte. Simple.
Just one word written in silver:
Rudra.
That was it.
No number. No title. No explanation.
And then—without another word, without a second glance—he turned and walked away.
Like she was a checkpoint. Not a person.
Ten minutes later.
A sleek black car glided out of the hotel's private driveway. Inside, silence hung thick.
Rudra sat in the backseat, staring out the tinted window. The city passed by in a blur, but his mind was fixed on one thing.
Her.
Sumit, his right-hand man, finally broke the silence. "You've never done that before."
"I know," Rudra replied.
"You don't go to parties like this unless someone's about to disappear."
"I know."
"And tonight… you just showed up. Alone. No guards. Walked up to a girl. In front of ministers."
Rudra's jaw tightened. "I said—I know."
Sumit exhaled. "Boss. She's not one of us. She's… clean."
"I noticed."
"She won't survive this world. Not yours."
"I never said she would."
Sumit turned toward him. "Then why?"
Rudra's voice dropped. "Because she looked at me… and didn't flinch."
Silence returned.
"She didn't try to impress me. Didn't look for money. She looked at me like I was human."
"And that moved you?"
"No," Rudra said coldly. "That intrigued me."
Sumit understood then.
This wasn't a love story.
It was a storm.
Back in her small but cozy room, Aarohi paced.
The card sat on her desk like it was made of lava.
Rudra.
She'd searched his name online the moment she got home.
Nothing.
No LinkedIn. No business records. No photos. No social media.
And yet—every big politician at that party had moved aside for him. Eyes lowered. Shoulders straightened.
She picked up the card again.
Her fingers shook.
Who was he?
Why did he know her name?
And why did he look at her like… like she was part of a plan she hadn't agreed to?
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Meera: "Girl, who was that Greek god you were talking to?! I thought I saw a mafia boss walk in!"
Aarohi didn't reply.
She stared out the window.
The city lights twinkled back.
And somewhere in the shadows… Rudra watched too.
She could feel it.
Something had entered her life tonight.
And it hadn't knocked.
End of Chapter 1
This is my first novel please comment and where you don't like you can tell me.