Chapter One: The Boy in the Shadows
Arya Mehra had a simple rule since she joined Queen's Business School: avoid any guy whose ego entered the room before his common sense.
Which, unfortunately, ruled out half the campus.
She entered the main hall wearing a black Dior blazer and an expression that could curdle milk. Her heels clicked crisply against the floor as she walked, sounding more confident than she felt. She hated this place already. Too many people. Too many teeth.
“Is that—? Oh my God, that’s Arya Mehra.”
“She owns Mehra Luxe, right? Or, like, her dad does?”
“She’s, like, so intimidating. I heard she rejected a guy before he even said ‘hi.’”
Arya ignored them all. She had mastered the art of selective deafness during her fourth family gala when a drunk uncle tried to pitch a crypto coin in her name.
She took her usual seat in the front row of her first lecture. A boy behind her let out a lazy chuckle—the kind that made you want to spin around and ask, “What’s so funny?” But Arya had been raised by a man who believed eye contact was practically a marriage proposal.
So, she didn’t turn.
She didn’t need to.
She already knew who it was.
Rivan Malhotra.
The most annoying boy in class, college… possibly her entire existence. If chaos had a fan club, he’d be the president, vice president, and founding member.
She had mastered the noble art of ignoring distractions.
And she was doing damn well at ignoring the biggest one sitting right behind her.
By late afternoon, Arya had survived her classes, three professors who loved group projects (aka social torture), and one guy who offered to “help her carry her mental load.” Whatever that meant.
She left the library with a backpack heavier than her patience.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You look like you’ve mastered the art of emotionally bench-pressing everyone around you. Impressive.
She froze mid-step.
Arya: Who is this?
Unknown Number: Someone who saw you give a group assignment the same look I give my ex.
Arya blinked. She glanced around. Students walked past with headphones in and iced coffees balanced like trophies. No one looked suspicious. Except maybe the guy in Crocs with socks. But that was a different kind of threat.
Arya: Is this supposed to be charming? Because it’s giving… unsolicited podcast host.
She scowled at her screen. Then paused.
Wait… Ice Queen?
How did he know that nickname?
It wasn’t exactly public branding—unless you counted the entire student body of Queen’s Business School who’d made it their favorite personality trait for her.
So, either he was a mind reader…
Or more likely, just another annoying boy from her college with too much time and WiFi.
Of course.
Just her luck.
A mystery texter with charm, sarcasm, and now insider gossip.
God help her, she was texting a gossiping ghost with a SIM card.
Back in her dorm room, Arya’s roommate Nia was watching a true crime documentary and applying a face mask that smelled like mangoes and pear.
“You look tense,” Nia said, barely glancing at her.
“I was emotionally violated via text.”
Nia perked up. “Ooooh. Mystery boy? Please tell me he’s hot.”
“I don’t know. It’s anonymous.”
“Even better. Maybe it’s like You, but less murder-y.”
Arya flopped on her bed and stared at her phone. The text still sat there. Bold. Intriguing. Invasive.
She didn’t delete it.
The next day, Arya had a "casual" lunch meeting her father had arranged with a business associate’s son. Casual, in this case, meant Arya had been prepped with a mini bio like she was going on a blind date curated by LinkedIn.
She met Vihan Rathore at the campus café.
He stood as she approached, flashing a toothpaste-commercial smile.
“You must be Arya. You look… very ROI-positive.”
Arya blinked. “Thanks. You look like an Excel sheet.”
He laughed. She didn’t.
They talked. Well, he talked. About startups, stocks, and “synergistic romantic alignment,” which she assumed was code for “our fathers want us to get married.”
As she excused herself to “go recalibrate her chakras,” her phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: He’s not the one. I mean, anyone who says ‘synergistic alignment’ deserves to be exiled from Tinder.
She whipped her head around.
Was he watching?
Here’s your revised version with a funnier and cohesive flow, perfectly in sync with Arya’s sass and the story’s tone:
Arya: Are you stalking me?
Unknown Number: You call it stalking. I call it… observation with benefits.
Arya: Sounds like something a squirrel would say while stealing chips.
She waited.
No reply.
Silence.
But her lips twitched—just slightly.
Caught herself.
No. Nope. Not happening. Smiling at anonymous squirrels was where she drew the line.
“I need to delete and block this number,” she muttered like a prayer as she left the building.
That night, while Nia snored softly with a half-dried face mask peeling off like tragic wallpaper, Arya lay wide awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Mystery Texter wasn’t just annoying anymore.
He was funny. And weirdly observant.
A dangerous combo.
Like someone who knew how to pick locks... and puns.
She picked up her phone.
Arya: Why me?
A minute passed.
Then two.
Finally:
Unknown Number: Because you walk like you don’t need anyone, but sit like you’re waiting for someone to prove you wrong.
Arya’s breath hitched.
Okay, now he was getting too close.
Elsewhere, on the far side of campus, in a half-lit library corner, a boy looked at his phone and smiled.
Not yet.
