The Manger and The Star

Rohan Mehra sat on the rooftop terrace of his family home in Amritsar, hoodie pulled low, the fading winter sun casting soft light across the city’s tangled rooftops. The chill of late winter hung in the air, tinged with the scent of smoke and cardamom from nearby kitchens.

A steaming cup of chai sat near him, slowly going cold.

He didn’t reach for it.

The door creaked open behind him. Footsteps padded forward across the old tiles. Then a sigh.

“He’s gone.”

Rohan didn’t turn around.

“He quit?”

“Yep,” Ishaan replied, dropping into the chair beside him. “Said he can’t handle the load. Too many sponsor calls. You ignoring half of them. Media pressure. The usual.”

Rohan scoffed, flipping his phone over on the table with one finger.

“He quit 'cause I said no to doing a betting app ad I didn’t believe in,” he muttered. “That’s not pressure, man—that’s just having a line I won’t cross.”

Ishaan, his longtime media contact and oldest friend in the business, leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I told you this would happen. You're too chill with your time, too picky with your brand, and allergic to anything remotely fake. Which is great for your soul... not so great for someone trying to schedule your life.”

Rohan just raised an eyebrow. “You have a solution or are you just here to whine?”

Ishaan smirked. “Actually, yeah. One name.”

“Shoot.”

“Hemanya Reddy.”

Rohan frowned slightly, finally turning toward him now. “That PR girl who cleaned up the Avantika mess?”

“The very one. South Indian. Cold as ice, sharp as a blade. Moved into athlete management last year and somehow got one of her tennis clients into a global campaign with Puma. On her own terms.”

Rohan let out a low whistle, impressed despite himself. “And she’s willing to work with cricketers?”

“Depends. She doesn’t do drama, and she doesn’t tolerate BS. But she gets the game. Quiet. Precise. No leaks. No babysitting.”

Rohan leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming thoughtfully on his mug.

“She’ll hate me.”

“Probably,” Ishaan said with a grin. “But she might be the only one who can actually manage you without losing her mind.”

Rohan exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Send me her number. I’ll talk to her.”

---

Two Days Later – Banjara Hills, Hyderabad

The café was chic but quiet, tucked between designer boutiques and organic bakeries. Sunlight spilled through full-length windows, warming the wood-paneled floor. A soft indie playlist played overhead—just enough to fill the silence.

Hemanya Reddy walked in like she had a purpose, not time to waste.

White linen kurta, hair tied back in a neat ponytail, minimal makeup, Apple Watch. Precision in every step. She scanned the room once, spotted him, and walked over.

Rohan stood as she approached, offering a polite smile. “Ms. Reddy.”

“Mr. Mehra.”

They shook hands—firm, professional, and about as warm as a board meeting in January. She sat, flipping open a slim leather folio.

“So,” she said, not bothering with pleasantries. “Why me?”

Rohan leaned back, studying her with faint curiosity.

“Because I’m tired of people nodding at everything I say, then disappearing when the real work begins.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And you think I won’t disappear?”

“No,” he said, a small smile forming, “I think you’d walk out in the middle of a press conference if I messed up.”

Hemanya gave a short laugh, dry, unexpected. “Correct. I would.”

“That’s exactly why I need someone like you,” he said, more serious now. “Someone who isn’t afraid to push back. Someone who’ll tell brands no if I don’t believe in the campaign, keep the fans in check, and call me out if I’m being an idiot.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think managing you is worth all that trouble?”

Rohan met her gaze steadily. “Because I’m better than what the stats say. I just need someone who knows how to show the world the real me.”

Her expression shifted, just a flicker—curiosity, maybe.

“Confidence or arrogance?”

“I like to think of it as potential,” he replied with a slight grin.

She watched him for a long moment, then slowly closed her folio.

“Alright. One-month trial,” she said crisply. “I get full control over media, branding, and schedule. You don’t ghost me. You don’t override me. You don’t vanish for three days with no explanation.”

“Done.”

“And yeah,” she added, standing up, “I’m not here to fix PR messes you stir up for fun.”

“I don’t stir up messes. I just don’t bother cleaning them up.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “And just so we’re clear,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag, “I don’t date clients. Ever.”

Rohan raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t planning to ask. Yet.”

She gave him a flat look.

He held up his hands, mock surrendered. “Kidding. You terrify me.”

“Good,” she said, turning to leave.

And with that, Hemanya Reddy walked out of the café, already drafting the first version of his revised media schedule in her head.

She had no idea that this client, and his complicated relationship with his best friend, would pull her into something far more personal than she ever signed up for.

Continue..........