Chapter 1 - Aarohi
It started with rain. Of course it did. Nothing dramatic in my life has ever started with sunshine.
By the time I reached the gates of St. Harlow’s School of Design, I looked like someone had squeezed the water out of me and left me there to dry. My hair dripped down the back of my white shirt. My sneakers made that embarrassing squelching sound with every step. My sketch portfolio, my precious sketch portfolio, had gotten soaked somewhere between the parking garage and the college gate.
“Brilliant,” I muttered while kicking the gate open and running through the courtyard, dodging puddles and students in fancy jackets. “Absolutely brilliant first impression, Aarohi.”
I heard a sudden burst of laughter near the steps. A group of neat, polished students holding designer folders stared at me as if I’d just emerged from a storm cloud, which, technically, I had.
Riya waved at me from under the auditorium canopy. “Here! Hurry up! You’re late!”
“I noticed!” I yelled back, pushing past a few people as my umbrella flipped inside out with a loud clap.
Today was the National Creative Strategy Championship, a big deal, especially for final-year students like me. It wasn’t just a competition; it was a career launchpad. The winning team usually landed internships with one of India’s top creative firms.
And today’s mentor? The firm’s youngest ever creative head, Reyansh Kapoor, who was known as the “brand magician.”
I’d heard the whispers all week:
> “He’s twenty-five and already at VibeWorks.”
> “He’s a marketing genius.”
> “He’s hot, but arrogant.”
> “He doesn’t believe in teamwork.”
Great. Just my type of nightmare.
Riya leaned close as I caught my breath beside her. “Okay, don’t freak out, but he’s already here. The event started ten minutes ago.”
“Ten minutes?” I groaned. “Perfect. Maybe he won’t notice the drenched idiot sneaking in late.”
Spoiler: he did notice.
The auditorium was packed, and the lights were dim enough that I tripped over someone’s bag while looking for an empty seat. Everyone’s attention was on the man standing on stage—tall, sharp-featured, with an expression that said he didn’t have time for nonsense.
Even from a distance, he radiated control. He didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. He just existed, and people adjusted their volume for him.
I sat down, trying to catch up on what I’d missed, but the moment he spoke, his low, steady voice made the whole room quiet.
> “The first rule of creative strategy,” he said, walking slowly across the stage, “is understanding that ideas mean nothing if they don’t work in the real world.”
He paused and scanned the crowd, as if he was looking for someone specific.
> “Talent is good. Consistency is better. Discipline is what wins.”
I frowned. That was predictable. Too safe. Too corporate.
He continued, “Chaos is romantic. But chaos doesn’t sell.”
That did it.
Before I could stop myself, my hand shot up. Riya whispered, horrified, “Aarohi, no—”
But it was too late. His gaze snapped to mine. Sharp, curious, amused.
“Yes?”
I swallowed, feeling every pair of eyes on me. “Sorry, I just… disagree.”
“Disagree?” he repeated, as if it were a foreign word.
“Chaos does sell,” I said. “Emotion sells. You can’t box creativity into discipline. Art isn’t meant to behave.”
He smiled faintly—a dangerous kind of smile, like he’d just found something entertaining. “Interesting perspective,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Aarohi Sharma.”
He nodded once. “Alright, Ms. Sharma. Let’s see if your emotion can outlast someone’s discipline in this competition.”
A few people laughed softly. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.
He returned to his talk like nothing had happened, but I felt his gaze flicker toward me more than once—brief, assessing, like he was taking notes.
When the event finally ended, I bolted out of the hall. Riya caught up with me near the cafeteria.
“Are you insane?” she asked, half laughing, half panicking. “You literally challenged Reyansh Kapoor in front of everyone!”
“I just spoke my mind.”
“Yeah, but he’s the judge!”
I froze mid-step. “He’s what?”
“The main mentor-judge for the entire competition,” she said, eyes wide. “You basically declared war on him.”
Of course I did. Apparently, I excel at self-sabotage.
I sighed and rubbed my temples. “Great. First I drown, now I die. What a productive morning.”
---
That evening
By the time I got home, my head was still buzzing. The image of him—calm, confident, infuriating—wouldn’t leave.
It wasn’t attraction. God, no. It was irritation dressed as curiosity.
Still, when I opened Instagram later, the first story I saw was a blurry photo someone took during the talk. Caption:
> “The storm that argued with Reyansh Kapoor 😂🔥 #Legend”
And the storm was me.
Fantastic.
---
The next morning, I walked into class, pretending the internet hadn’t turned me into a meme overnight. Professor Nair walked in with a list in his hand.
“Teams for the championship are finalized,” he announced. “Each will be guided by one mentor.”
I waited, holding my breath.
“Team A—guided by Mr. Reyansh Kapoor.”
Okay, fine. Not my team. All good.
He continued reading, “Team B—Aarohi Sharma, Riya Desai, Aniket Patel…”
I exhaled. Relief.
“…and your mentor will also be Mr. Reyansh Kapoor.”
Silence. Then Riya’s quiet, horrified whisper: “Oh my God, he requested you.”
My stomach dropped. “He what?”
Nair nodded, oblivious to my inner breakdown. “Yes, Mr. Kapoor specifically asked to mentor Team B as well. Said he wanted more challenge.”
Of course he did.
I could practically hear his smug voice in my head—‘Let’s see if your emotions can beat my direction.’
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the rain outside. Fine. If it was war he wanted, it was war he’d get.
But somewhere, deep down—behind the irritation and the eye-rolls—I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the start of something I wasn’t entirely ready for.
