Crimson Heels & Bad Timing
The city bent for Y/N Kapoor.
At twenty-nine, she was the Chief Financial Officer of one of the most feared conglomerates in the country—cold-eyed in boardrooms, ruthless in negotiations, and dangerously intelligent. Men twice her age trembled when she slid a contract across the table with a bored expression and a single sentence:
“Sign it, or I buy your company by Friday.”
She was known as many things.
A genius.
A tyrant.
A devil in Louboutin heels.
And honestly?
Most of it was true.
Y/N didn’t believe in softness. Not in business. Not in people. Not in herself. Mercy created weakness, and weakness got people destroyed.
That philosophy had made her filthy rich.
It had also made her terrifying.
The elevator doors opened directly into the executive floor of Kapoor Global Holdings, and every employee immediately straightened when she stepped out.
Black pencil skirt. Silk ivory blouse. Diamond watch. Crimson lipstick sharp enough to kill.
And today?
A murderous expression.
Because nature had personally declared war on her.
Her lower back felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it repeatedly through the night. Her cramps were vicious, her patience nonexistent, and every sound in existence irritated her.
The clicking of keyboards.
The humming AC.
Someone breathing too loudly three cubicles away.
Y/N walked through the office like a storm cloud wrapped in Chanel.
“Good morning, ma’am,” an intern squeaked.
She stared at him.
The poor boy visibly reconsidered every life decision that had led him here.
“It was,” she replied coldly. “Then I came to work.”
The intern nearly combusted.
Behind her, Amaya struggled not to laugh.
Amaya Shah had been Y/N’s assistant for five years. Loyal. Precise. Sharp enough to survive a battlefield. She knew Y/N’s moods before Y/N herself did.
Which was exactly why she’d lasted this long.
Most assistants quit within three months.
One had cried.
Another had thrown a resignation letter at Y/N’s face and called her emotionally constipated.
Y/N still had the letter framed somewhere.
But Amaya?
Amaya stayed.
Somewhere along endless coffee-fueled nights, emergency meetings, and mutual threats against incompetent executives, they had become something dangerously close to best friends.
Neither acknowledged it.
That would require emotional vulnerability.
Disgusting.
“You’re limping,” Amaya observed as they walked.
“I’m on my period.”
“That explains the attempted murder aura.”
Y/N shot her a glare. “One more comment and your salary gets reduced.”
“You say that every month.”
“And one day I’ll mean it.”
“You’d miss me in six hours.”
Y/N didn’t answer.
Which was answer enough.
Amaya smirked victoriously and handed her a coffee exactly the way she liked it—dark, bitter, no sugar.
Y/N took a sip and nearly moaned.
“See?” Amaya said smugly. “You need me.”
“Don’t flirt with me before 10 a.m.”
“Noted.”
They entered the massive boardroom where twelve executives already sat waiting.
The room immediately went silent.
Y/N took her seat at the head of the table, crossing her legs elegantly despite the cramps currently trying to assassinate her internally.
A middle-aged executive began nervously presenting quarterly projections.
Unfortunately for him, Y/N’s tolerance for stupidity was already below sea level.
“What,” she interrupted flatly, “is this disaster?”
The man blinked rapidly. “Ma’am?”
“These numbers.” She tapped the file once. “They look like they were calculated by a concussed raccoon.”
Silence.
Amaya coughed into her hand to hide a laugh.
The executive turned pale. “I—I can revise them.”
“You had three weeks.”
“Yes, but—”
“And somehow,” Y/N continued smoothly, “you still managed to disappoint me creatively.”
A younger employee silently slid his chair farther away from the poor man.
Smart.
Very smart.
Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose as another cramp twisted through her spine.
God.
She hated everyone.
The meeting dragged on for another hour until finally—
The doors opened.
No knock.
No warning.
Just the slow, deliberate sound of polished shoes against marble floors.
Every head turned.
And for the first time that morning—
Y/N’s irritation paused.
The man entering the room looked dangerous in the kind of way that didn’t need announcing.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Black tailored suit. Tattoos peeking beneath the cuff of his sleeve. His face was devastatingly handsome, but there was something darker underneath it—something violent resting quietly beneath expensive cologne and calm eyes.
The room shifted around him instinctively.
Predators recognized predators.
Amaya straightened beside Y/N.
“…He’s early,” she murmured.
Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who is he?”
But before Amaya could answer—
The man looked directly at Y/N.
And smiled.
Not warmly.
Not politely.
No.
It was the smile of someone who saw a challenge.
Someone who enjoyed danger.
Someone entirely unafraid of her.
That alone made him interesting.
“Mr. Malhotra,” one of the board members said nervously, standing. “We weren’t expecting you until noon.”
Aarav Malhotra.
The name landed heavily
Even Y/N knew it.
A man whispered about in business circles like a beautiful catastrophe. Owner of Malhotra Syndicate. Brutally wealthy. Ruthless. Untouchable.
And allegedly connected to far darker things than corporate finance.
Aarav’s gaze never left hers.
“Clearly,” he said calmly, “I interrupted something entertaining.”
Y/N leaned back slowly in her chair.
Her cramps worsened.
Her patience evaporated.
And somehow, this man still had the audacity to look amused.
Terrible timing for him.
“Depends,” she replied coolly. “Do you usually enter rooms uninvited, or are manners just beneath billionaires?”
A few executives stopped breathing.
Amaya closed her eyes briefly like she was preparing for casualties.
But Aarav only smiled wider.
God.
That smile was dangerous.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied softly. “You’ve been tearing apart your employees for the last hour.”
“They work for me.”
“And?”
“And suffering builds character.”
Aarav laughed quietly.
Actually laughed.
Not nervous laughter.
Not forced politeness.
Real amusement.
The sound slid under Y/N’s skin in a way she immediately disliked.
Very much.
His eyes moved over her carefully—not flirtatiously, not hungrily.
Assessing.
Like he was studying a weapon.
And somehow that felt far more intimate.
“You’re exactly as terrifying as people say,” he murmured.
Y/N gave him a cold smile.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
For a moment, neither looked away.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Heavier.
Something dark passed silently between them—sharp and electric and dangerous enough to cut skin.
Amaya noticed it immediately.
And internally began planning her own funeral.
Because if these two monsters became interested in each other?
Society itself might collapse.
