Prologue
Library
The silence of the private library in Delhi was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic scratching of a pen against paper. Kaavya Sharma sat hunched over a mountain of spreadsheets, her eyes narrowed as she finalized the budget revisions. To her, numbers were a comfort.
Her phone buzzed on the desk, vibrating with a persistence that forced her to sigh and answer.
“Ritz, I’m working,” Kaavya said without looking at the screen.
“Girl, we are going to party! Get your heels on and come along,” Ritika’s voice chirped through the speaker, bubbling with a reckless energy Kaavya didn’t share.
“No, Ritz. I’m busy,” Kaavya replied, her tone flat. “Besides, Shubham won’t like sharing his girlfriend.”
“Come on! Shubham is more than happy to have you there. Stop using others as an excuse to avoid having fun,” Ritika countered. “You’re always hiding in that library.”
“You know I don’t like parties. Don’t ask, Ritz. Please.”
“Kaavya... come on. You might actually meet a nice man for once.”
Kaavya’s hand stilled on her pen. “Ritika? I don’t need a ‘nice man.’ I’m too busy for that, and you know it.”
“Alright, alright. Enjoy your books,” Ritika grumbled, sounding defeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Sure.” Kaavya hung up and stared at the quiet rows of books. The peace was what she cherished the most. She was not ready to compromise it at any cost.
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Thousands of miles away, the atmosphere in a luxury hotel suite in London was anything but quiet. It was wild.
Devaansh Singhania didn’t do “nice.” He did dominant. He pushed the famous actress, onto the edge of the bed with a single, forceful motion. He didn’t waste; he pulled her dress up, discarding the lace with a practiced efficiency that bordered on clinical.
In a split second, he entered her with a wild, calculated passion that drew a raw, echoing roar from her throat.
“Fuck, Mr. CEO... that was fucking good,” she gasped, her nails digging into the silk sheets.
Just as the rhythm hit its peak, Devaansh’s phone rang. The sound was sharp, a digital intrusion that instantly killed the heat in the room. Without a second of hesitation, Devaansh pulled back, his face instantly returning to a mask of cold professionalism.
“Stand up, lady,” he commanded, his voice professional. He didn’t even look at her as he glanced at the wall clock.
“Sir,” Amol’s voice came through the line. “The luxury project in India... it’s hanging. A board member is being adamant about not approving the site.”
“I’m coming right away. Meet me in the office,” Devaansh snapped.
He stepped into his trousers, his movements sharp and decisive. He pulled a stack of bills from his wallet—the agreed-upon price for the night’s distraction—and tossed them onto the dresser.
“Shall I give you my number?” Melissa asked, watching him with a mix of confusion and lingering desire.
“No need. We agreed an hour back that this was one night of fun, Ms. Alice,” Devaansh said, reaching for his jacket.
“It’s Melissa.”
“Right,” Devaansh replied, his eyes already on the door as his mind shifted to the boardroom and his upcoming flight to India. “Good night.”
He walked out without looking back, leaving the heat behind for the only thing that truly made his blood pump: Power.
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The Office: 2:00 AM
The heavy oak doors of the executive suite swung open with a bang. Devaansh didn’t sit; he moved like a predator pacing his territory. Amol stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, already holding a tablet filled with the board member’s financial vulnerabilities.
Without a word of greeting, Devaansh grabbed the project file from the desk and flew it across the glass conference table. It skidded to a halt right in front of his assistant.
“I am buying his share,” Devaansh stated, his voice a cold, hard blade.
Amol blinked, taken aback by the sheer aggression of the move. “Sir? That’s nearly fifteen percent of the total equity. He’s held those shares for a decade. He won’t just hand them over.”
Devaansh leaned over the table, his knuckles white as he pressed them into the surface. The shadow of his silhouette against the London skyline made him look twice as large.
“If he can’t mind his own business, I’ll mind his business for him,” Devaansh countered, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “He likes playing the moral compass? Let’s see how moral he feels when I squeeze his offshore interests. I want him liquidated by noon.”
Amol nodded quickly, scribbling notes. The “Shark” was in a feeding frenzy, and no one survived that.
“Tomorrow morning, I want the contract documents ready,” Devaansh commanded, turning his back to the room. “In my office. Nine sharp.”
“Right, sir,” Amol replied, moving toward the door.
Devaansh stood alone in the dim light of the office, looking at the huge sky scrapers which were full of lights and glam. Everything that symbolised power and money.
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Kaavya’s Home
The atmosphere in the small living room was thick with a tension that budget revisions couldn’t fix. Kaavya’s mother stood by the dining table, a printed bio-data in her hand as if it were a winning lottery ticket.
“It is a goodrishta, Kaavya,” her mother insisted, her voice rising in a mix of hope and desperation. “It came to us without even looking! The boy lives right here in Delhi. He works for a huge MNC, a fifty-lakh package, good-looking, and from a respectable family. What else could possibly matter?”
Kaavya looked up from her tea, her expression weary but resolute. “The fact matters, Mumma, that he wants me to give away my dreams just to be his shadow.”
“In the end, you will have to marry!” her mother countered. “Either we find a guy for you, or you find one yourself. But this life of yours... it needs a partner.”
“I won’t,” Kaavya said, her voice dropping into that quiet, firm tone that usually signaled the end of a debate. “If a man doesn’t see me as an equal partner and instead treats me like a subordinate, I would rather not marry at all.”
“Kaavya!” her mother shouted, her frustration boiling over.
The heavy footsteps of her father echoed in the hallway before he appeared in the doorway. He looked at his wife, then at his daughter, his presence instantly cooling the heat in the room.
“She won’t marry if she doesn’t want to,” Papa said, his voice calm and final. He walked over to Kaavya, placing a grounding hand on her shoulder. “If she wants to fulfil her dream, let her. My daughter isn’t a commodity to be traded for a ‘good package.’”
Kaavya looked up at her father, her eyes instantly moistening. The weight she had been carrying—the pressure to conform, to settle, to shrink—felt a little lighter.
“Thank you, Papa,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of relief and gratitude.
“But I hope you focus on your dreams” her dad added.
And with that, she felt a fleeting sense of peace, knowing she had protected her self-respect. But as she watched him walk away, a new weight settled in her chest. The burden of her parents’ hopes was far heavier than she had imagined. She couldn’t just succeed anymore; she had to be extraordinary.
