"She didn't walk in to be

noticed.

She rode in to be

remembered."

Bandra. 7:03 AM.

Mehra Mansion.

The rain hadn't stopped since last night.

But inside the towering grey-stone mansion, silence reigned.

Polished marble floors stretched beneath gold chandeliers.

Black-and-white portraits hung over velvet walls, and the scent of Cuban cigars lingered in the hallway.

Everything inside screamed power.

Money.

Legacy.

And control.

And somewhere on the top floor — in a room that overlooked the Arabian Sea —

Aryan Mehra lay tangled in grey silk sheets, shirtless, jaw tight, and absolutely not asleep.

His bare chest rose and fell under the dim morning light, the shadows of rain dancing across his skin.

The slap still echoed in his cheek.

Not literally.

But somewhere inside... it burned.

Who the fuck was she?

Helmet pehni thi. Naam nahi bataya.

But aankhon mein... aankhon mein aag thi, aur ghamand bhi.

He turned his face to the side.

The pillow next to him was cold.

Last night's one-night mistake had left hours ago.

He hadn't even noticed.

But something else hadn't left.

That Ducati girl. That thappad. That stare.

His fingers ran through his hair, frustrated.

And just as he sat up, the sheet slipped off his waist — revealing a sharp line of abs and a small scratch running down his hip.

"Gaadi ko nahi chhoda, mujhe bhi nahi."

He smirked.

A dry, arrogant one.

The door creaked.

And one of the maids entered — carrying his morning espresso on a silver tray.

But her eyes faltered...

Because standing at the far end of his room, bathed in golden light,

wrapped in his silk sheet, loosely tucked around her bare waist,

was a memory from the night before —

or maybe not even worth remembering.

He didn't turn to look.

"Tum jaa sakti ho. Sheet bhi chhod do."

His voice was cold. Final.

She dropped it on the bed post.

Walked away.

Silently. Shamefully.

He didn't care.

Aryan got up, bare feet touching the warm wood.

He sipped his espresso slowly... still thinking of her.

Not the girl who just left.

The one who arrived without an invitation,

without a name...

and left him feeling like he'd lost control.

He hated losing control.

South Bombay.

Kapoor Estate. 7:12 AM.

The morning began with jasmine incense.

The Kapoor Mansion stood tall like legacy carved in stone.

Not loud. Not flashy.

But regal — in the kind of way that whispered money instead of screaming it.

Every corner was elegance.

White marble floors. Hand-carved wooden doors.

Fresh mogra garlands on silver trays.

And inside the inner courtyard, surrounded by tall arches and soft temple bells—

Saanvi Kapoor stood barefoot in a pale ivory kurta, hands folded in a quiet prayer.

Eyes closed.

Mind calm.

Body still.

She had bathed early. Her long hair tied back in a soft bun.

A simple red thread on her wrist.

No makeup. No drama. Just serenity wrapped in steel.

Next to her stood her Daadi, NEETU KAPOOR— a graceful woman in a crisp white cotton saree, her silver hair tied in a braid, her voice soft as she chanted the mantras.

Neetu Kapoor adjusted her glasses, placing fresh flowers in the mandir as the morning aarti played softly in the background.

She turned to look at her granddaughter —

Saanvi Kapoor, standing beside her in an ivory kurta, eyes closed in silent prayer, calm and composed.

"Tujhe dekh ke lagta hai, Saanvi...

iss ghar mein firse rooh aa gayi hai,"

Neetu said warmly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

("Seeing you here, Saanvi... it feels like this house has its soul back.")

Saanvi smiled gently.

"Bas aapko company dene aayi hoon, Daadi.

USA mein sab kuch tha... bas yeh sukoon nahi tha."

("I just came to give you company, Daadi.

I had everything in the USA... except this peace.")

Neetu's eyes shimmered.

"Main toh sochti thi, tu toh shaadi karegi vahan kisi foreigner se aur mujhe invite bhi nahi karegi!"

("I used to think you'd marry some foreigner there

and not even invite me!")

Saanvi chuckled, rolling her eyes.

"Foreigners bore karte hain, Daadi.

India mein hi thoda drama chahiye zindagi mein."

("Foreigners are boring, Daadi.

Life in India has the kind of drama I like.")

Saanvi folded her hands once more in front of the mandir and turned to leave.

"Okay Daadi, I'm leaving! Aaj mera pehla din hai college ka... late nahi hona mujhe."

"Okay Daadi, I'm leaving! It's my first day at college... I don't want to be late."

Neetu Kapoor turned around with a slight frown.

"Beta ruk... kuch kha ke toh ja!"

"Wait, beta... at least eat something before you go!"

Saanvi was already halfway to the main hall, pulling on her riding gloves.

"Main wahi kuch kha loongi Daadi!

Don't worry — I'll survive."

"I'll grab something from there, Daadi!

Don't worry — I'll survive."

Neetu shook her head with a smile, muttering under her breath.

"Aaj ki ladkiyaan sirf coffee pe zinda rehti hain..."

"Girls these days survive on coffee and chaos..."

But by then, the sound of a superbike had already taken over the quiet mansion.

Saanvi Kapoor — black leather jacket, helmet in hand, walking toward her matte black Ducati.

She didn't just ride it.

She owned the road she was about to burn.

Tucked between the colonial charm of South Bombay and the modern skyline of Nariman Point,

stood one of the city's most prestigious institutions:

St. Xavier's Imperial College.

Old stone buildings. Ivy-covered walls.

Marble corridors echoing with generations of wealth and ambition.

And a student list that read more like a Forbes preview than a college roster.

This wasn't just a college.

It was legacy.

Industrialist sons.

Fashion heiresses.

Star kids. Politicians' daughters.

And those who had no surname... just power.

With its private underground parking, rooftop amphitheatre, espresso bars on every floor, and a central lawn that looked more like a wedding venue—

St. Xavier's was where the elite came to flex, flirt, and fuck up quietly.

Phones were Prada.

Relationships were PR.

And the gossip? Louder than the lectures.

But today... even the most unbothered students looked up.

Because something new had just entered their perfect, polished ecosystem.

Something fast.

Something loud.

Something dangerously pretty.

Bikes. Music.

Boys laughing. Girls posing.

And then...

A roar.

The sound of a matte black Ducati Panigale V4 shattered the air like thunder.

Every head turned.

She entered like rain wrapped in leather.

Long legs stepped off the bike.

Her helmet came off in slow motion — hair falling perfectly, wet from the morning drizzle.

Black sunglasses. Red lips. Expression unreadable.

"Who is that?"

"New student?"

"Bro... uff kya maal hai..."

"That's not a student. That's a statement."

Saanvi Kapoor had arrived.

And in under thirty seconds, half the campus was either staring at her or whispering her name.

Girls stared with admiration.

Boys with thirst.

And some with fear.

She walked across the front steps with zero eye contact, phone in hand, bag slung low, jacket zipped halfway.

And then—

"Ms. Kapoor?"

A calm, crisp voice cut through the crowd.

She turned.

Principal Roy — an elegant, well-dressed man in his 50s — stood there with two assistants behind him.

He smiled, polite but curious.

"I'm Principal Roy. I was informed you'll be joining us today.

I thought I'd personally welcome you."

Saanvi removed her sunglasses fully now, tucking one side into the neckline of her black top.

"That's kind of you, Sir."

"Yeh formal welcome expect nahi kiya tha, but I appreciate it."

He smiled, clearly intrigued by her poised tone and zero-nonsense energy.

"You're going to attract a lot of attention here, Ms. Kapoor."

"Let's hope it's worth their time,"

she replied smoothly, walking beside him as students cleared a path.

Whispers rippled in her wake:

"Did he just say Kapoor?"

"Wait— like Kapoor Estates Kapoor?"

"Bro... she's that Kapoor?"

The crowd split as she walked with Principal Roy into the main building.

And as they reached the glass doors,

one pair of eyes never left her.

From the second-floor balcony above the courtyard —

leaning on the railing, arms crossed, smirk lazy —

stood Aryan Mehra.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled, hair slightly messy, and devil in his smile.

"Toh yeh hai fresh entry?"

"Thappad wali Ducati queen?"

He watched her hips sway, her boots click across marble, and whispered to himself:

"Welcome to my jungle, sweetheart.

Let's see who gets bitten first."

Principal Roy stopped in front of Classroom 104 – First Year Section A.

The students inside were busy giggling, scrolling through their phones, and checking out every new entry.

Then the door opened.

"Good morning, everyone. Please settle down.

Meet your new classmate — Ms. Saanvi Kapoor. She's recently shifted from the U.S."

Eyes turned. Whispers flew.

Saanvi stepped in like she owned oxygen.

Long ponytail. Simple black jeans. A satchel slung cross-body.

Minimal effort, maximum effect.

Her voice was soft. Deadly calm.

"Hi."

That was enough.

Roy smiled.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll leave you to it."

As the door clicked shut behind him, the silence lasted only a few seconds.

Then... the real story began.