He stood up there, leaning against the rusted iron railing of the second-floor corridor —

casually sipping his morning cold brew, sunglasses tucked in his collar, lips curved in that bored, effortless smirk.

From this height, Aryan Mehra could see everything.

And usually, nothing impressed him.

Until now.

Below, the Ducati purred like a predator.

Black leather. Long legs. Slow helmet pull-off.

And then —

Principal Roy himself walked out of the admin block.

Aryan's brow arched.

"Principal? Really?

Welcome committee ke level pe drop ho rahi hai yeh toh..."

(She's getting the kind of welcome reserved for VIPs... even the principal showed up?)

She didn't speak much.

Didn't smile either.

Just walked with him like she owned the place.

Confident. Clean. Untouchable.

"Aisi kya baat hai ismein jo Roy sir khud nikal ke aaye?"

(What's so special about her that even Principal Roy stepped out himself?)

He kept watching as she stepped into the main building.

Then a voice behind him snapped him back.

"Aryan."

He turned.

Rishi, his campus insider, his walking gossip blog, stood there, panting like he just ran up four flights.

"Bhai... the girl you're watching...

naam hai Saanvi Kapoor."

Aryan blinked.

"Kapoor?"

"As in...?"

"US-return. Only daughter of Kapoor Estates.

Lives in South Bombay — Kapoor Mansion, sea-facing.

Room 104. First year batch."

Aryan turned back toward the staircase she just walked through.

"Kapoor Estate ki beti... Ducati wali wildcat... aur Room 104?"

A slow, dangerous grin stretched across his face.

"Interesting."

He straightened, tossed his coffee into the bin, and cracked his knuckles like this was just the beginning of a game.

"Looks like the storm does have a name.

And it just got assigned to my damn playground."

Rishi was still rattling off details, but Aryan's eyes were locked on the hallway.

"First-year. New admission,"

Rishi confirmed, breath catching.

Aryan smirked slowly.

"Hmm... then let's go welcome her properly."

"A little ragging sounds like fun."

Rishi stepped forward nervously.

"Bro, don't. She looks... important.

Principal Roy came out himself to greet her — that means she's definitely someone's VIP."

Aryan didn't say anything.

He simply raised his hand to his face —

and touched the exact spot where she'd slapped him the night before.

His lips curved into a cold, wicked smile.

"That welcome already started last night, Rishi."

"Now I'm just returning the favour."

And with that, Aryan turned and strode toward Classroom 104.

⸻

Inside Room 104

The classroom was alive with scattered conversation and typical first-year energy.

Saanvi sat near the window —

legs crossed, one heel dangling in air, completely relaxed, her phone in hand as she typed calmly.

She didn't notice the storm entering the room.

Until—

the door creaked open.

In walked Aryan Mehra.

Silent. Smooth. Dangerous.

Rolled-up sleeves, diamond watch flashing, and a smirk that screamed trouble.

He didn't greet anyone.

Didn't stop.

He walked straight to her.

Saanvi didn't flinch.

Not until he reached forward and snatched the phone from her hand.

She looked up, sharp.

"Excuse me—?"

Aryan didn't reply.

He held the phone up, staring at the rest of the class instead.

"Rishi, darwaza band kar."

("Rishi. Close the door.")

Rishi hesitated... then quietly obeyed.

The room fell silent.

Aryan turned to everyone with that lazy grin.

"Chalo baccho...

Sab apne apne phone table pe rakho.

Ragging period shuru hone wala hai."

(Alright, kids...

Place your phones on the table.

It's ragging hour.)

Then looked directly at her... and winked.

Saanvi stood up, eyes locked on Aryan.

"Give. Me. My. Phone."

Aryan tilted his head.

"A little ragging and you're this angry?

Relax, fresher."

She was about to say something sharp when a girl sitting next to her lightly tugged her wrist and whispered—

"Baith ja na... panga mat le. Tu samajh nahi rahi yeh kaun hai."

(Just sit down... you don't get who he is.)

The girl gave her a nervous nod, hinting subtly: Let it go.

Saanvi exhaled slowly.

She didn't sit — but she paused.

Aryan walked casually to the whiteboard and hopped onto the front desk, legs crossed, acting like the professor himself.

"Alright kiddos, roll call time.

One by one. Name, city, and relationship status.

And please... don't lie. I can smell heartbreak."

Laughter echoed in the room.

He pointed to the first row.

Names were given. Some joked, some blushed.

And then... his eyes locked on her.

"You. Ducati wali. Name?"

Saanvi slowly looked up. Calm. Cold. Deadly.

"Main apna naam kachre ko nahi batati."

(I don't tell my name to garbage.)

The room went dead silent.

Aryan froze for half a second —

His smirk twitching... ego shattered.

Saanvi picked up her bag with zero drama, walked to the centre table, took her phone, and turned toward the door.

A boy tried to stop her, saying—

"Hey, at least wait for—"

She gave him one look.

A death glare.

He instantly stepped back.

Aryan watched it all.

The door clicked shut behind her.

His jaw clenched.

"Isko main nahi chhodunga."

(I won't let her get away with this.)

He slid off the desk in one motion and stormed toward the door.

"Game shuru kiya usne.

Ab khatam main karunga."

(She started this game. I'll be the one to end it.)

As soon as Saanvi walked out, the classroom felt too small for Aryan's rage.

The tension in his jaw, the silence in the room, the mocking smirks from the backbenchers — everything stung.

"Usne sabke saamne mujhe ignore kiya..."

(She ignored me. In front of everyone.)

He didn't even wait.

He shoved the desk aside and stormed out.

⸻

Corridor. Dim lights. Rain trickling in from open balconies.

Saanvi's heels echoed as she walked like the building belonged to her.

Back straight. Unbothered. Electric.

Aryan's voice echoed behind her.

"Rok jaa, Saanvi."

(Stop right there, Saanvi.)

She didn't.

"Tumhe lagta hai tum itna bol kar nikal sakti ho? Mujhe ignore karke?"

(You think you can throw words like that and walk away? Ignore me?)

She kept walking.

He caught up in three strides.

Grabbed her wrist. Spun her toward him with force.

Their bodies crashed into each other.

Their breath clashed.

"Touch me again and I'll bury you."

Her voice was ice. Controlled. Calculated.

Aryan's grip didn't loosen.

His face was too close. Eyes wild with insult, hunger, fury.

"Tumne mujhe sabke saamne neecha dikhaya."

(You humiliated me in front of the whole room.)

"Ego ko lag gayi? Toh soch...

Jab tumhare jaise ladke meri life ka ek page bhi nahi ban paate."

(So your ego's bruised? Imagine mine — when men like you don't even make it to a chapter in my life.)

Aryan didn't reply.

He stared at her — this woman who wasn't flinching.

Wasn't softening.

So he did what impulsive, arrogant men do.

He leaned in.

And kissed her.

Hard. Reckless. Uninvited.

Saanvi didn't move for a second.

But the second passed.

Her hand swung across his face with the sharpest SLAP he'd ever received.

The sound echoed louder than thunder.

His head jerked to the side.

She was already walking away.

But her words floated back like a curse:

"Next time, if you try touching me like that...

main sirf haath nahi chalungi. Main tujhe khatam kar dungi."

(Next time you try touching me without permission...

I won't just slap. I'll destroy you.)

She disappeared down the hallway.

Aryan stood there, one cheek burning from the heat of her palm —

the other from the fire she'd just lit in his veins.

"Game on, sweetheart."

(You just declared war.)

She stormed out of the corridor, chest heaving, palms shaking, that slap still echoing in her ears.

"Mera pehla kiss... woh bhi uss ghatiya insaan ke saath?"

(My first kiss... with that disgusting man?)

"Bhagwan ji... yeh kya ho gaya..."

(Oh God... what the hell just happened?)

Tears pricked the corner of her eyes, but she blinked them away before they dared to fall.

She walked faster. Angrier. Her heels hit the parking lot tiles like hammers.

And then she saw it.

His car.

Jet black. Brand new. Audi Q8. Worth 90 fucking lakhs.

Saanvi wiped her tears, rolled her eyes, then dug her sharpest key from her leather sling bag.

"Toh tujhe lagta hai tu mujhe chho ke nikal gaya, Aryan?"

(You think you can touch me and walk away?)

One deep breath.

And then — sccccrrrrrrchhhhhh — she dragged her key right across the hood.

From headlight to taillight. A deep, furious line.

"Ab yaad rahega... kiski ego se khelna tujhe kitna mehenga pada."

(Now you'll remember... what it costs to mess with my pride.)

She turned.

Tears gone.

Eyes on fire.

Saanvi Kapoor had declared war.

And, she wasn't the one who'd lose.

"He thought he kissed me out of power.

Poor boy doesn't know — I've buried men for less."