"She didn't just enter the room—she set the temperature."

The music inside the club throbbed like a heartbeat—loud, heavy, wild. Bodies swayed, lights flickered, and laughter spilled like champagne across the dance floor.

But everything—everyone—froze for just a moment.

Because she walked in.

Saanvi Kapoor.

Clad in a short, black velvet bodycon that hugged her curves like a second skin.

Golden chain swung from her leather bag as it bounced against her thigh.

And those 6-inch Louboutins? They didn't just click — they commanded.

Long, sleek hair cascading down her back, framing a face sculpted to ruin men with a glance.

Her skin glowed like fresh monsoon rain kissed it moments ago.

Her eyes? Cold fire.

Her lips? Parted just enough to make you wonder what sin tasted like.

She didn't look around.

She didn't need to.

The room turned for her.

A golden spotlight flickered on her for one breathless second.

She didn't flinch.

She adjusted her diamond chain and walked forward — unapologetically, unaffected, unmissable.

People whispered.

Phones paused mid-air.

Someone muttered, "Who the hell is she?"

And at the bar, Aryan Mehra's glass paused mid-air.

His smirk dropped for the first time that night.

Her focus was sharp, but not on the bar.

Not on him.

And that—that drove Aryan Mehra insane.

She moved like liquid danger.

Past the bouncers, past the murmurs of admiration, past the men who tried to stand taller, smirk harder, just to earn a glance.

She didn't look.

Not once.

She followed Samyara and Meera into the private section like she'd walked into a hundred parties like this—

But it was Aryan's territory.

And she hadn't even acknowledged his presence.

His fingers curled around his glass.

"Mujhse nazar mila le, sweetheart," he murmured under his breath,

("Just look at me once, sweetheart,")

"Phir dekh kaise duniya bhool jaati hai tu."

("Then watch how you forget the whole world.")

He tilted his head as her laugh rang out in the distance.

She still hadn't seen him.

But he saw her.

Every. Damn. Detail.

"Aman, zara idhar aana."

("Aman, come here for a second.")

Meera gestured to her husband while sipping her mocktail, eyes darting towards her cousin.

Saanvi was too busy scanning the club's shimmering interior, one brow raised, unimpressed.

Aman leaned toward Aryan, smirking.

"Chal, aaja. Teri introduction karwata hoon."

("Come, I'll introduce you.")

Aryan straightened, fixing the collar of his black shirt casually. His eyes never left Saanvi.

She still hadn't noticed him.

"Wahi hai na... US-returned, Kapoor Mansion wali?"

("That's her, right... the US-returned one from Kapoor Mansion?")

Aman chuckled. "Haan. Saanvi Kapoor. Sirf naam nahi, attitude bhi heavy hai. Samhal le."

("Yes. Saanvi Kapoor. Not just the name, her attitude's just as heavy. Brace yourself.")

Aryan's smirk deepened.

"Challenge accepted."

Saanvi turned—finally—and her gaze met Aryan's.

Sharp. Cold. Beautiful.

Aryan's lips curled slightly, eyes running the full length of her face.

"Saanvi, meet Aman's cousin and best friend—Aryan Mehra. Final year senior at your college. Bombay ka sabse irritating banda, but decent at heart."

Aryan stepped forward with that slow, lazy swagger—eyes locked on hers like they had unfinished business.

Aryan (tilting his head, low voice):

"Tumhari welcome party mein meri entry late hui,

Par impact time se pehle ho gaya."

("My entry at your welcome party was late...

But the impact? Happened before time.")

Saanvi's eyes darkened.

She didn't blink.

Saanvi (calmly):

"Tum jaisa impact zyada der nahi tikta, Aryan Mehra."

("Impacts like yours don't last very long, Aryan Mehra.")

A beat of silence.

Then Aryan smiled.

"Try me, New York."

And just like that—round one began.

VIP Lounge

Saanvi was sipping her mocktail, arms crossed, eyes fixed on some meaningless corner.

She hated this kind of attention.

But more than that—she hated the heat creeping up her neck.

Because he was watching her.

And now... he was walking toward her.

Aryan (soft smirk, low voice):

"Relax New York...

Tumhare aas-paas hone ke paise nahi lagte."

("Relax, New York... being near you doesn't cost anything.")

She turned to face him, dry smile in place.

Saanvi:

"Tumhare jaise log free hi mil jaate hain—bas thoda cheap quality hoti hai."

("Guys like you usually come for free—just with low quality.")

Aryan (mock hurt):

"Ouch. Kya tum sabhi strangers se itni pyaar se baat karti ho?"

("Ouch. Do you talk this lovingly to all strangers?")

She sipped her drink.

Didn't reply.

Didn't need to.

So Aryan leaned closer, voice dropping a notch—

"There's a warning in your eyes, New York...

And I don't know why—

but warnings?

They fucking tempt me."

He stepped back, just a little. Let her breathe. Let her burn.

And before she could clap back, he added—

"You should stop looking at me like that...

Unless you're ready to find out what happens next."

Saanvi's jaw tightened.

She turned to Samyara and said calmly—

"Mujhe washroom jaana hai."

And just as she walked past Aryan—shoulder brushing his arm—

He whispered:

"Don't get lost, New York.

This isn't America... yahan main mil jaata hoon har mod pe."

("Don't get lost, New York. This isn't America... here, you'll find me at every turn.")

As Saanvi unlocked the cubicle door and stepped out, she froze mid-step.

He was leaning on the marble counter.

Arms crossed. Smirk in place. Eyes — wild, sharp, burning.

Aryan Mehra. Inside the women's washroom.

"Pagal ho gaye ho? What the hell are you doing here?"

("Have you lost your mind?")

She tried to walk past him.

He didn't move.

"Ignore kar ke nikl jaogi? Kaafi attitude hai tum mein, New York."

("You'll just walk away and ignore me? You've got a lot of attitude, New York.")

"Get out of my way, Aryan. This isn't funny anymore."

She pushed past him again, her heels clicking hard on the marble floor.

But he grabbed her wrist—firm, not rough.

"Jab tum red light pe Ducati leke meri Audi ke saamne aayi thi..."

("When you pulled up in front of my Audi at the red light on that Ducati...")

"Usi waqt samajh gaya tha... tum meri zindagi mein aafat ban ke aayi ho."

("That very moment I knew... you've entered my life like a storm.")

And follow it up with:

"Aur jab se mila hoon tumse... tumhara har attitude mujhe aur zyada tempt karta hai."

("And ever since we met... every ounce of your attitude only tempts me more.")

"Pehli nazar mein mohabbat wali kahani toh sabki hoti hai...

Lekin meri wali? Tabahi ban gayi hai, New York."

("Everyone has a love-at-first-sight story...

But mine? Turned into destruction, New York.")

She raised her hand to slap him.

But he caught it mid-air.

His other hand grabbed her other wrist.

And in one swift, brutal second—

He pushed her back against the wall, pinning both wrists over her head.

She gasped. Eyes widened.

"Marna chahti ho mujhe? Toh theek hai."

("You wanna hurt me? Fine.")

And he kissed her.

Hard. Hungry. Dangerous.

Her breath caught. Her mind screamed. Her heart? Betrayed her completely.

The kiss lasted just a few seconds.

But enough to leave both of them shaken.

He pulled back, still holding her wrists.

Aryan (whispering):

"Ab chaaho toh thappad maar lo.

Ya... sirf mujhe dekhte rehna seekh lo."

("Now slap me if you want.

Or... just learn to keep looking at me.")

Saanvi stepped out of the washroom first.

Face flushed. Jaw tight.

Angry? Embarrassed? Blushing?

No one could tell.

She didn't say a word.

Just walked straight to her table, heart hammering inside her ribcage like a traitor.

A moment later—Aryan followed.

Calm. Cold. Collected.

He took his seat again.

Threw an arm over the back of the lounge chair, eyes fixed only on her.

Their friends chatted. Music blasted. Drinks flowed.

But the storm between them?

Untouched. Unseen. Undeniable.

She sat with her spine stiff, refusing to look at him.

But she felt him. Every. Second.

And Aryan?

He watched her like a hunter studies its prey.

He leaned back, lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile... and whispered to himself—

"Tujhse pyaar ki bheekh na mangwayi...

Toh mera naam Aryan Mehra nahi."

("If I don't make you beg for my love...

Then I'm not Aryan Mehra.")