Aparna Sawant, a woman who prioritizes her independence and fulfilling career, has never subscribed to the idea of happily ever after. Marriage, for her, is a practical decision.
Varad Oberoi, a successful businessman hardened by past experiences...
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A P A R N A
Nine on the dot, and Mrs. Gabriel, aka Gabbar, was still glued to her chair, shoving another file my way. "Take a look at this too, Sawant." My limbs felt like overcooked noodles. Breakfast was a distant memory, and my stomach was threatening a full-on mutiny. Hunger and Aparna were a volatile mix.
A glance at my phone only made things worse. "Aparna! It's freaking nine-fifteen! Are you planning to become nocturnal?" Antara's voice boomed from the other end. I winced. Calm Aparna while famished? Not a skill I'd mastered.
"Working late, Ant. Probably head out in an hour or so," I lied, my voice a touch sharper than usual. Hunger doesn't breed patience.
"Lunch?" Her question was a loaded one. We'd been roommates for seven years; she knew me better than my own reflection.
I wasn't about to confess to staring down a random bruise later, wondering how it got there. A white lie seemed the safest option. "Yep, double sandwiches. Delicious." Antara, bless her soul, seemed to buy it, reminding me to get home ASAP before hanging up.
An hour later, after enduring a verbal marathon with Gabbar, I was finally free. In the elevator, I rummaged through my purse, hoping for a stray candy bar to appease the grumbling beast within. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to reveal none other than Mr. freaking Oberoi. In person, and with his ever-present PA.
Thrilling. Not.
His eyes widened a fraction, then swept over me in a way that would've been flattering if I wasn't floored. "Mr. Oberoi? What a surprise," I managed, stepping into the elevator.
A grunt was his only response, his face as expressive as a brick wall. Can the man form a complete sentence? Apparently not.
Awkward silence descended. The kind that hangs heavy, not the comfortable kind. His presence always irked me – an aura that demanded attention, and maybe a dash of his undeniable charisma.
"How are you getting home?" he suddenly asked, startling me out of my thoughts. His gaze remained fixed on the elevator doors, but his PA's watchful eyes told me the question was directed at me.
"Bus, maybe?" I replied hesitantly. He shot me a glance, then returned to his stoic stare. I thought that was the end of the conversation, apparently not.
"I'll drop you," he declared. My mouth opened to protest, but he cut me off with a firm, "Not negotiable." He met my gaze, his jaw clenched. The elevator lurched to a stop, taking forever despite the empty car.
Daksh, the resident office flirt from Accounts, sauntered in. His eyes instantly locked on me, then dipped lower in a way that made me cringe.
Funny how Mr. Oberoi's earlier assessment didn't bother me a bit.
"Hey there, beautiful. Graphics department, right?" Daksh purred, practically undressing me with his gaze. He was not bad-looking, I'll admit, which probably explained his confidence. We'd only spoken once, at the CEO handover party two years ago.
I offered a curt nod, desperate to avoid his attention. From what I'd heard, it was best left unwelcomed. Besides, the last thing I needed was a random flirtation in front of my, well, fiancé? Maybe? Engagement contract signee, definitely.
The elevator doors opened again, thankfully on the parking floor. Before I could make a move, Mr. Oberoi snaked his hand around mine and ushered me out. It was the second time his large, calloused hand dwarfed mine.
He steered me towards a sleek black Lamborghini. The one with the weird scissor doors. Naturally.
"Who was that?" he asked, his steely gaze pinning me down. I couldn't look away.
"Who?" I stammered, momentarily flustered.
"The guy in the elevator," he said through gritted teeth.
"Daksh. Daksh Advani. Why?" A gasp escaped my lips as he caged me against the car, his hand bracing itself beside my head.
"Because he was..." He paused, running a hand through his hair. Then, ignoring my questioning look, he opened the passenger door. Now, I was fuming. Ordered around? Check. Incomplete sentences? Check. And the manhandling? Absolutely not.
Fury surged through me. Ignoring the initial hesitation, I slammed the scissor door of the Lamborghini shut with a resounding thunk. Spinning on my heel, I faced Mr. Oberoi, my voice laced with ice.
"Don't you even think about putting your hands on me, Mr. Oberoi," I hissed. "Your wealth and status mean nothing here. Keep your distance."
"Look, Ms. Sawant," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Get in the car. It's late, and this isn't exactly a safe neighborhood for a woman to be alone at night."
Not wanting to argue any further, especially with my stomach growling like a famished beast, I climbed into the sleek black nightmare. He slammed the door shut a little harder than necessary, and I settled in, arms crossed and glare firmly in place.
The entire ride was a tense standoff. We didn't speak a word, just the rhythmic whoosh of the car slicing through the night air. Finally, he pulled up to my building, the harsh reality of my situation sinking in.
"This is me," I muttered, reaching for the door handle.
A hand shot out, his grip surprisingly firm on my wrist. I whipped around, my glare sharper than a freshly sharpened pencil.
"Engagement. Next Sunday," he blurted out, his eyes flickering away from mine for a brief moment. "Just... be ready."
My jaw dropped. Engagement? This whole night had been a surreal nightmare, and this was the cherry on top – a completely unexpected, completely unwelcome cherry.
"Seriously?" I sputtered, the words tumbling out in a jumbled mess. "And here I was thinking the worst part of my night was near-death by starvation!"
He finally met my gaze, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before he schooled his expression back into his usual stoic mask.
"Get some rest, Ms. Sawant," he muttered, releasing my wrist and throwing the car into park with a jerk.
I scrambled out of the car, the need for food and a long, uninterrupted conversation with Antara warring in my stomach. Slamming my apartment door shut behind me, I practically sprinted to the kitchen, the image of a steaming pizza already dancing in my head. This whole Oberoi mess could wait until tomorrow. Right now, my priority was sustenance and sanity – in that order.
