Vivaan Oberoi, 22, is a spoiled rich brat and MBA student. Known for his uncontrollable anger, Vivaan is a bad boy and the most popular guy in college, admired by many girls. Even the principal doesn't dare to oppose him. His parents want him to tak...
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In New York, The nursery was quiet, with only the sound of water dripping from freshly watered plants and the occasional rustle of leaves in the soft breeze. Prisha Singhania, a striking 22-year-old, stood among the greenery, carefully watering the delicate flower pots. The scent of roses and jasmine filled the air, but her expression was far from serene. Her eyes, usually calm, held a trace of coldness as she tended to the flowers.
"Prisha... Don't you have office today?" came the voice of Aunt Lily who worked there, breaking the silence.
Prisha turned, her movements graceful but her gaze distant. "Yes," she replied, her tone steady but detached. "I'm just going."
She picked up a rose pot, cradling it gently as though it were the most precious thing in the world.
Aunt Lily, noticing the pot, raised an eyebrow. "Where are you taking that?"
"I'll keep it in my cabin," Prisha said, her voice softening just a little.
Aunt Lily smiled warmly, placing a hand on Prisha's shoulder. "Good luck, dear. You'll do great."
Prisha managed a small smile, thanking her aunt before she left the nursery, heading into the bustling city.
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Meanwhile, Vivaan stepped out of the America airport, feeling the weight of the city's unfamiliarity pressing down on him. The skyscrapers loomed high above, making him feel even more out of place. He was here for some weeks, sent by his father to oversee some project he had little interest in. It already felt like a burden.
Vivaan's thoughts churned, his fist tightening. God knows why he wants me to handle this project, he thought bitterly. He should just give it to Darsh—his so-called son. The mention of Darsh brought a scowl to Vivaan's face.
As he picked up his rental car, Vivaan's thoughts drifted back to India. Specifically, to Reet. Her voice echoed in his mind from their conversation at the airport. He couldn't shake the memory of how she had almost said something important before she hesitated. But before he could dive deeper into his thoughts, a loud honk jolted him back to reality.
In the chaos of traffic, Vivaan barely avoided hitting someone crossing the street, sending their things flying to the ground. His car skidded to a halt, bumping into a pedestrian in the process. Cursing under his breath, he stepped out of the car, frustration already building.
"Hey! Are you blind or just clumsy?" he snapped.
The girl he had bumped into turned to face him, her calmness striking. "Hey, watch where you're going," she replied, her voice smooth and collected, an unexpected contrast to Vivaan's irritation.
Vivaan glared at her, his temper flaring. "Are you kidding me? You were the one not looking!"
The girl—Prisha—met his gaze, unfazed. "I was looking, actually. It's just that you seemed too distracted to notice where you were going."
Vivaan's jaw tightened. "Whatever. Just stay out of my way. Because of you, my car's got a dent."
Prisha glanced at his car, her expression indifferent. "My flower pot also got ruined because of you," she said, her voice still calm but with a hint of disappointment. "These were my favorites."
Vivaan rolled his eyes, annoyed by her apparent lack of concern. "So? It was just a flower pot. It's such a cheap thing you're crying over. Do you know how expensive this car is?"
Prisha's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, there was a flicker of sharpness in her tone. "Excuse me? What do you mean by 'cheap'?"
Vivaan crossed his arms, his annoyance growing. "I'll pay for it. Happy now?"
Prisha let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Keep your attitude to yourself, Mr. Rich Boy. I don't want your money." She crossed her arms defiantly. "And maybe you should stop acting like the world revolves around you."
Vivaan stared at her, completely taken aback by her boldness. No one ever spoke to him like this. "How dare you talk to me like that?" His voice was rising again. "Do you even know who I am?"
Prisha tilted her head slightly, her expression calm but challenging. "Why? Do you forget who you are?" Her words were a deliberate jab, and Vivaan felt the sting. "You know, it wouldn't hurt to calm down a bit. Maybe then you wouldn't find yourself bumping into people."
Vivaan blinked, speechless for a moment. He was used to people backing down, not pushing back. Something about this woman's cool demeanor irritated him—and intrigued him at the same time.
"You–" he started, but she interrupted him.
"Say sorry," Prisha said, her voice firm but not unkind. "It won't hurt your ego..."
Vivaan clenched his jaw, his pride fighting against the logic in her words. He hated being told what to do, especially by someone who didn't seem intimidated by him. But he couldn't help but notice how calm she remained throughout the argument, while he was the one losing control.
"I don't have a habit of saying sorry," he shot back, folding his arms defensively.
Prisha stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head, disappointment flashing briefly in her eyes. Without another word, she knelt down, carefully retrieving the rose from the broken pot. Her movements were slow, almost reverent, as she brushed the dust off the delicate flower. Then, with a quiet sigh, she stood up and turned to leave.
Vivaan watched her walk away, his frustration mingling with something else—something he couldn't quite place. There was something about the way she carried herself, the calm strength in her presence, that left him momentarily speechless. His eyes followed her until she disappeared into the crowd, her floral dress fluttering in the wind, her hair tied in a neat ponytail.
"Beautiful..." he muttered under his breath, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
