The boardroom is silent.

Not the peaceful kind— this is the silence of tension, sharp-edged and coiled, humming in the air like a wire stretched too thin. It’s the kind of quiet that exists seconds before the trigger is pulled.

I sit at the head of the long, glass table, fingers steepled beneath my chin. Behind me, the London skyline sprawls in cold elegance... steel and glass glittering under the morning sun like a battleground dressed in couture. Ruthless. Beautiful. Distant.

It suits me. It suits this.

The acquisition isn’t officially done yet. Not on paper. But paper doesn’t matter. Power doesn’t wait for ink.

I’ve already tightened the noose. Slowly, deliberately... until it’s snug enough she’ll have no choice but to look up and see me holding the other end.

And she will look. She’ll have to.

The question is— Will she flinch?

“Any update?” I ask, voice smooth, quiet, laced with a kind of stillness that carries weight. I don’t turn to Kabir, who’s lounging against the far wall, arms crossed like this is just another one of my games.

He lets out a low whistle, amused. “You really want her pissed off, don’t you?”

My gaze flicks to him— sharp, deliberate. “I don’t want her angry,” I say, evenly. “I want her here.”

He smirks, brow raised. “Same thing with you, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer. Not because I don’t have a response—

But because I know exactly what he means.

And I don’t like how true it is.

She’s been haunting my thoughts for months now. Not in the poetic, romantic sense.

In the way smoke haunts a room long after the fire’s been put out. Lingering. Clinging. Getting under your skin and staying there.

I’ve studied her movements like a strategist watching an opponent. But lately… it doesn’t feel like war.

It feels personal.

The way she walks into a room and owns it without a word. The tilt of her chin, the precision in her silence. She doesn’t just lead—she dares you to underestimate her.

I used to admire it from a distance. Now, I want to see what happens when I stand too close.

So I did what I do best.

I created the crack.

The moment I discovered the weak link in Oberoi Industries’ European logistics division, I sank my teeth in. Quiet. Strategic. Unapologetic.

Bought out third-party contractors. Disrupted shipments. Highlighted inefficiencies no one had dared touch.

On paper, it’s just unfortunate coincidence.

In reality? It’s precision.

A chess game she doesn’t know she’s already losing. And today… the queen moves.

She’s coming.

I feel it— not just in theory, not just in probability. In my bones. In my blood. Like an ache.

Let her storm in. Let her rage. Let her slam the door and throw her fury in my face.

Because anger is easier than admitting curiosity. And rage? Rage means she felt something.

That’s all I need.

Because when she’s close enough—when her fire meets mine— something’s going to burn.

And God help us both…I’m not sure I want to put it out.

“Ms. Oberoi will be here in fifteen minutes,” David announces as he steps into the room, clipboard in hand, his tone clipped with quiet urgency. “Confirmed. She’s coming herself. No legal reps. No CFO. Just her.”

Just her.

My lips curve slowly—less a smile, more the ghost of one.

Perfect.

I rise from my chair, the leather creaking beneath me, and straighten the cuffs of my charcoal suit. Each movement is precise, practiced— an old ritual to calm the storm that simmers beneath the surface. But today, it doesn't work. Not entirely.

Because beneath the cool, rehearsed exterior… I can feel her getting closer. Like static in the air before lightning splits the sky.

“Prepare the conference room downstairs,” I say, voice low, controlled. “I want it cold. Let her feel it in her bones.”

Kabir glances up from his spot by the door, where he’s slouched with all the ease of a man who has nothing to prove. “Planning to seduce her with HVAC settings now?”

I don’t respond. He knows better than to expect banter from me today.

Because this—she—isn’t a game.

She never was.

My mind drifts ahead. Already visualizing the moment her heels strike marble, sharp and precise like the blade she’s always been. I see the exact flicker of disdain that will tighten her jaw.

The frost in her eyes when they finally meet mine. No lawyers, no assistants, no goddamn screens between us this time.

Just her. And me. Face to face. War to war.

“Clear the table. No distractions,” I say flatly. “And disable the hallway cameras. No recordings.”

Kabir lets out a low whistle, again. “You’re something else, bhai.”

“You're something else, brother.”

I meet his gaze, my tone dipping into something colder. “She thinks she’s in control. That she’s untouchable. But everyone breaks eventually.”

He watches me more carefully now. “Even her?”

A muscle ticks in my jaw.

Even her? Especially her.

But it’s not about breaking her. Not really. It’s about unraveling her. Piece by piece. Layer by layer.

Until the woman behind the empire stands in front of me, naked in truth— not just flesh, but emotion. Vulnerability. Need.

And then I’ll know her in ways no one else ever could. Because that’s the only kind of intimacy I understand—complete possession.

“She’s not like the others,” I murmur more to myself than him. “She never was.”

I still remember the first time I saw her, closely— almost a year ago at that charity gala.

A room filled with London’s most polished predators and pawns, yet she stood apart. Not because of the crimson dress that hugged her like sin, but because she didn't need attention. She commanded it by simply not caring.

She didn’t look at me once.

Not when I walked past her. Not when we shared the same air. Not even when our eyes nearly met.

That should’ve been the end of it. Just another cold queen in a city of glass castles. But no… she haunted me.

Her indifference carved something out of me— sharp, unrelenting.

Curiosity bled into obsession. Obsession bled into something worse.

Longing.

A brutal kind of wanting, the kind that leaves a man hollow unless he owns what he craves.

And I crave her.

Not just her body— though that, too, burns like a slow poison through my veins— but her mind. Her rage. Her silence. The way she hides every bruise with poise, every scar behind sarcasm.

She doesn’t want to be seen. But I see her anyway.

And now, she’s walking into the very trap I’ve spent months building with surgical precision.

From the upper floor window, I watch as her car pulls up to the curb. The glass reflects my own still frame back at me... like a ghost watching his prey.

She steps out with the elegance of a drawn blade— controlled, dangerous, deadly.

A white blouse tucked into black high-waisted trousers, her long coat billowing like war behind her. Every step is deliberate. Her heels strike the pavement with the rhythm of a countdown.

And she doesn’t hesitate. Of course she doesn’t.

She doesn’t see the trap. Not yet.

“Yeh ladki aag hai,” I murmur under my breath.

“This woman is fire.”

But fire… even fire can be contained—if you know how to build the right cage.

And I do.

I’ve spent sleepless nights designing it. Walls made of her secrets. Chains forged from mine.

But this cage won’t bind her. It’ll invite her. Because once she steps inside, she won’t even want to leave.

And God help us both… neither will I.

I knew something’s wrong the moment I step inside the building.

It’s too quiet... the kind of quiet that isn’t natural but curated, like a stage waiting for the curtain to rise.

The receptionist greets me with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, the kind of smile you put on when you've been warned not to fuck this up. And the security guard doesn’t ask who I am. He already knows. He doesn't even glance at the visitor log— just gives a small nod, like we’re following a script.

A script I didn’t write.

This isn’t a boardroom invitation. It’s a performance. A power play. A well-dressed ambush disguised as hospitality.

And I hate games.

But I walk in anyway, shoulders squared, head high. Because backing down is a luxury. And I don’t have luxuries right now— not when everything is on the line.

The reports were clear—too clear to ignore. Our logistics division is unraveling, not from negligence, but sabotage.

Bit by bit, Maheswari Holdings has been slicing into our infrastructure with surgical precision.

First, it was delayed shipments. Then unreturned calls. Then total silence. One by one, our oldest partners have walked away like ghosts. Like someone’s been whispering in their ears and making them promises we can’t match.

Someone with power. Influence. Patience. Someone who’s playing a long game.

I press the elevator button harder than necessary, like it’s his face under my fingertip. My reflection in the steel doors stares back at me— lipstick perfect, eyes cold. Controlled. But underneath the polish, I feel it: the simmer. The fury I’ve been curating like fine wine.

I’ve seen this play before.

My parents underestimated someone once. Believed in the strength of old loyalties. And they died for it.

I won’t repeat their mistake.

The elevator dings open on the 23rd floor. I step out and... immediately, I feel it. The air.

Cold. Artificially so.

A sharp, clinical chill meant to scrape against skin and bite through silk. I wrap my arms tighter around myself for a second before forcing them to drop.

Of course he’d do this. Of course he’d weaponize even the damn thermostat.

Because this isn’t just about business for him.

It’s control. Atmosphere. Atmosphere is everything to men like Ishaan Maheswari. He doesn’t need to say a word— he builds worlds that speak for him.

You’re in my domain now. You follow my temperature, my rhythm, my rules.

I can almost hear his voice, that smooth arrogance laced with danger.

But I won’t let him see it get to me.

Not the temperature. Not the silence. Not the fact that this entire building feels like it was redesigned overnight to swallow me whole.

My heels strike the floor with sharp precision— no stumbles, no hesitation. I walk like I own the goddamn place, even if it feels like I’ve just stepped onto the chessboard and I’m the only one who didn’t get to pick a piece.

This is his turf. His trap.

But he made one mistake. He assumed I came here to play.

I didn’t. I came to end it.

I step into the conference room and see him before he even turns.

Ishaan Maheswari.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. He stands with the stillness of a man who’s used to commanding attention without ever asking for it. His presence isn’t loud— it’s sharp, deliberate.

Power isn’t just worn by him; it radiates from him like second skin. That charcoal suit clings to him with tailored precision, dark as his intentions, cut like it was meant for war. And his silence? It’s not empty. It’s loaded. Like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to fire.

His head tilts slightly, acknowledging me. “Miss Oberoi,” he says, voice smooth, calm, and disturbingly pleased. “Finally.”

That word—finally—lands with more weight than it should.

I don’t respond. I meet his gaze like it’s a challenge, like I haven’t already felt it scraping down my spine. “I prefer to deal with people who don’t set fires just to get my attention.”

There’s a flicker of something at the corner of his mouth. A restrained smile. Almost amused. “And yet,” he steps forward with the ease of someone who knows exactly how much space he owns, “here you are.”

I want to scoff. Instead, I hold still.

He’s looking at me like I’m not just the opponent— but the endgame.

And I can’t afford to blink first.

“I didn’t come here to indulge your theatrics,” I say, letting my bag drop onto the nearest chair, reclaiming control with that single motion. “So tell me. What do you want?”

His answer is immediate, unsettlingly calm. “I already have what I want.”

He doesn’t look at the contract on the table. Doesn’t gesture to the files, or numbers, or the deal this meeting is supposed to be about.

His eyes are on me.

Still. Focused. Warm like fire— but not the comforting kind. The kind that devours.

“You,” he says. “In this room.”

It isn’t business. It’s bait. And I feel myself stiffen despite everything— despite the armor I’ve spent years perfecting.

He doesn’t speak like a man used to chasing. He speaks like a man used to winning. And suddenly, this room feels smaller. Tighter. Like I’ve walked into a trap I saw coming but underestimated anyway.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. Maheswari,” I say, voice calm but clipped. I keep my posture straight, chin high, but my heartbeat’s starting to pick up— just a touch. Enough for me to notice. Enough for him to notice too, I’m sure.

His expression doesn’t shift. But there’s something behind his eyes— something cool and calculating. “Only if I lose.”

The words land like a promise. Or maybe a warning.

I study him for a long moment.

He’s everything I expected. Cold. Confident. Ruthless. But there’s something else too— something beneath the arrogance.

A stillness that feels less like patience and more like restraint. Like he’s holding back something sharp, something twisted. A truth he’s not ready to name yet.

And the worst part? I know that feeling. Because I’ve held it too.

That darkness. That urge to control a world that once slipped out of your hands. The ache to bend chaos into something you can call your own.

And maybe that’s why he scares me more than anyone else ever has.

Not because he’s powerful. But because a part of me understands him.

And a deeper part? It wants to see what happens if I stop running.

This isn’t just about companies or market shares anymore. This is personal.

Every move he’s made in the past three weeks— the asset siphoning, the vendor acquisitions, the sudden investor cold feet— it wasn’t just corporate warfare. It was precision-targeted chaos.

A meticulously curated collapse, just slow enough to keep me scrambling and fast enough to burn bridges before I could rebuild them.

He doesn’t just want dominance in the logistics sector—he wants control. Over me. Over the narrative. Over the illusion of stability I’ve bled to maintain since the day my world was turned upside down.

And the worst part? He’s succeeding. Because I’m here.

In his space. On his terms. Exactly where he wanted me.

I cross the room with measured steps, each one echoing louder than necessary in the cold, sterile silence. I sit down, legs folded neatly, chin held high. Every motion deliberate. Collected. Mechanical.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say, voice smooth as glass, emotionless.

But inside? I’m already recalculating. Rethinking every defensive line I came in with.

Because I can’t afford to play this like a businesswoman anymore. I need to play like a survivor.

And I’ve survived far worse than Ishaan Maheswari.

He doesn't speak. Not immediately. He simply watches me, his stare unsettling in its calmness, like he’s waiting. Not for my words— but for the cracks. For the unraveling.

But I don’t break easily. I’ve sat in hospital corridors that reeked of antiseptic and death, held my parents’ lifeless fingers long after they turned cold. I’ve read police reports filled with redacted lines and false apologies.

I've learned what real helplessness feels like.

This?

This is child’s play compared to that.

I don’t care how expensive his suit is or how many zeroes trail his net worth. He’s still just another man trying to puppeteer me.

And I’ve severed those strings before.

“I’ll be direct,” I say, placing the folder between us on the table. The pages inside are damning—data, timelines, legal reports that took my entire department weeks to compile.

I flip it open slowly, each motion clean and surgical. “You’ve orchestrated a systematic chokehold. Cut off our supply chains. Acquired our vendors through layered shell subsidiaries. Hijacked contracts that have belonged to Oberoi Industries for over a decade.”

I pause, letting the weight of the facts settle between us.

“This isn’t a strategic acquisition. It’s extortion.”

He leans back finally, as if the whole routine had been rehearsed. There’s that look again—smug, unreadable, and far too calm.

“I prefer to call it strategy,” he says, his tone like silk draped over something much sharper underneath. “You’re calling it blackmail because you weren’t prepared for me.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t let it show.

Because that’s what he wants— to provoke, to prod, to peel back my armor piece by piece until I flinch.

But I’ve spent too many years mastering the art of stillness. Of showing nothing.

Especially in front of men who think silence is submission.

“You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?” I ask, voice flat. “Do you get a thrill watching people scramble while you sit back and pull strings?”

He tilts his head slightly, like I’ve asked him a riddle he already knows the answer to.

“No,” he murmurs, lips curving, eyes darker than they were a moment ago. “The thrill isn’t in the scramble. It’s in watching who adapts… and who doesn’t.”

That does it.

Not the words— but the quiet certainty behind them.

He thinks I won’t adapt. He thinks this version of me—the one walking in here composed and alone—is all I am.

He doesn’t know I’ve been sharpening my blades in silence for years.

So I lean in slightly, just enough for him to register the change in posture.

“You may have pulled the first string, Mr. Maheswari,” I say, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, cold and steady. “But you have no idea how many I’ve got left.”

And I won’t hesitate to wrap them around your throat if you force my hand.

I don’t say that last part aloud.

I don’t need to. He’ll feel it.

And when the real game begins, he’ll regret ever mistaking me for anything less than lethal.

His arrogance stings. Not because it surprises me—God, no. I’ve known men like him. I’ve crushed men like him.

But what rattles beneath my skin is something far worse.

His arrogance doesn’t mirror power… it mirrors me. The part I’ve kept under lock and key. The girl who once craved not just survival, but domination. Who once fantasized about burning it all down, just to watch the smoke rise and call it justice.

I shove the folder across the table, my tone all ice and iron. “Let’s talk strategy.”

He watches me like he’s bored of the conversation, but amused by me. I hate that look.

I fucking hate that look.

“I’m offering a counter-contract,” I continue. “You restore my logistics division. In return, you get exclusive access to distribute through Oberoi’s Asian markets. High volume. Clean supply chains. You get power, I get stability. A strategic win for both of us.”

He doesn’t even look at the file.

“I’m not interested in win-win, Ms. Oberoi.”

My jaw clenches. The only thing worse than a man drunk on control is one who thinks he doesn’t have to hide it.

“Then what the hell are you interested in?”

His gaze sharpens, something slow and merciless gleaming behind it— like a man who’s already tasted blood and is deciding whether to devour the rest.

“You.”

The word lands like a blade—quiet, but lethal. A single syllable that slams into the space between us and shatters the rules I’ve built brick by ruthless brick.

My breath snags. Not from surprise. From fury. And something else I don’t wanna name.

He leans forward, bracing his forearms against the table, not blinking once.

“You walked into this room ready to kill a king,” he says, voice low, deliberate, “and you didn’t even flinch when you realized it was a trap. That’s not strategy, Ms. Oberoi. That’s instinct. That’s someone who was born to run empires, not play nice in boardrooms.”

I freeze.

“Most people lead with fear or greed. You lead with silence. With control. You measure the room before it knows it’s being watched. That’s rare. And it’s dangerous.”

His words dig into me like claws. It’s not flattery. Not seduction. It’s recognition—and somehow, that’s worse.

His eyes don’t waver. “You think this is about obsession? About leverage? You’re wrong. This is about me seeing something I haven’t seen in a long time—maybe ever.”

He stands, slow and measured, and the air shifts like gravity tilting toward him.

“Someone who could burn me alive… and I’d thank her for the fire.”

I hate how my pulse answers him. Hate that there’s a part of me— buried under layers of grief and glass and ice— that understands what he means. Because I’ve felt it too.

And I don’t know which one of us is the bigger threat.

I rise to my feet, spine straight, fury coating every word. “You think you’ve won just because I showed up?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me with the unnerving stillness of a man who doesn’t need to chase power— because he is the storm everyone else is running from.

“I haven’t even started playing yet,” I bite out.

He steps closer, shrinking the distance. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel the tension humming like a live wire.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then play. Let’s see who breaks first.”

My breath catches, heat crawling up the back of my neck. Logic screams at me to step away. To retreat. To regroup.

But I don’t move. And neither does he.

I take a step back before I can stop myself. Just one. Small. Measured. But enough.

And he sees it. Of course he does.

His mouth curves— not into a smile, but into something darker. A flicker of satisfaction, subtle yet unmistakable. Pleased. Possessive. Like he’s claimed some silent victory over ground I didn’t even know I’d surrendered.

“You’re going to regret this,” I say, each word carefully wrapped in ice, my voice steady only because it has to be.

Because when everything inside me is cracking wide open, control is the only armor I have left.

But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

He just watches me with that insufferable calm, like he’s already written the next ten moves.

Then—deliberately—his gaze drops to my lips.

Slow. Arrogant and... lingers. Too long. Too intimate.

My pulse spikes, but I don’t move. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how easily he gets under my skin.

When his eyes lift again, there’s something dangerous simmering behind them.

“Only if you walk out of here and pretend this didn’t make you feel alive,” he murmurs, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. Smooth. Deadly. Intoxicating.

I scoff. Sharp. Dismissive. Cold. “I don’t feel anything.”

A lie. God, such a beautifully practiced lie.

Polished in therapy, perfected in boardrooms, repeated in mirrors until it slid off my tongue like second nature.

But his eyes darken with something that looks like... disappointment? No— recognition.

He’s heard this line before. He knows a bluff when he sees one.

“Liar,” he says softly. Not mocking. Not cruel. Almost tender.

And that’s what cuts the deepest.

That he speaks the truth like he’s offering me mercy. Like he thinks he’s doing me a favor.

Something cracks in my chest—faint, but sharp.

I spin on my heel and walk out. Each step loud against the marble, stilettos clicking with a fury I can’t contain.

The sound echoes like gunfire down the corridor, too loud, too honest.

But not louder than the storm rising inside me.

I hate him.

I hate how he sees through the masks I spent years perfecting. How he slips past my defenses without even trying. I hate the way his silence is louder than most people’s screams. I hate how he looks at me like I’m already his—even when I know I’d rather burn than be owned.

But worst of all?

I hate that part of me stayed behind.

That small, reckless, traitorous part. The one that leaned in instead of pulling away. The one that still wonders what it would feel like to stop pretending.

He knows it. That bastard knows.

And that makes him even more dangerous than I thought.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Me: “they’re just gonna talk.”

Also me: adds sexual tension, psychological warfare, and emotional whiplash to every line anyway.

That was their first meeting. 🤭

Who’s gonna break first— her ice, or his control?

Place your bets in the comments... and like if you love a good enemies-to-something-unhinged😼