The late Bangalore sun bled orange through Oberoi Enterprises' glass walls, casting long shadows across the polished marble floors. Alisha strode through the corridor, Samrat's schedule clutched in her hand, her mind a storm of frustration. Assistant and bodyguard? More like glorified errand girl. His order to fetch his coffee and check his schedule still burned, his smug "firecracker" nickname echoing in her ears. She'd signed his contract—seven months of servitude to save a boy's life—but every smirk, every command, made her Kung Fu-trained fists itch to wipe that grin off his billionaire face.
Rahul, Samrat's aide, had handed her the schedule with a pitying look, his words cautious: "Be careful, Alisha. Samrat's enemies don't play nice." The warning, paired with the shadowy figure she'd spotted outside his office that morning, set her nerves on edge. Her almond-shaped eyes scanned the bustling office, her raven hair swaying as she moved, her flawless skin catching the light. To onlookers, she was a vision—petite, almost delicate, a Bollywood starlet in the making. But beneath her grace burned a firecracker, her Kung Fu prowess a lethal secret Samrat was about to witness.
She reached his office, knocking sharply. "Mr. Oberoi," she called, her voice laced with defiance, "your schedule."
"Come in," Samrat's low voice answered, smooth as velvet, edged with steel.
Alisha stepped inside, the air charged with his presence. He stood by the window, his tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders, his dark hair catching the sunset's glow. His chiseled jaw tilted as he turned, his molten brown eyes locking onto hers, a spark of amusement dancing within. "Well, firecracker," he said, smirking, "let's hear it."
She gritted her teeth, hating how his gaze—piercing, almost intimate—sent a traitor's warmth through her. "Meetings at 2 p.m. and 4 p.m.," she said, thrusting the schedule forward, her tone clipped. "Dinner with investors at 7. Rahul's arranging security."
Samrat took the paper, his fingers brushing hers, a deliberate graze that made her pulse jump. "Security?" he said, his smirk widening. "That's your job now, isn't it? Or are those Kung Fu moves just for show?"
Her eyes blazed, her temper flaring. "Keep pushing, sir," she snapped, "and you'll see how real they are."
His laugh was low, dangerous, his gaze raking over her—her defiant eyes, her cascading hair, her fierce beauty a storm he couldn't ignore. "Careful, firecracker," he murmured, stepping closer, his voice dropping. "I might take you up on that."
Before she could retort, a sharp crack echoed from the corridor—a glass panel shattering. Alisha's instincts kicked in, her body pivoting, muscles coiling like a panther's. "Stay here," she barked, already moving toward the door, her Kung Fu training taking over. Samrat's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, his grip firm but electric.
"Not without me," he said, his tone commanding, his eyes narrowing. "If it's trouble, I need to know."
She yanked free, her glare fierce. "Fine, but stay back. I've got this."
They stepped into the corridor, the office eerily quiet, employees frozen at their desks. Shattered glass littered the floor, a jagged hole in a nearby panel. Alisha's senses sharpened, her gaze catching a flicker of movement—two figures in black, masked, slipping through a side exit. Her heart raced, Rahul's warning ringing: Samrat's enemies don't play nice.
"Get down!" she shouted, shoving Samrat behind a pillar as a third figure emerged, a glint of steel in his hand—a knife, aimed at Samrat. Alisha moved like lightning, her Kung Fu a blur of precision. She sidestepped the blade, her arm snapping up to block, her leg sweeping low to knock the attacker off balance. He stumbled, but a second thug lunged, fists swinging.
Alisha ducked, her movements fluid, lethal. She drove her elbow into the second man's ribs, a sharp crack signaling a hit, then spun, her kick connecting with his jaw. He crumpled, groaning. The first attacker recovered, charging with the knife. Alisha's eyes narrowed, her training a symphony of instinct—she caught his wrist, twisted, and flipped him over her shoulder, slamming him to the ground. The knife clattered free, and she pinned him, her knee on his chest, her breath steady.
"Who sent you?" she demanded, her voice a low growl, her beauty fierce, untamed.
The man smirked, blood trickling from his lip. "You're in over your head, girl. Oberoi's war is bigger than you."
She pressed harder, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her—Samrat, his expression unreadable, his eyes blazing with something new: respect, maybe, or something hotter. "Enough," he said, his voice calm but lethal. "Let security handle them."
Alisha rose, her chest heaving, her gaze locked on Samrat. The office buzzed as employees whispered, their shock palpable. She'd been a delicate starlet moments ago; now, she was a warrior, her Kung Fu a revelation. Samrat's gaze lingered, tracing her flushed cheeks, her defiant chin, her beauty searing his thoughts despite his iron control.
"Nice moves," he said, his smirk returning, but softer, almost genuine. "Maybe you're worth that contract after all."
She stepped closer, her voice a challenge. "Keep underestimating me, sir, and you'll need more than a bodyguard."
His eyes darkened, a spark flaring—desire, danger, or both. Before he could reply, Rahul rushed in, his face pale. "Sir, we've got them secured, but there's a message." He handed Samrat a crumpled note, his hands trembling.
Samrat unfolded it, his jaw tightening. Alisha glimpsed the scrawl: "You can't hide, Oberoi. She won't save you." Her blood ran cold, the words tying to Chapter 4's warning: "They're coming." Samrat's enemies weren't just corporate rivals—they were predators, and she'd just stepped into their crosshairs.
He crumpled the note, his voice low. "Get back to work, firecracker. Tonight's dinner just got interesting."
Alisha's fists clenched, her mind racing. Interesting? She'd signed up to save a boy, not fight a war. But as Samrat strode away, his silhouette cutting through the chaos, she felt it—a pull, a spark, something dangerous blooming between them. Her beauty had caught his eye, but her fists had earned his attention. And now, with enemies closing in, her Kung Fu was all that stood between him and ruin.
Alisha's Kung Fu had shattered doubts, her beauty searing Samrat's restraint, but the note—"She won't save you"—chilled her soul. As Bangalore's night loomed, his investor dinner hid a deadly trap. Caught between loyalty and betrayal, her heart raced: could her fists protect him, or would his secrets claim them both?