The Bangalore night pulsed with glamour, the city's elite gathered at the opulent Leela Palace, its chandeliers casting golden light across marble floors. Alisha stood at the edge of the investor dinner, her black saree clinging to her curves, its silver embroidery shimmering like starlight. Her almond-shaped eyes scanned the crowd, her raven hair cascading in waves, her flawless skin glowing under the soft glow. To the tycoons and socialites, she was a vision—a Bollywood starlet poised for the spotlight. But beneath her elegance, her Kung Fu-honed instincts thrummed, alert for the danger hinted by the crumpled note from Chapter 6: "She won't save you."
Samrat Oberoi, the evening's host, commanded the room, his tailored tuxedo accentuating his broad shoulders, his chiseled jaw set with quiet authority. His molten brown eyes flickered to Alisha, lingering on her beauty with a heat he barely concealed. She was his bodyguard, his assistant, his firecracker—a six-month deal born of a boy's life, now tangled in a corporate war. The attack at his office hours ago, her Kung Fu dismantling two thugs, had shifted something between them. Respect, desire, or danger—she couldn't tell, but his gaze burned, and her traitor heart raced.
"Stay sharp, firecracker," he'd murmured before they entered, his voice low, his breath grazing her ear. "Tonight's not just dinner—it's a battlefield."
Now, as investors clinked champagne flutes, Alisha shadowed Samrat, her senses razor-sharp. The note's warning, tied to Chapter 4's "They're coming" message, loomed large. Rahul's words echoed: "Samrat's enemies don't play nice." She'd signed up to protect him, but the rules—prioritizing his life over hers, answering his every call—chafed her pride. Arrogant billionaire, she thought, catching his smirk across the room. I'll save you, but only because I keep my word.
Samrat worked the crowd, his charm disarming tycoons, but Alisha noticed the undercurrents—furtive glances, a man in a gray suit lingering too long near the bar, his eyes tracking Samrat. Her instincts flared, her body tensing. She moved closer, her saree swishing, her grace masking the warrior within. "Mr. Oberoi," she said, her voice low, "we need to talk."
He raised a brow, excusing himself from a group of investors. "Problem, firecracker?" he asked, his smirk infuriatingly calm, his gaze dipping to her lips.
She leaned in, her voice a hiss. "Gray suit, bar. Watching you. He's not an investor."
Samrat's eyes flickered to the man, his expression hardening, but his smirk held. "Good catch," he said, his tone deceptively light. "Stick close. If he moves, you move."
She nodded, her pulse quickening, her Kung Fu training a steady hum in her veins. The dinner progressed, speeches and laughter filling the air, but Alisha's focus never wavered. The gray-suited man slipped toward a side corridor, his movements too deliberate. She signaled Samrat with a glance, already moving, her heels silent on the marble.
The corridor was dim, shadows pooling in corners. Alisha's senses sharpened, her body poised like a panther's. She caught a glint—metal, a silenced pistol in the man's hand, aimed at a figure ahead. Samrat, who'd followed her against her orders, was steps away, exposed. "Down!" she shouted, lunging forward.
Her Kung Fu exploded into action, a blur of lethal precision. She closed the distance in a heartbeat, her arm snapping up to deflect the gun, her leg sweeping low to trip the attacker. He stumbled, firing a muted shot that grazed a wall, sparks flying. Alisha didn't flinch—she spun, her elbow crashing into his jaw, a sharp crack echoing. He swung a fist, but she ducked, her kick connecting with his ribs, sending him sprawling.
A second figure emerged from the shadows, a knife gleaming. Alisha's instincts screamed, her training a symphony of power. She sidestepped the blade, her hands twisting his wrist, flipping him over her shoulder with a thud. The knife clattered free, and she pinned him, her knee on his chest, her breath steady. "Who's behind this?" she demanded, her voice a growl, her beauty fierce, untamed.
The man sneered, blood on his lips. "You're out of your league, princess. Oberoi's empire is crumbling."
Before she could press further, Samrat's voice cut through, low and lethal. "That's enough." He stepped into the light, his tuxedo pristine despite the chaos, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and admiration. "Security's on the way."
Alisha rose, her chest heaving, her saree slightly askew but her grace unbroken. The crowd's murmurs reached the corridor, guests peering in, shock rippling through the gala. She'd been a delicate vision moments ago; now, she was a warrior, her Kung Fu a spectacle that left jaws dropped. Samrat's gaze locked on her, tracing her flushed cheeks, her defiant chin, her beauty searing his restraint. "Impressive," he said, his voice soft, dangerous. "You might just survive this war."
She stepped closer, her eyes blazing. "I'm not here to survive, sir. I'm here to win. So tell me—who's after you?"
His smirk faltered, a shadow crossing his face. Before he could answer, Rahul burst in, his face ashen. "Sir, we've got them, but there's more." He handed Samrat a phone, a message glowing: "Next time, we won't miss." Alisha's blood chilled, the words echoing Chapter 6's note and Chapter 4's warning. Samrat's enemies weren't just hunting him—they were testing her, and she was the key.
Samrat pocketed the phone, his jaw tight. "Back to the gala," he said, his tone clipped. "We're not done here."
Alisha followed, her mind racing. A war I didn't sign up for. But as she walked beside him, his presence a storm of power and danger, she felt it—a spark, a pull, something reckless igniting. His gaze flicked to her, lingering on her lips, her eyes, her beauty a flame he couldn't extinguish. "Stay close, firecracker," he murmured, his voice a promise, a threat. "This night's far from over."
As they reentered the gala, the crowd parted, whispers trailing them. Alisha's heart pounded, her Kung Fu ready, her resolve steel. She was his bodyguard, his shield, but Samrat's secrets were unraveling, and the next strike could cost her everything—her life, or her heart.
Alisha's Kung Fu had thwarted death, her beauty unraveling Samrat's control, but the message—"Next time, we won't miss"—promised blood. As Bangalore's elite watched, a traitor hid among them, and her heart whispered a dangerous truth: protecting him could destroy her, or bind them forever.