Aryan Mehta
I've always believed in precision.
Deals, not emotions. Strategies, not sympathy.
Love?
A distraction for the weak. And I don't get distracted.
That night, the ballroom shimmered with people who called themselves powerful. Champagne sparkled. Laughter faked its way across tables. And there, in the middle of it all, she walked in — red silk trailing behind her like a signature I didn't ask for.
It was Saanvi Khanna.
Daughter of the man who ruined my family.
I had seen her photos. Dozens of them. Research files, charity events, press clippings. But none of them told me how quiet the room would get when she entered.
How she'd smile like she hadn't been born into a dynasty of ruin.
How she'd make men turn without saying a word.
She wasn't my type.
Too soft. Too polished. Totally not my type.
But tonight, I wasn't looking for a type.
I was looking for a crack in her.
"Mr. Mehta," someone greeted. I didn't respond. My eyes were already on her. Not in lust. Not yet but in calculation.
She reached for a flute of champagne.
Her fingers brushed the glass.
And that was when she looked up—straight at me.
I look at her as if I hadn't spent six months planning to dismantle her life.
Her smile didn't falter.
Mine sharpened.
Good. Let's play. I say to myself with a smirk.
She didn't look away.
Neither did I.
It was bold, the way she held my gaze. Not flirty. Not arrogant. Just… steady. Confident in a way most people weren't around me. Maybe she didn't know who I was yet. That would change soon.
I stepped away from the shadows of the VIP lounge, ignoring the murmurs around me. All eyes noticed when I moved. That was the perk of being Aaryan Mehta.
And tonight, she was going to notice too.
She turned toward the far corner where the orchestra was softly playing some rich man's idea of class. Her champagne was untouched. Red lips curved slightly—not into a smile, but something that looked more like a private joke.
I reached her just as she set the glass down.
"Ms. Khanna," I said smoothly, voice calm, a fraction lower than usual. Intentional. Controlled.
She glanced at me. No recognition. Not yet.
Then—pause. Slight tilt of her head.
"I'm sorry, have we met?"
Not yet. But you'll remember me.
"Not formally," I replied. "Aaryan Mehta."
Her eyes flickered—almost imperceptibly—but I caught it. She knew the name.
Everyone did.
"Ah, the investment king with no press photos," she said. "You do exist."
"And you're the Khanna heiress they keep trying to sell as the next face of 'empowered luxury,'" I said dryly.
Her lips twitched. That almost-smile again. "Ouch."
"You don't seem offended."
"I've been called worse. Besides," she leaned in slightly, "you said that you've read all the articles about me."
I didn't blink. "I have."
That paused her for half a second.
Then she laughed softly. "And here I thought stalking was reserved for Instagram models."
"It's not stalking," I said. "It's research."
She arched a brow. "And what does your research tell you, Mr. Mehta?"
I stepped closer, not touching her—never that soon. But the air between us shifted. Tightened.
"That you're here tonight to prove a point to your father. That you hate these events but show up anyway. That you're trying very hard to look like you belong."
Pause.
"And that underneath all that silk… you're exhausted."
Her breath hitched. Barely.
But I heard it.
She opened her mouth to respond—but was interrupted.
"Miss Saanvi, your father is asking—" a waiter leaned in with a whisper. Her expression cooled instantly.
Of course.
Her father still owned the building. But he wouldn't own her forever. I'd make sure of it.
She gave me a glance—sharp, curious, a challenge in disguise.
"Careful, Mr. Mehta," she said, rising.
"Whatever you're playing at—"
She leaned in, her voice brushing against my ear.
"—you might just lose."
I watched her walk away. Not like a girl running from danger. Like a woman who was danger. Or thought she was.
But that's the thing about people like her.
They think they know how the game works.
They've never met someone who designed the board.
I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Vihaan.
"She took the bait. Step 2 begins tomorrow."
I stared at the empty flute she left behind. The lipstick stain curved against the rim like a mark.
No strings.
Just revenge.
That's all this is.
Isn't it?