The morning started like every other at Sharma Enterprise—with tension hanging in the air so thick it could choke a man. And in the eye of that controlled storm stood Diya Sharma. Not the kind of woman who needed to raise her voice to assert power—but today, she did.

"I don't fucking care. You're out of this city if the files aren’t here within the hour!!!." Her words cut through the room like a whip, sharp and unapologetic, and every man in the vicinity knew exactly who she was. Not just by name.But by the sheer gravity of her presence.

Diya Sharma wasn’t some fairytale heiress or designer-draped puppet born to inherit. She was the kind of woman who built her identity from the ground up, brick by bloody brick.

CEO of Sharma Enterprise, one of the top businesswomen in the country, and not because someone handed her the reins, but because she earned the right to hold them.

Her face was known in Forbes circles and whispered about in boardrooms dominated by men twice her age. She didn’t crumble under pressure—she studied it, dissected it, and made it her leverage. She wasn't the woman who begged for a seat at the table; she walked in and redesigned the damn table.

Her father, Dishant Sharma was betrayed—not by a stranger, not by some faraway enemy in a boardroom, but by blood.

By his own brother.

The man he had once thought would shield him from the world, the one he thought would have taken a bullet for him without a second thought. The one who had lifted him when he was a kid.

That kind of betrayal doesn’t scream; it doesn’t explode. It seeps in quietly, slow and poisonous, through dinners shared and smiles exchanged.

There’s an old saying—the real snake eats from your plate first—and by the time you notice the venom, it’s already too late. Her father learned that the hardest way. Everything his father built and he had protected, every deal he fought for, every sacrifice he made—it all collapsed in silence. So he walked away. From the family name, the legacy, the illusion of brotherhood. He started over with bare hands and borrowed courage.

No safety net. No backup plan. Just grit, faith, and the pain of betrayal sharpening every decision. Diya had seen it all—the way he came home quieter, the way his eyes carried weight even when he smiled. And something in her changed that day.

She swore, not like a daughter making a promise, but like a warrior taking an oath: that whatever this empire became, it would never be vulnerable again. Not while she stood. Not while her blood ran hot. She’d protect what her father built, brick by brick, even if it meant burning the whole world to the ground in the process.

Her assistant, Rishi Khanna, stood frozen like a man cornered by a wild animal, mumbling apologies through trembling lips. He’d worked under her for four years, long enough to know her thresholds—and today, he had crossed one. “Keep that sorry to yourself, Mr. Khanna,” she snapped, her voice calm but heavy with warning.

“If I say I want the files, I get the files. Fire them if you have to, but no one fucks with my schedule.” She didn’t need to yell to be dangerous; the weight in her tone did the work for her. And just like that, Rishi bolted out of the room like a man who'd just seen his career flash before his eyes.

Leaning back in her chair, Diya let out a low, frustrated exhale and muttered, “Fucking hell,” under her breath. She rubbed her temples, trying to dissolve the irritation that had already set into her morning.

People often mistook her professionalism for perfectionism, but they had no idea how much chaos she managed under that surface. Her phone buzzed on the desk, pulling her from her thoughts. The screen flashed: Samaira. And just like that, her posture softened.

One message and the edge in her features faded.

Diiiii… Have a latte and chillax <3,

The text read. A smile tugged at Diya’s lips. That was the thing about her—most people only saw the steel. But the ones who knew her, really knew her, saw the warmth buried underneath all that armor. Her sister, Samaira, was one of those few people. The only person who could get her to smile in the middle of a storm.

At work, Diya Sharma was ruthless. Efficient. Unapologetically intimidating. She believed in structure, in boundaries, in earning respect—not demanding it. She didn’t do breakdowns in office cabins or seek validation from boardroom approval. Emotions, she believed, were like fine china—you didn’t bring them into the warzone. You kept them safe, where they couldn’t be used against you. She learned that lesson early, and it carved itself into the way she ran her empire. But that didn’t mean she didn’t feel. She just knew where to show it—and where not to.

Her success was never handed to her. Being born into the Sharma name didn’t guarantee her respect, and being a woman meant she had to fight twice as hard to earn what her male counterparts were given as default. People called her ‘too driven,’ ‘too sharp,’ ‘too cold’—as if ambition was only attractive when served with a smile and submissiveness. Diya didn’t play those games. She built Sharma Enterprise into what it was today, not by being agreeable, but by being relentless. She’d been doubted, challenged, insulted, even threatened. And yet here she was—four years into leading the company, with quarterly numbers that silenced entire conference rooms. Her father initiated, she has been carrying the legacy.

An hour later, Rishi stumbled back in, huffing like he’d run a marathon with a mountain on his back. The pile of files in his arms hit the desk with a loud thud, and he nearly collapsed with relief. “H-here, Ma’am… the files… you asked for…” he gasped, holding his knees like the poor man had just avoided death.

Diya gave him a long, unimpressed stare before flipping through the papers. “Where’s the file on Stephen Group?” she asked sharply without even looking up. And the color drained from Khanna’s face. Of course. Always one step forward, two steps into hell with him. “I’m going to kill you, Rishi!” she groaned, throwing a paperweight in his direction—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to send him running. “See you in the evening, Ma’am. Have a good day,” he squeaked with a fake grin and vanished.

And then, like clockwork, her cabin door opened without a knock. The only man bold—or stupid—enough to do that was Rohan Kapoor. He walked in with the kind of smile that could trigger migraines. Tall, annoyingly attractive, and immune to her warnings, Rohan didn’t take her bark seriously because he was the only one who knew where her bite ended. “Woah, calm down, woman. You can’t go around scaring the staff like this. You need them, remember?” he said with that grin that made her want to strangle him. “Dude, get lost,” Diya said flatly, eyes back on her laptop. “I know I’m always welcome here, no need for the warm welcome.” He plopped down on the sofa like he owned the place.

They weren’t just friends. Rohan was more like the annoying brother she never had—and sometimes never wanted. Equal parts chaos and charm, he was the only man in her life who didn’t expect her to be soft, who didn’t shrink from her intensity. He challenged her, irritated her, protected her—like a brother who grew up alongside her in the trenches. They were the same kind of twisted: ambitious, guarded, and too damn stubborn for their own good.

Rohan shared a crazed look with Diya, instantly pissing her off more than she already was. It was the kind of look that screamed, I’m about to do something really stupid, and you can’t stop me. The moment dragged as she glared at him, her patience already hanging by a thread, while his face twisted slowly into the exact expression one makes right before brewing a satanic spell. Dramatic, full of evil glee, and absolutely up to no good.

And then, as if on cue, he rose from the couch like he was being possessed by a particularly annoying demon, adjusted his blazer with the confidence of a man who thought he was God's gift to the world, and started walking toward her desk.

Diya watched his every step with a growing frown, tracking him like a lioness sizing up an irritating squirrel. Her forehead creased deeper by the second, her expression now reading Don’t even try me today, but that, of course, only fueled him more.

He stopped just inches away from her, leaned down with infuriating slowness until his mouth was near her ear. His smirk was full of sinful charm, eyes practically sparkling from the mischief bubbling in his head.

“Wanna date?” Rohan whispered seductively, smirking like he'd just delivered the punchline of the century.

Diya recoiled like she’d been hit with a rotten sock. Her face twisted in immediate disgust, as if the very idea physically offended her. It looked like she might actually gag.

“Fuck off,” Diya growled, shoving him away with zero hesitation, like swatting away a particularly persistent mosquito.

“ What!? I’m just saying, imagine the headlines—Diya Sharma dating Rohan Kapoor. We’d break the internet, Baby” He teased with a goofy grin.

“Eww.”

It slipped out of Diya’s mouth before she could filter it, like a knee-jerk reaction to pure emotional contamination. She scrunched her nose at him as if he’d just offered her a cocktail made of dishwater and regret. The kind of disgust that came straight from the soul.

Rohan froze. Offended wasn’t even the word—he looked like she’d stabbed his ego with a plastic spoon. His hand clutched his heart with theatrical betrayal, eyes wide, as if he was genuinely hurt. Which, knowing Rohan, was probably 10% pain and 90% performance.

“The offer’s still valid, Diya,” he announced dramatically, recovering like a soap opera hero. “Run away with me. Forget that asshole!”

And just like that, he pressed the one button he shouldn’t have touched—the one labelled Do Not Push Unless You Want To Die.

The air changed.

Diya’s breath caught. She didn’t say anything immediately, but her spine straightened, her fingers twitched on the desk, and her gaze went distant for just a second too long. One fucking mention. That’s all it took. One ghost from her past, and suddenly her body forgot it had boundaries. Her knees wobbled in betrayal, her brain short-circuited like it had been left out in the rain.

She blinked rapidly, gripping the edge of her desk as if it could ground her before her thoughts took off without permission.

That man. That face. Those goddamn eyes her brain still stored in 4K quality against her will.

All from one sentence. One goddamn Rohan sentence.

Rohan, of course, noticed the shift. His grin faded into something softer, guilt creeping up behind his sarcasm. But before he could say something sentimental, Diya cleared her throat and tossed a pen at his head.

“Next time you badmouth him, I’m leaking your intimate pictures to the journalists,” she muttered, already snapping back into herself.

He caught the pen mid-air, smirking. “Ah huh, becoming his lawyer already?”

She ignored him.

"So.....are we eloping?" Rohan smirked.

“Not before I break your legs,” she shot back. He laughed, content to have pulled a smile out of her.

Moments like these between the noise and power plays were rare, and she cherished them in silence. Diya didn’t open up often, but when she did, it was with people like Rohan, and her family, the only ones allowed behind her carefully constructed walls.

" We'll leave in 20." Rohan said softly, reading the time from his rolex.

" Where to?"

“We’re going to the Agnihotrys tonight,” Rohan announced, ruining the peace.

Her hands paused mid-type. She rose her ehad to look at him

“Why?” she asked, already masking the flicker of excitement that tried to creep onto her face.

“Uncle wants to talk business. And as for me, I’m going to remind that Agnihotry that he’s still a human being and not a damn robot.”

Ah, him. Just the sound of his name made her stomach twist in ways she hated to admit. Advait Agnihotry wasn’t just any man—he was a force, like her. A man with a reputation for being heartless, disciplined to the point of insanity, with eyes that could shatter your confidence and a mind too sharp to be matched. She’d spent years pretending he didn’t affect her, but even Diya Sharma wasn’t immune to everything.

“So… it’s dinner?” she asked casually, trying not to betray her heartbeat. “Yup. So pack up, we’re leaving.”

They reached Diya’s house—a sleek modern villa that sat just twenty minutes away from her office, but a universe apart from the tension she left behind at work.

“Heyy Bhaiya,” Samaira, Diya's sister greeted the moment they stepped inside.

Rohan flashed her one of his best smiles, the kind that could charm a traffic cop out of a challan. “Heyy, Princess.”

And, as always, he reached out to ruffle her hair—because why pass up on the daily ritual of sibling torture?

“Ughh, what’s your obsession with my hair?” Samaira groaned, pouting as she tried to smooth it back into place.

“It’s better than your sister’s,” he quipped, cocky and grinning.

Smack

A firm whack landed on his head from the very sister he just tried to roast.

“I heard that,” Diya glared at him with the kind of precision that could kill a lesser man.

That’s when the mom-voice echoed through the house, sweet and commanding all at once.

“Kids, freshen up; we are leaving in 30 minutes!” Divya Sharma called out, her cheerful tone bouncing off the walls. She was the living proof that calm and cool mothers didn’t just exist in movies.

“Yes, Maa, I’ll be back in 15 minutes,” Diya responded and made her way to her bedroom, ready to flip the switch from boss mode to bahu-material mode.

Within ten minutes, she was out of the shower, towel wrapped securely around her petite frame, water still dripping from the ends of her hair. She walked into her walk-in closet, the holy land of style decisions, and began sifting through her options. After a few mental battles and a narrowed-down shortlist, she settled on a stunning blue Anarkali gown paired with a light net dupatta—elegant, effortless, and undeniably Diya.

Makeup was minimal. Just enough to highlight, not hide. A swipe of gloss, a tiny flick of eyeliner, and the final touch—a small bindi. Classic.

Now, as she stood before the mirror, Diya saw someone else looking back. Not the corporate commander-in-chief everyone bowed to in boardrooms. No. This was the Diya who laughed at midnight memes, who snuggled into blankets with her sister, and who secretly stressed over whether her eyeliner was even. This Diya was bold, yes—but soft, grounded, human.

“Diyaaa,” her mother’s voice rang from the living room, snapping her out of her reflection.

“Almost there, Maa!” she called back, already slipping into her heels.

As she descended the stairs with grace that could be mistaken for a royal entry, her mother was the first to react.

“Oh, my baby,” Divya cooed like she’d just seen an angel descend from the heavens—and honestly, with the way Diya looked, she wasn’t wrong.

Diya, ever the ice queen outside, only let her walls down at home—with the people who truly knew her.

“My Di is the prettiest,” Samaira said proudly, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she threw a cheeky grin in Diya’s direction.

“Achha toh lagna hi tha…” Rohan muttered just loud enough to be heard, a teasing tone in his voice. “Agnihotrys ke yaha jo jaa rhi h.”

Diya glared at that ungrateful being.

But Rohan, as always, remained gloriously unbothered—grinning like he’d just won an award for Most Annoying Friend of the Year.

Divya simply laughed at their little chaos, the kind of fond laughter only mothers could have for their grown children acting like toddlers.

Meanwhile, Samaira whipped out her phone like a paparazzo on a mission and clicked a quick picture of the moment.

“Rohan Bhai, add one more glaring picture of Di to your collection. I’m sending it to you right now—use it against her on her birthday.”

“You know I love you more than your sister?” Rohan grinned as they high-fived like they’d just pulled off a heist.

Diya opened her mouth to respond—probably with a savage comeback—but was immediately cut off.

“No more teasing; it’s enough for the day. Save it for tomorrow. Now let’s get going, or Shweta will lecture the hell out of me,” Divya interrupted like the referee at a particularly entertaining match.

And with that, the squad moved out—everyone to their respective cars.

Ten minutes later, they pulled up to the Agnihotry Mansion, a place that carried too many emotions and far too much history.

Diya stepped out of the car, her heels kissing the ground softly. And just as her foot touched the earth, it happened.

She heard him.

That voice.

The one that made her stomach turn into a butterfly museum.

The one that lived rent-free in her head no matter how many times she tried to evict it.

Him.