1 month Later: Delhi
The invitation arrived in a black envelope sealed with crimson wax.
Reewa Singhal didn’t need to open it to know who it was from. Only one man in all of India would dare summon her to a gala hosted under the Rathod Rajya crest—without so much as a phone call.
Rudraksh Singh Rathod.
She ran her thumb over the wax seal, eyes narrowing. He was predictable in his unpredictability. And irritatingly skilled at planting himself into the cracks of her well-built armor.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” Ishaan asked, seated across from her in the Singhal Industries boardroom. He had the same knowing smile he wore back when Rudraksh and Reewa couldn’t last five minutes in a room without arguing—or igniting the air between them.
“No,” she replied curtly, dropping the envelope onto the table. “It’s a trap.”
“You always say that when he invites you to something.”
“And I’m always right.”
“You never miss his events.”
Reewa shot her brother a glare. “That’s because if I don’t show up, he sends a helicopter to my restaurant or hijacks my chef.”
Ishaan chuckled. “Sounds like Rudra.”
Reewa sighed. “He’s getting bolder.”
“He’s getting desperate,” Ishaan corrected, now serious. “You rejected his merger offer and turned down his personal proposal in the same week. He doesn’t lose well.”
“And I don’t bend easily.”
---
At Rathod Rajya Corporation’s Udaipur fortress-like headquarters, Rudraksh Singh Rathod stared at Reewa’s name on his screen like it was sacred text.
“She hasn’t RSVP’d,” Veer noted from the other side of the room.
“She will,” Rudraksh murmured, swirling a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. “She never misses a battle.”
“This isn’t just a gala. You’ve lined up major investors, foreign diplomats—”
“Everything she respects.”
Veer gave a low whistle. “And the private auction?
Rudraksh’s eyes gleamed. “Curated to mirror her aesthetics. Rare culinary art, vintage French cutlery, a 1967 Le Cordon Bleu cookbook signed by Julia Child.”
Veer blinked. “That’s... almost romantic.”
“It’s war,” Rudraksh replied, cold. “With charm as my blade.”
---
Delhi’s winter evening arrived like a queen draped in fog.
Reewa stood in front of her vanity as Ishi Singhal pinned the final diamond hairpiece into her chignon. She wore an ivory silk saree laced with silver embroidery. Soft, ethereal. A direct contrast to the weaponry behind her gaze.
“Are you sure about this?” her grandmother asked gently.
Reewa met her eyes in the mirror. “If I don’t attend, he wins.”
“Maybe it’s not about winning.”
“Then why does it feel like a battlefield every time I breathe near him?”
Ishi smiled wistfully. “Because love, child, is the most dangerous war of all.”
Downstairs, her parents watched her descend with a blend of awe and concern.
Rajeev Singhal folded his arms. “Rathods will be there?”
“All of them,” she replied, already bracing for layered eyes and polite hostility.
Her mother touched her arm. “Remember who you are.”
“I never forget,” Reewa said. “But he does need the reminder.”
---
The gala was held at the royal palace hotel in Jaipur, rented exclusively for the event. The stone courtyard glittered with fairy lights. An orchestra played a haunting symphony under the stars.
Reewa stepped out of her car and felt the pulse of every camera turn toward her.
Inside, Rudraksh stood by the grand staircase, flanked by Veer and Yashveer. He looked every inch the modern king—black bandhgala suit, gold cufflinks bearing the Rathod crest, and danger coiled around his frame like silk.
When he saw her, the room seemed to still.
Her elegance.
His hunger.
Two storms made of history.
She walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps, the scent of night jasmine trailing behind her. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Until she was close enough to speak.
“Careful, Rathod,” she whispered. “Obsession is a knife that cuts both ways.”
He smirked. “Then bleed with me, Singhal.”
---
Flashback
Reewa sat at the head of the boardroom table in the Dewdrops corporate headquarters—sleek, minimalist, and humming with the quiet power she’d cultivated over the last five years. The floor-to-ceiling windows of the 17th floor offered a breathtaking view of Delhi, but her eyes were locked on the presentation slides being projected.
This meeting was supposed to be routine.
It wasn’t
Because Rudraksh’s name was on the agenda.
"The Rathod Rajya Corporation has approached us for a co-branded culinary venture in Rajasthan," her assistant announced with a careful tone. "They want to build a luxury resort in Udaipur with Dewdrops as the flagship restaurant."
A ripple went through the room.
Reewa's heart stilled, but her expression remained unreadable. Her fingers traced the gold pen she held like a blade.
Every pair of eyes turned to her. Meera and Rajeev Singhal, seated across from each other, exchanged cautious glances. Ishaan leaned forward, watching his sister with that unreadable look only siblings could share—half worry, half admiration.
The name on the file felt like an ember pressed against her skin.
She smiled—poised, professional, lethal.
"Reject it".
A pause.
"Reewa," Rajeev said gently, voice measured, "it’s a lucrative offer. You’ve always wanted to expand into heritage resorts—"
"Not with him."
Her voice cut through the room like tempered steel.
"Make it clear: Dewdrops doesn’t partner with corporations whose leadership lacks transparency."
Ishaan’s mouth twitched. Half approval. Half amusement. Her father frowned but nodded.
Her mother, Meera, said nothing. But the way her lips tightened said she understood. Perhaps more than the rest of them.
The meeting continued. Metrics. Future campaigns. New menu unveilings. But Reewa's mind was elsewhere. Every time someone said "RRC," her pulse skipped like it was a name etched into her skin.
Because she knew Rudraksh would see this rejection not as a decision.
But a declaration.
And the man never took declarations lightly.
--------------
Udaipur. Rathod Rajya Corporation. War Room.
Inside the fortress-like estate nestled in the Aravalli hills, Rudraksh stood in front of the wall-to-wall digital screens that tracked his empire. He was dressed in dark cotton, sleeves rolled up, a heavy gold ring gleaming on his forefinger as he flipped the file closed.
"She rejected the proposal," Veer announced, stating the obvious.
Yashveer leaned back in the leather chair. "You expected her to agree?"
"I expected her to fight cleaner," Rudraksh said, voice like tempered obsidian. "This was a strategic opportunity. She turned it into a message."
Veer raised an eyebrow. "So what now? You let her slap you on a public platform?"
Rudraksh’s jaw clenched.
"This isn’t about pride," he said quietly.
"It’s about power," Yashveer finished. "And she’s taken a piece off your board."
Rudraksh stared at the screen displaying Reewa's photo beside the Singhal Industries logo. Her eyes in that image were fierce. Glowing.
Pretending.
He knew that look.
She was scared. Not of him. But of what he made her feel.
"She’s pretending she can resist," he murmured. "Pretending she can run the boardroom like her heart doesn’t stutter when I’m near."
"So what’s the move, boss?" Veer asked.
He smiled. The kind that made kingdoms fall.
"I remind her that I’m not just a part of her past. I’m the future she doesn’t know how to fight."
------------
The envelope was the color of midnight. Heavy. Embossed. And sealed with the crimson Rathod crest.
It arrived at Dewdrops in the middle of the lunch rush, hand-delivered by a Rathod courier wearing royal insignia.
Reewa opened it behind the privacy of her office doors. The card inside was minimalist, but heavy with unspoken weight.
Ms. Singhal,
You once said I don’t understand elegance. Come see what I’ve built.
The Royal Auction Gala—Rathod Palace, 8 PM. My private jet will be waiting for you .Formal. Don’t be late.
—R
No flourish. No excess.
But it was a command wrapped in silk.
Her pulse ticked like a war drum.
She told herself she wouldn’t go.
She spent the entire day focused on balance sheets, vendor contracts, and expansion maps. But by the time the sun began to dip, and her staff began murmuring about the gala across the city that would host royals, celebrities, and billionaires alike—she was in her walk-in closet.
Staring at the midnight blue gown hanging like a challenge.
Flashback Over
---------------
Rathod Palace had never looked more alive. Chandeliers bathed the ancient walls in golden light. Music drifted through the marbled halls like honey. Elite guests walked through the carved arches in silk and jewels, their voices low with admiration—and curiosity.
Because the queen of Dewdrops had just arrived.
Reewa stepped out of her vintage Rolls, the blue silk of her gown catching the light like moonlight on water. Her earrings sparkled with uncut sapphires. Her hair was twisted into a sleek bun, exposing the curve of her neck—vulnerable. Powerful.
Inside, Rudraksh stood at the top of the marble staircase.
Dressed in black.
A custom sherwani, embroidered with silver war emblems and tiger motifs from old Rajput banners. His presence was magnetic. Men respected it. Women feared it.
But tonight—
His eyes were only for her.
The music dulled.
The crowd faded.
She walked in as if she owned the room. Because she did.
Until he began his descent.
Step by step.
And her breath betrayed her.
He reached her. Didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t bow.
Just leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Still pretending?"
She tilted her head, eyes hard. "Still playing games?"
His smile was a ghost. "This isn’t a game, Reewa. This is a siege."
She exhaled, sharp and shaky.
And walked past him
But his hand brushed her back.
The weight of it was territorial.
And she knew, as every flashbulb went off in their direction, that whatever battle had started in boardrooms and backrooms—
It was about to become very, very public.
------------
Reewa’s heels clicked against the marble floor of the palace as she weaved through guests, her head held high. But each step she took away from Rudraksh felt like trying to outrun a cyclone—beautiful, haunting, and inevitable.
The ballroom sparkled with opulence. Gold detailing on ivory walls. Firelight from massive chandeliers. Waiters passed by with trays of vintage champagne and saffron-kissed hors d’oeuvres. Conversations flowed like silk, and eyes kept turning—some in admiration, others in curiosity.
But she could feel his gaze on her back like the scrape of silk turning into steel.
Ira appeared at her side, radiant in a red lehenga. “You came,” she whispered with a bright smile.
Reewa offered a soft nod, her tone careful. “Wouldn’t miss your family’s big night.”
“I’m just glad you look like a goddess. He’s going to lose his mind.”
“I’m not here for him.”
“You sure?” Ira’s brows lifted.
Reewa’s jaw clenched. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Not with the way Rudraksh looked at her like he owned her breath. Not with the way her body betrayed her composure every time he came near.
“I’m here to remind him,” she murmured, “that I can show up, and still walk away.”
From the opposite side of the room, Rudraksh raised a glass in her direction. His expression unreadable. But the corner of his mouth lifted.
Challenge accepted.
--------
Inside, Rudraksh stood by the grand staircase, flanked by Veer and Yashveer. He looked every inch the modern king—black bandhgala suit, gold cufflinks bearing the Rathod crest, and danger coiled around his frame like silk.
When he saw her, the room seemed to still.
Her elegance.
His hunger.
Two storms made of history.
She walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps, the scent of night jasmine trailing behind her. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Until she was close enough to speak.
“Careful, Rathod,” she whispered. “Obsession is a knife that cuts both ways.”
He smirked. “Then bleed with me, Singhal.”
-------
The palace's grand auction began with a theatrical flair. Historic jewels, royal paintings, antique weapons—the Rathods had curated a display of luxury and legacy.
Reewa took a seat at the front row, her fingers elegantly laced over her lap. Ira sat beside her, chatting lightly. Rudraksh was nowhere to be seen—yet she knew he was watching. He always was.
Lot after lot sold for obscene amounts of money. The audience clapped. Some guests mingled. But when the auctioneer lifted a silk cover from a new item, the murmurs intensified.
A handcrafted culinary set. 24k gold-plated tools engraved with Sanskrit verses about nourishment and abundance.
And the inscription on the box: “*Dewdrops signature series*
Reewa’s breath caught.
She had designed this prototype years ago. Quietly. Privately. A luxury cutlery line meant to reflect the soul of Dewdrops. She had shelved the project. Never marketed it. Never even spoken of it beyond her creative team.
The Sanskrit verses weren’t generic.
They were the same lines etched on the walls of her very first restaurant.
She didn’t remember ever mentioning that to Rudraksh.
Which meant he had gone digging.
The room waited. Curious. Hungry.
The auctioneer’s voice rang out. “Opening bid: 50 lakhs.”
Silence.
Then: “One crore.”
Rudraksh’s voice, deep and velvet, sliced through the crowd.
He stood now, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a numbered paddle lazily at his side. He didn’t look at her.
But everyone else did.
Whispers bloomed like wildfire.
Someone countered—1.2 crores.
“Two,” Rudraksh said smoothly.
“Two-point-five,” another bidder from the foreign delegates’ table chimed in.
Reewa’s fingers curled into her gown.
“Four,” Rudraksh announced.
The room gasped.
No one countered.
The auctioneer waited, but the silence was thunderous.
“Sold,” he declared.
Applause followed, hesitant at first. Then louder.
But Reewa wasn’t clapping.
She couldn’t move.
Because Rudraksh turned then—finally—eyes locked on her. And in that stare was a language only the two of them spoke.
He hadn’t just bought the set.
He’d laid a claim.
In public.
Under chandeliers. In the middle of royalty and empire.
And she’d let him.
---
The rest of the gala blurred.
Reewa stood alone on one of the palace balconies, the desert wind ghosting against her skin. Her hands were cold. Her heart, colder.
She heard the footsteps behind her before she felt his presence.
“Was it worth it?” she asked, not turning.
“To see your face?” Rudraksh replied softly. “Every damn rupee.
She finally looked at him.
“Why, Rudra?” she whispered. “Why can’t you just let go?”
“Because I loved you before I knew what the word meant,” he said, voice low. “Before we were enemies. Before we were anything.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I haven’t changed.”
She exhaled. “I have.”
“I know,” he murmured. “You got stronger. Sharper. Untouchable.”
His gaze burned into her. “And I never wanted you more.”
Reewa turned, trying to walk away, but he caught her wrist—gently, reverently.
“I don’t want your forgiveness, Reewa. Or your partnership. I want your war.”
She frozed.
He stepped closer. “Because if we’re fighting, it means you still feel something. And if you still feel something, it means I haven’t lost you completely.”
Her voice cracked like glass. “You never had me.”
He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Then why are you shaking?”
She tore her hand free.
Turned.
And walked.
But her steps faltered at the edge of the corridor.
Because her heart was still on that balcony.
With the man she should have hated.
And the war she never wanted to win.
---
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