Reewa's POV
The morning air in Delhi was gentler than usual. For once, it didn't feel like a battlefield.
Reewa Singhal stood before her mirror in the Dewdrops penthouse suite, the morning sun streaming through the French windows, painting golden halos on her bare shoulders. Her silk saree, a blush rose hue, hugged her figure delicately—floral, soft, and unapologetically feminine. But beneath the folds of beauty lay resolve. Like thorns beneath petals.
She smiled faintly, eyes sharp.
Last night had been a reminder—her emotions were hers to command. Not Rudraksh Rathod's. Not anymore.
Her fingers trailed over her neck, remembering the chill of that sapphire collar, the weight of obsession disguised as royalty. It had arrived without warning, just like him—uninvited, unforgettable, and burning with unspoken meanings.
She hadn't worn it.
But she hadn't thrown it away either.
Instead, she'd kept it in her locked drawer. Because Reewa wasn’t running. Not this time.
Her phone buzzed.
Ira: You’re glowing like you’ve already won. Should I be worried?
Reewa smirked. She replied quickly.
> No need. Let the king worry.
Today was a big day—an expansion deal for Dewdrops in Jaipur. And the first official meeting with a certain royal real estate tycoon her team had secured through layers of corporate red tape. She didn’t need to guess who it would be.
Rudraksh Singh Rathod always found a way in.
Always.
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The marble lobby of the Rathod Rajya Commercial Towers gleamed like a weapon.
Every corner was steeped in curated opulence—silent guards in tailored suits, chandeliers that looked like they could shatter glass ceilings, and the unmistakable stamp of RRC authority. A world ruled not just by contracts, but by control.
Reewa stepped inside with measured grace.
Her team flanked her—two executives from Dewdrops, her assistant, and a legal rep. But none of them mattered right now. The air changed as soon as she entered. He knew she was here.
And he wanted her to feel it.
The receptionist, a nervous young man in a steel-blue uniform, swallowed before greeting her. “Mr. Rathod is expecting you, Ms. Singhal. Top floor. The executive suite.”
Of course he is.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Reewa’s reflection stared back at her in polished chrome—unfazed, calm, dangerously radiant.
You’re not a girl in love anymore, she reminded herself.
You’re the storm he didn’t see coming.
The elevator climbed silently, floor after floor. With every level, her pulse slowed. He wanted her off balance. He always had.
But today? She’d take the game and twist it right back.
The doors parted.
He stood there—waiting.
Rudraksh Singh Rathod.
Charcoal black kurta with a mandarin collar. A thin gold ring on his finger. And those eyes—possessive, unreadable, blazing like he’d already undressed her a hundred times in his mind before she even walked in.
“Ms. Singhal,” he said, voice smooth as sin, but low enough that her name rolled off his tongue like it was private property.
Reewa smiled, every inch composed. “Mr. Rathod. Shall we?”
He didn’t move aside. Not immediately.
Just stared. Like a man trying to memorize defiance wrapped in chiffon.
Then he stepped back and let her pass.
But she didn’t miss it—his fingers twitched as she brushed by.
As if holding back the urge to grab her waist.
As if remembering what it felt like to ruin her calm with just one whisper.
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The boardroom of RRC wasn’t just a conference space—it was a kingdom disguised in chrome and leather. A long glass table stretched across the room, flanked by high-backed chairs that looked like thrones. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind Rudraksh opened into a panoramic view of Jaipur’s pink-hued skyline, bathed in late-afternoon gold.
But Reewa didn’t look out.
She looked at him.
Because the storm wasn’t outside. It was across the table, seated with a stillness that threatened.
“So,” Rudraksh began, sliding the folder across the table. “Dewdrops wants access to prime property in South Mumbai. You’ll need RRC’s clearance for that—zoning, permits, legal shielding.”
“And in return?” Reewa arched a brow, flipping the folder open with just two fingers.
His eyes dipped—momentarily—to her wrist. The silk sleeve had slid just enough to reveal skin. Too brief for anyone else to notice.
But not him.
“RRC gets partial equity in the Mumbai branch,” he said, voice too even. “Minority share, silent partner.”
Her laugh was soft. Dangerous. “You? Silent?”
Rudraksh leaned forward.
His voice dropped.
“I can be very quiet, Reewa. But only when I’m inside something I already own.”
Her breath caught—but her face didn’t flinch.
“That’s the problem with you,” she said coolly. “You think everything you touch becomes yours.”
His smirk curved. “It usually does.”
Reewa closed the file and pushed it back. “15% equity. No interference. No board seat. And I pick the media narrative.”
He tilted his head. “12% and I keep your name off the press until you’re ready.”
Silence.
A negotiation, yes. But also a war of wills.
She broke it first. “Deal.”
He stood. Slowly. Towering.
As if the contract was secondary.
As if the real agreement had already been signed the moment she walked into his office, chin high and soul burning.
When he reached out to shake her hand, his palm lingered over hers—longer than necessary. His thumb brushed her pulse.
And then…
“You’re still wearing his perfume,” Rudraksh murmured, so low only she heard it.
She pulled her hand back.
But her pulse had already given her away.
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Rudraksh’s POV:
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, silence claimed the boardroom like an aftershock.
Rudraksh didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
His fingers still tingled from the ghost of her skin. Her pulse—a traitor’s drumbeat beneath the surface—had sung against his thumb, and that rhythm… it was in his veins now.
Reewa.
His curse and his religion.
She had walked into his domain dressed in gold-edged defiance and walked out untouched—but not unclaimed.
Never unclaimed.
“You’re still wearing his perfume,” he’d said.
But what he hadn’t added—what burned on his tongue—was that he knew she wasn’t doing it for the other man. She was doing it for him. To provoke. To punish. To remind.
And damn her—it worked.
He strode to the minibar, poured whiskey he didn’t want, and let it burn down his throat.
It didn’t help.
The screen on his desk blinked—security footage. Reewa in the elevator, standing still, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
He leaned in. Zoomed. Memorized.
Even furious, she was beautiful.
Especially furious.
You should’ve kissed her.
You should’ve caged her.
But Rudraksh Singh Rathod wasn’t a man who acted on impulse. He was a man who played the long game. Who carved control from chaos. Who buried obsession under ten layers of power and turned it into dominance.
And yet—tonight—he would watch her. Again.
Through hidden footage. Through cameras she didn’t know existed.
Not because he didn’t trust her.
Because he didn’t trust himself.
Because if he saw her in person again this week, he wouldn’t stop at the brush of fingers or the edge of words.
He would kiss her like she was his last breath.
And that… would ruin everything.
So he watched.
And whispered her name to the shadows that already knew it.
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