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A suffocating silence stretched between them, a stark contrast to the outside world, where people were celebrating the new year, and fireworks painted the sky in bursts of gold and crimson.

But inside this room, insidehim, an entirely different explosion had just ignited. His blood burned. Because not only had he kissed the one woman he should have never touched…

But because he had wanted her.

And that enraged him the most.

CHAPTER 1

Two Weeks Ago - Serene Meadows

The cab rolled through the iron gates of Serene Meadows, an upscale gated community in the heart of city. Villas with sprawling gardens lined the neatly paved roads, their porches adorned with fairy lights and wind chimes that swayed in the crisp Delhi breeze. It was the kind of place that exuded warmth and an old-world charm, but at the moment, the 25-year-old Nandini Raichand felt none of it.

As the cab halted in front of Villa No. 10, her childhood home, she heaved a deep sigh and reached for her phone to make the UPI payment. Just as she was about to hit send, the driver turned around with an exasperated frown.

“Madam, cash only,” he grumbled, folding his arms.

Nandini blinked. “Excuse me? Why can’t I pay by UPI?”

“Madam, these days even UPI gets delayed because of server issues,” he huffed, frustration written all over his face. “Just last week, a customer paid me through UPI. The money got deducted from their account instantly but never showed up in mine. I waited the whole day, and still nothing.”

He rubbed his forehead dramatically, clearly still annoyed by the memory. “I had to take a whole day off, go stand in line at the bank, lodge a complaint, fill out forms, follow up not once, but twice just to get my own money. It took four days and twofollow-ups for the amount to reflect in my account. Who’s going to compensate me for this delay?”

“Bhaiya, even weddings get delayed, trains get delayed, so what?” she argued. “People still get married. People still board trains and travel across the country, don’t they?”

The driver gave her a long, pitiful look as if she were a lost cause beyond saving.

“The payment is done. Check your phone,” she said, shoving her screen toward him.

The driver sighed dramatically, checked his phone, and with great reluctance accepted defeat.

“It’s better to be stuck in Delhi traffic than argue with customers like you.” And with that, he drove off, muttering about the downfall of cash culture in the country.

“What? You… Hello? Stop,” she shouted, flailing her arms as if she could summon him back with sheer willpower, but the cab only sped up.

For a moment, she debated chasing after him and demanding an apology for his unnecessary dramatics. But instead, she groaned in frustration and decided to raise a complaint against the cab ride on the app.

With that decision made, she turned towards Villa No. 10, but her expression suddenly sobered as the memories of the last few months settled heavily on her shoulders.

Eight months of hard work… shattered.

Her organic skincare startup in Mumbai had been more than just a business venture; it had been her dream, her passion, her way of proving to the world, and to herself, that she could build something meaningful without relying on her family’s wealth. She had poured her heart and soul into it, from sourcing ethically grown ingredients to designing sustainable packaging. It was meant to be something different, something hers.

But in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

When her investors pulled out at the last minute, citing “market uncertainties” and “high risks,” the entire foundation of her startup crumbled overnight. She had fought, scrambled to find alternatives, but in the unforgiving world of business, hope alone wasn’t enough. Suppliers backed out, orders remained unfulfilled, and before she knew it, she was drowning in debt with nothing to show except sleepless nights and a shattered dream.

The thought of staying back in Mumbai, watching all her efforts turn to dust, was unbearable. So, when her grandfather had insisted she come home to clear her head, she had reluctantly agreed.

Even her parents, who had been comfortably settled in London for decades, had wanted her to move there instead, to join her father’s ever-expanding business empire. It was the safe choice, the obvious one. But Nandini had never been one for the obvious. She didn’t want to be just another Raichand heir, sitting in a glass-walled office, discussing profits and losses. She wanted to create something of her own, to leave her mark on her homeland.

And now, she had nothing.

She let out a slow breath and looked up at the villa.

Villa No. 10 wasn’t just her childhood house—it was home. The place where she had grown up, the place that had shaped her into the woman she was today. It was where her grandfather, Keshav Raichand, had taught her to ride a bicycle in the front yard, where he had told her bedtime stories, acting out every scene with dramatic flair, and where he had indulged her every whim—from mango pickle-making sessions to letting her paint freely on the backyard wall.

She remembered the summer afternoons when they would sit under the old mango tree, sipping chilled nimbu pani as her Daadu narrated tales from his youth. How he had been a self-made man, building everything from scratch, brick by brick, mistake by mistake.