As Niya turned from Rajeshwari and Dev, the storm still barely held beneath her skin, she found herself walking straight into Agastya Dev Rathore.
Of course.
He stood leaning casually against a pillar, black tuxedo sharp, face unreadable—but his eyes? They were molten with something too complex to name.
“Impressive,” he said, voice smooth, laced with an undercurrent of mockery. “You managed to call out half the industry without even flinching.”
She didn’t slow her stride, but he matched her pace as she walked toward the gallery edge of the ballroom, where the crowd thinned. “I wasn’t trying to impress.”
“No?” he asked, falling into step beside her. “Because you certainly held court like someone who wanted every pair of eyes.”
She stopped. Turned to him. “If truth makes people look, that’s on them. Not me.”
He gave a short laugh, low and dry. “Still such a crusader.”
“And you’re still allergic to accountability.”
That hit—he didn’t show it, not fully, but his jaw twitched ever so slightly.
“You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “I almost forgot how sharp your tongue could be.”
“And I almost forgot how good you are at pretending conscience is a liability.”
They stood there, face to face, tension humming between them. Somewhere behind the chandeliers, a quartet played something light and lyrical—but here, in the shadows of the balcony, it felt like a different rhythm entirely.
“You don’t get to do this, Niya,” he said finally, voice colder now. “Crash into rooms, spark fires, and act like the world owes you clarity.”
“I don’t want clarity from the world,” she said, eyes burning into his. “Just honesty. And I certainly don’t expect it from you.”
The silence cracked like glass between them.
Then—
“Well,” came a voice from behind, calm, elegant, and unmistakably edged. “This is… illuminating.”
They both turned.
Rajeshwari Rathore stood there, one brow raised in quiet calculation, Dev just behind her, his expression caught somewhere between intrigue and recognition.
Niya straightened immediately, her composure flawless—Agastya’s own posture subtly shifted, hands sliding into his pockets like armor.
“Is this how old acquaintances converse these days?” Rajeshwari’s tone was light, but there was no mistaking the subtext. “With accusations wrapped in metaphors?”
Agastya opened his mouth, but Dev’s voice cut in first, directed to his son. “Interesting company, Agastya. And familiar tension.”
Agastya’s jaw tightened. “It’s a professional disagreement.”
Niya smiled, cool and poised. “More like ideological collision. One that happens when people have very different definitions of responsibility.”
Rajeshwari’s eyes flicked from Niya to Agastya. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “Did either of you think to inform us that this wasn’t your first meeting?”
Niya didn’t blink. “It didn’t seem relevant.”
“But it clearly is,” Dev said, his voice carrying the weight of years in corporate warfare. “Your speech. His silence. The friction. There’s history.”
Agastya said nothing. Neither did Niya. But the silence spoke volumes.
Rajeshwari stepped forward, voice lower now. “We build empires through alliances, Doctor Sinha. Through strategy, not sentiment.”
“I’m well aware,” Niya replied, matching her gaze. “Which is why I stand where I do. Unbought. Unafraid.”
Dev’s brow lifted. “Unwise, perhaps.”
“Or just unwilling to play blind,” she returned, each word a strike. “Especially when the game demands moral compromise.”
Rajeshwari looked at Agastya now, something unreadable in her gaze. “You never mentioned her name.”
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said, voice tightly measured.
“Clearly,” Rajeshwari replied, “it does.”
The four of them stood in a fragile square of silence—power, pride, passion, and purpose colliding in elegant attire under the ballroom lights.
And then, with the grace only Rajeshwari could summon, she offered Niya a small, controlled nod. “You’ve made your mark tonight, Dr. Sinha. Let’s see what you do when the stakes aren’t just theoretical.”
Niya met her gaze. “The stakes are already real. Just not always visible to those at the top.”
Without another word, she turned and walked away—leaving behind polished stone, echoes of confrontation, and three members of the Rathore legacy standing in a silence that pulsed with revelation.
Rajeshwari’s gaze remained fixed in the direction Niya had disappeared, her perfectly lined eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
“She’s dangerous,” she murmured at last, not to herself, not to Agastya—just aloud, like an observation made under starlight.
“Or useful,” Dev countered, arms crossed, face impassive. “Depending on how one chooses to engage.”
Agastya didn’t speak. His hands were still in his pockets, but his knuckles had turned white inside the fabric.
Rajeshwari turned toward her son. “What was she to you?”
Agastya’s reply was immediate, firm. “Nothing.”
She gave a soft, elegant laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “That ‘nothing’ nearly burned a hole through this gala.”
“She speaks too much,” Dev muttered. “And too sharply for her own good.”
“No,” Rajeshwari corrected, tone clipped. “She speaks precisely enough. Which is why she’s dangerous. Precision in the wrong hands is a weapon.”
Agastya finally met her eyes. “Then perhaps don’t make her an enemy.”
Rajeshwari stared at him for a long moment. “That depends on whether she forces our hand. Or you do.”
Dev shifted slightly, glancing toward the rest of the ballroom, where champagne flowed and conversations continued, blissfully unaware of the storm that had just passed through. “Let’s not forget why we came. Tonight wasn’t about declarations—it was about alliances.”
“And now,” Rajeshwari said softly, “it’s about recalibration.”
She started walking away, heels echoing against the marble floor, her posture regal, every step deliberate. Dev followed after a brief pause, but Agastya remained still.
Behind him, chandeliers glittered. Before him, Niya’s words rang like war drums in his mind.
You’re still allergic to accountability.
How good you are at pretending conscience is a liability.
She hadn’t changed. If anything, she had sharpened. And in doing so, she’d awakened something inside him that he thought he had buried under boardroom takeovers and carefully curated detachment.
Agastya took one last glance in the direction she had gone—then turned his eyes back to the heart of the gala, where the crowd still danced in oblivion, unaware that fault lines had cracked beneath the surface.
But he wasn’t.
Not anymore.
Something in her voice—icy, clear, and maddeningly familiar—had scraped against the walls he’d spent years fortifying. She hadn’t just challenged his authority tonight; she’d exposed a fracture he hadn’t realized still existed. The part of him that wasn’t a Rathore first. The part that remembered who she used to be. Who they used to be.
It was dangerous.
She was dangerous.
And worse—she knew it.
Agastya clenched his jaw. This wasn’t some harmless game of rivalry. She had waltzed in, all fire and precision, and made the room pivot. On her terms. Against him. And he had let it happen. For a flicker of a second, he had faltered. And she had seen it.
Make one mistake and they’ll call you your mother’s puppet, the voice in his head warned—the same cold voice he’d inherited from years of Rathore grooming.
He couldn’t afford to become a ‘mumma’s boy’—not now, not ever. The boardroom would never forgive it. The bloodlines wouldn’t survive it. And Niya? She’d shred him alive for it.
No, he had to remain who he was. Ruthless. Composed. Untouched by nostalgia or guilt.
But damn it—those eyes. That voice. That audacity.
Fault lines had cracked. And not just in the room.
In him.
He turned away sharply, expression shuttered once more.
Because if Agastya Dev Rathore wasn’t careful, Niya Sinha wouldn’t just challenge his empire—
She’d burn it down.
Tonight wasn’t just about silk and champagne. It was the ignition point.
Of power redefined.
Of empires challenged.
Of two destinies—entwined not by choice, but by collision.
And neither of them had any intention of yielding.
.
.
.
.
.
A/N: The storm has only just begun — and it's not slowing down.
From now on, I'll be updating twice a week:
Friday & Tuesday
One chapter at a time. No mercy, no filler — just fire, legacy, and war-torn love.
So mark your calendars.
And remember — in this world, loyalty is currency, and love?
That's the most dangerous game of all.
— verseofauthorrriii
Write a comment ...