Tripti stood at the entrance to his room — the great and terrible Ayaan Rathi's inner sanctum.

Polished floors. Sleek black wardrobes. A giant bed with military-level corners. One wall was just windows covered by remote-controlled blinds. The place looked like it had never seen dust or joy.

She exhaled. "Alright, Captain Doom. Let's see what you've got hiding under this spotless villain lair."

Mop in hand, she peeked over her shoulder.

No Savitri. No guards. No mafia lurking in shadows.

Good.

She slipped out her phone from her pocket and scrolled.
"Something dramatic but upbeat... Hmm..."

A grin spread across her face.

With a tap, the song blasted through the speaker:

🎶 "Aaj ki party meri taraf se..." 🎶

Tripti: mop in one hand, bathroom cleaner in the other, began her own dramatic montage.

She twirled the mop like a sword, singing loudly and off-key.
"Bathroom ka toh band bajaa doon main!"

She cleaned the toilet with flair, doing a little dance every time she scrubbed a corner.

Sang into the toilet brush like a mic.

Winked at her reflection in the spotless mirror.

At one point, she even moonwalked across the marble floor. Badly. But with full commitment.

"This floor is so clean, even God could eat biryani off it," she declared to no one.

She turned the music up louder and did a dramatic Bollywood-style mop dip, spinning like she was on a stage—

Only to hear—

Click.

The door.

Tripti froze.

The music blared.

She turned around slowly, dread sinking in like bleach in cloth.

There he was.

Ayaan Rathi.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Eyes unreadable.

Watching her.

The song still blasted:
🎶 "Aaj ki party meri taraf se..." 🎶

Tripti fumbled with her phone, nearly dropping it, and finally managed to hit pause.

Silence. Deafening.

He said nothing. Just stared at her like she was an alien.

Tripti cleared her throat, still holding the mop like a microphone. "Uh... cleaning motivation. Helps me focus."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You think this is a joke?"

"No," she said quickly. "This is serious mopping."

A beat of silence.

"You sang into a toilet brush."

Tripti's face turned red. "It was clean. I think."

He took a slow step inside, voice calm but sharp. "Do you do this in every house you work in? Or am I just special?"

She met his gaze, trying to keep her chin up.

"Well, you are special. Not many people need motivational Bollywood playlists to survive their aura."

For a second — just a second — something in his face shifted.

Was that... amusement?

Then, like a door slamming shut, it was gone.

"Finish the work. Quietly. Or I'll have your phone thrown into the pool."

He turned and walked away, the door clicking shut behind him.

Tripti stood still, heart pounding, lips twitching.

Then she whispered, "Still worth it."

And pressed play again — this time, on low volume.

🎶 "Zindagi ek safar hai suhana..." 🎶

And went right back to scrubbing — maybe a little slower, a little smarter, but still Tripti.