There was something pathetic about Vanya Kapoor.

That's what Aariv thought every time she smiled at him like he was a god sent down just for her. Like he was a scene from one of those ridiculous K-dramas she probably cried over every night. Her eyes would widen just a little. Her voice would pitch higher. Her hands would get fidgety—tugging at her clothes, fixing her hair, offering him things he never asked for.

He knew... Of course, he knew.

He'd known for years that the chubby girl with the too-bright laugh and messy hair had a schoolgirl crush on him. It was obvious in the way she lingered around, always just close enough to be noticed, never bold enough to say it.

And honestly? It amused him. Sometimes. Like feeding a stray cat who kept circling his feet—annoying but oddly loyal.

He'd never wanted to be cruel. That wasn't his style. Aariv Khurana wasn't some loud-mouthed brute who mocked girls for their weight or their clothes. He had polish. He had charm. He smiled and said just enough to keep her hopeful. A compliment here. A soft thank you there. A casual touch of her hand if she was lucky.

It cost him nothing.... But God, the girl was delusional.

She always wore those tight tops now—trying to look slimmer, trendier. She'd cut her long hair—probably after seeing it on some actress—and dyed the ends in a cheap burgundy shade that didn't even suit her wheatish skin. She walked around like she was trying to become someone else.

For him.

She didn't realize the more she tried to be sexy, the more painfully awkward she became..... Vanya Kapoor was not sexy and not even of his class.

She was soft. Rounded in places that fashion didn't favor. Loud in ways that sophisticated circles didn't appreciate. Her voice always carried too much emotion, and her eyes always looked too desperate, too hungry for affection.

And what annoyed him most? That she thought—actually thought—a man like him could ever fall for her.

Aariv leaned back in his seat in the study, sipping his whiskey, the lights low. His reflection stared back at him from the glass cabinet—sharp suit, expensive watch, hair immaculately styled. He didn't want a girl like Vanya.

He wanted someone who belonged on his arm at business parties. Someone sleek, poised, understated, yet undeniably elegant. Someone with soft laughter, subtle perfume, toned arms, and perfect etiquette. A girl who didn't talk about college students and drama series and samosas and soil quality in her mother's garden.

He wanted someone polished. Not... Vanya Kapoor with her clingy tops and loud bangles and hopeful eyes.

"She doesn't know her place," he muttered under his breath.

What irritated him most wasn't even her appearance. It was her hope.

The way she looked at him, like she belonged in his world. Like her silly banana breads and awkward compliments and badly painted nails were enough to win him. Maybe it was time she faced the truth. He wasn't a dream. He wasn't the prince in her fairytale.

He was a Khurrana.

And she? She was the dead estate manager's daughter. She needed to stop floating in her fantasy and learn to walk on the ground again.

Because one day, someone was going to say it to her face. And when that happened—it wouldn't be charming. Aariv Khurana didn't believe in wasting time—not in meetings, not in business, and certainly not in relationships.

So when Kaira Sharma walked into his office six months ago—sharp in her tailored trousers, her eyes like polished glass—he knew instantly: this was the kind of woman who fit beside him.

She wasn't just smart. She was strategic. MBA gold medalist. Elegant in a way that didn't need noise. The kind of woman who wore sleek black heels and red lipstick and knew when to laugh softly and when to challenge a boardroom full of men.

They'd been working late on a pitch for an international client that afternoon, and when she leaned over his desk, pointing at something on his laptop, the soft scent of oud and rose hit him like temptation.

"You're brilliant," he'd said, barely thinking.

Kaira had smiled—cool, confident. "You're not so bad yourself."

He wanted her. Badly. And not just in the shallow way he sometimes wanted women. He wanted to be seen with her, known with her. She was his league. His level. His kind.

That evening, over drinks in the study, his mother brought it up again.

"Aariv," she said, pouring wine into her crystal glass. "You're thirty-two. It's time."

He gave her a sidelong glance. "Time for what?"

"You know what? Marriage. Settling down. And don't give me that 'I'm busy building an empire' nonsense. What's an empire without a queen?"

He scoffed, but before he could reply, she continued.

"I met Kaira at the fundraiser. She's divine. Her mother's from the Raina family—old money. Her father's on the education board."

"You like her."

"I adore her. And more importantly—she's not that chatty Kapoor girl with the unfortunate dress sense."

Aariv smirked. "Mother."

"What? I'm just saying. You're too polite to draw lines clearly, and she's too delusional to take a hint."

"She's harmless."

"She's desperate," his mother snapped. "And that's not a flattering quality in any woman. Especially not when she insists on acting like you two are a Karan Johar film waiting to happen."

Aariv swirled the wine in his glass, thoughtful. He didn't hate Vanya. In fact, part of him had enjoyed the attention—it stroked his ego and made him feel desired in an uncomplicated way. But she didn't fit into the picture he had of his life. Not even close.

Kaira did.... Polished. Educated. Slim, like a model with substance. The kind of woman who wouldn't bring home tiffins or talk about soil quality or samosa fillings or ask if he liked the hair dye she used last night.

He was going to ask her out. Soon. After the next pitch. Or maybe the next gala.... Something public. Something official