That evening, Vanya’s bedroom was a quiet battlefield. Her sarees and kurtas—symbols of the dutiful, invisible girl she’d always been—lay folded neatly in the corner, untouched. Aariv had never cared for them; he had once said with a faint smirk, “You should wear what feels like you, not some exhibition of tradition.” She had listened, storing them away, leaving only her Western wear, pieces she never truly felt herself in.

Her eyes scanned the scattered options across the bed: fitted jeans that dug into her waist, tops that revealed just enough to feel daring but never quite enough to feel seen, and dresses she had bought in a burst of hope months ago but never dared wear. Tonight, she decided, nothing ordinary would do.

Her fingers hovered over a black off-shoulder dress, soft and clinging in all the right ways. Sliding into it, she felt the fabric settle like a second skin, tracing her curves in a way that made her spine tingle with unfamiliar confidence. She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, tilting her head to catch her reflection. For the first time, she didn’t see the hesitant, polite Vanya Kapoor. She saw herself—the bold, alluring woman who could claim a room with nothing but presence.

She curled her short hair over one shoulder, letting it cascade in waves that caught the soft light from her vanity. Kajal traced her eyes in perfect curves, and a gentle swipe of peach gloss made her lips shine just enough. She studied her reflection, taking in the curves that had always made her self-conscious—the fullness of her hips, the softness of her waist—and this time, they felt like armor, a declaration. She could be both herself and irresistible.

A shiver of anticipation ran down her spine. Her thoughts drifted to Aariv: the precise way he moved, the golden calm he exuded, the rare smiles that could make her heart leap. Tonight, he wouldn’t see the timid, long-suffering admirer. He would see her. The woman who had quietly cared, endlessly prepared, and finally decided she deserved to be noticed.

Her pulse quickened as she grabbed her clutch, giving herself a final glance in the mirror. The stacks of hidden sarees and kurtas in the corner seemed to mock her past self—but she didn’t look back. Tonight was about now, about making her presence undeniable, about stepping out of shadows and into the warmth of the spotlight she had long denied herself.

As she stepped into the quiet hallway, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor, she whispered under her breath: “No more hiding. Tonight… he’ll see me.”

The soft click of the front door behind her was both an ending and a beginning. The world outside awaited, and she was ready. Bold, sensuous, and entirely unapologetic—Vanya Kapoor was no longer invisible.

The Khurana mansion shimmered under fairy lights and crystal chandeliers, the kind of opulence that felt almost surreal. Staff moved about with silver trays, gliding silently, while glasses chimed and soft jazz wove itself through low conversations and bursts of laughter. Every corner gleamed; every reflection seemed to whisper wealth and precision.

Vanya stepped inside, heels clicking lightly against the polished marble. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and then they landed on him—Aariv. Golden, polished, effortless. His laughter carried across the room as he leaned close to a woman in a slinky gold dress. Their heads were almost touching; fingers brushed lightly as if rehearsed.

A pang of something bitter struck her chest, but she forced a smile and took a deep breath, reminding herself why she had come. She had come to be seen, not to lose herself in jealousy. Her heels clicked again as she moved forward, weaving through clusters of guests, her heartbeat thrumming like a silent drum.

And then—disaster.

Someone bumped into her shoulder. She flinched as a glass of orange cocktail tipped, spilling its sticky, cold contents across the front of her dress.

“I’m so sorry!” the waiter stammered, thrusting a napkin toward her.

Vanya murmured, “It’s okay,” but her cheeks flamed crimson, the wet fabric clinging unpleasantly against her skin. She slipped away quietly, weaving past the laughter and chatter toward a guest washroom down the hall. Her pulse hammered with embarrassment and a rising frustration—her carefully chosen black silk dress, the one that made her feel bold and seen, ruined in a moment.

Inside, the soft yellow light buzzed faintly above the mirror, casting a hazy glow. She shut the door behind her with a shaky hand and turned toward the mirror. Her stomach sank.

The orange stain had spread across the neckline of her dress, blooming like molten fire over the silk. Cold, sticky, and stubborn, it clung to her skin just below her collarbone. Her fingers shook slightly as she pressed a tissue against it, dabbing futilely at the mess. Each brush of the fabric against her exposed skin made her shiver, and a flush crept up her neck and chest. She felt raw, fragile, hyper-aware of every curve and contour that now seemed impossibly visible.

And then—a sound. Soft, deliberate. A shift, heavy with presence, close enough that her nerves screamed.

Her body froze. Heart hammering, breath catching, pulse racing. Slowly, eyes lifting from the reflection of the stain, she met him in the mirror.

Veeraj Khurana.

He was leaning against the doorway like a dark flame that had stepped out of the shadows, impossibly composed yet electric. One hand buried in his pocket, the other relaxed at his side, shoulders casual but radiating a quiet danger. His gaze, molten and unreadable, swept over her, drinking in every detail.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He simply watched, letting the silence stretch, heavy and charged.

Vanya’s chest tightened. Every rational thought scattered. The world outside—the party, the chandeliers, the laughter—faded. There was only him. His eyes, dark and stormy, holding her in a way that made her knees weaken and her skin prickle.

Vanya’s throat tightened, a tremor running through her chest. Heat crawled up her neck, down her arms, pooling in the small of her back. She yanked the neckline of her dress up, clutching at the fabric like a shield, cheeks burning.

“W-what are you doing here?” Her voice wavered, soft, trembling, betraying her racing pulse.

Veeraj tilted his head, his gaze unwavering, heavy with something unspoken and dangerous. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, roughened by smoke, mischief, and late nights spent testing boundaries. “I could ask you the same.”

“This… this is the guest washroom,” she stammered, her words small, fragile.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, dark and teasing, not reaching his stormy eyes. “Didn’t know it came with a show,” he murmured, letting his gaze linger on her bare shoulders, the faint flush across her chest, the way her breath hitched as his presence crowded the room.

Vanya’s stomach tightened; every nerve seemed to ignite.

“You’ve changed,” he said, voice low, heavy, dangerous.

“So have you,” she whispered, barely audible, heart hammering as her lips parted unconsciously.

Silence stretched, taut, electric, vibrating with unspoken heat. Then he moved. Just a step at first, deliberate, controlled. The scent of him hit her—smoke, whiskey, something darker, sharper, intoxicating. Her knees trembled. Her skin prickled, and she felt suddenly raw, exposed, aware of every inch of herself beneath his gaze.

“Next time,” he murmured, leaning impossibly close, his voice a low rasp against her ear, “try not to let cocktails spill on you. It’d be a shame to ruin that dress.”

Vanya’s breath caught, pulse hammering in her ears. His words weren’t just teasing—they were edged with something primal, a promise she didn’t fully understand but that made her ache in ways she had never let herself feel.

His eyes flicked to her lips, down to the rise and fall of her chest, and lingered with deliberate, almost predatory attention. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, the tight coil of tension in her stomach, the impossible draw of wanting him to look, to care, to reach out.

And then, just as suddenly, he stepped back. No smirk. No lingering second glance. Just the quiet click of the door shutting behind him, leaving her alone with the echo of his presence, the ghosts of his gaze burning across her skin.

Vanya stayed frozen, hand clutching the damp tissue, fingers numb. She stared at her reflection: black silk clinging in all the wrong places, orange stain stubborn across her chest, stray strands of hair escaping her bun. Lips parted, breath caught somewhere between exasperation and longing.

It wasn’t the ruined dress. It wasn’t the chaos. It was him. Veeraj’s gaze. The way he had seen her—like she was more than the invisible, polite, careful woman she always tried to be. Like she was fire, like she was danger, like she was… worth burning for.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and every rational thought scrambled. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not with him, not ever. He was the rebel, the black sheep, the playboy she had despised from a distance for years. She was a one-man woman. She had always believed in loyalty, in boundaries, in quiet, safe love.

And yet, her body betrayed her. The shiver crawling up her spine, the warmth pooling low in her stomach, the ache where his eyes had lingered—it was treason against every principle she had. Against every carefully constructed wall.

Even if Aariv—the golden, perfect Aariv—had never noticed her properly, Veeraj had. And it burned. And it thrilled.

Vanya closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. “This… means nothing,” she muttered to herself. She forced her shoulders back, smoothed her hair, dabbed at the faint stain, lifted her chin, and finally let herself smile—the practiced, safe smile she had worn all her life.

But beneath it, beneath the calm, a single, undeniable question festered:

Why had he looked at her like that?

And worse—why had she wanted him to?