The chandelier casts a warm, steady glow across the boardroom of Vaya Architecture. Light reflects softly off the long, sleek Nero Marquina table at the center, its polished surface stretching beneath a row of precisely arranged chairs.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line one side of the room, overlooking the city below. Evening light filters through the glass, blending with the rooms light and giving the space a sharp, modern edge.
At the far end, a large presentation screen stands ready, its surface blank but expectant. A projector rests on the table, aligned perfectly, with neatly arranged files and digital tablets placed before each seat.
The room feels controlled.
But the one is out of control is Shivang Ravalyan.
He’s far from it.
He is checking the files and presentation again and again, for the past hour, making sure everything goes exactly as planned.
“Shivang, calm down. Everything’s fine.”
Adhir—the CFO and Shivang’s best friend, the one who helped him build this company—leans against the table, watches him pace around the room.
“Still, I need everything to be perfect, Adi. I can’t lose this opportunity” Shivang mutters, checking the projector again for what feels like the tenth time.
“For the tenth time? If we lose this deal,it'll be because of your nervousness” Adhir says, stifling a yawn.
“Stop yawning, idiot” Shivang snaps.
“I’m sleepy. Who told you to schedule a meeting at 7 p.m. yaar?” Adhir mutters, spinning his chair toward the city lights, glancing outside lazily.
“Adi, I told you, didn’t I? Mr. Rudravanshi’s niece is coming from Berlin, and she's leaving tomorrow. Without her, this deal won’t be finalized.” Shivang said .
“We’ve still got one hour in hand . Let’s grab some coffee before I fall asleep here,” Adhir suggests.
“No. You go” Shivang mutters.
“Shivang, breathe. I know it’s our first international deal, but we can’t let anxiety ruin it,” Adhir says calmly, tapping his shoulder.
Shivang exhales and glances at him.
“…Alright.”
“Inaya, where are you?” my father’s voice comes through the phone.
“Five minutes, Dad. I’ll be there” I reply.
“It’s been ten minutes. I’ve been waiting in the parking lot” he says, his voice edged with annoyance.
“Go ahead. I’ll reach in five minutes, promise”
I assure him.
“Thank God I’m your boss. If it were anyone else, you’d have been fired on your first day” he mutters.
“Yes, yes, I’m very grateful” I say dryly. “Now go. I’ll be there. Promise.”
Vaya Architecture—I’ve heard a lot about it, mostly from my father. He talks about it often.
Even though he’s always busy, he helped build this company from the beginning. That still surprises me. My father doesn’t usually work with new firms.
I park my car and inside, heading straight to the reception desk.
“Where is the meeting room” I say quickly.
“Fifth floor.”
Of course.
I’m already late.
The elevator doors are sliding shut.
I rush forward and almost missed it but A hand stops the door.
Just in time.
I slip inside, catching my breath.
“Thank you” I say, glancing at the man beside me.
He doesn’t look up as he's focused on his phone.
I keep glancing at him the entire ride until we reach the fifth floor.
He’s probably around 6’2, tall enough to feel out of place in the confined space of the elevator. There’s something off about him not obvious, but noticeable.
He seems nervous.
His foot taps against the floor in a steady rhythm, almost impatient, while his fingers move quickly across his phone. The movements aren’t casual,they’re restless.
As the door opens,he walks straight toward the washroom maybe he got something urgent.
I head toward the boardroom, where a guard stands by the door. He opens it for me politely.
"Thank you." It slips out automatically as entered the room.
My father stands near the window, deep in conversation with a man. He notices me approaching.
“She’s my daughter, Inaya” he says, introducing me.
The man turns and extends his hand.
“Adhir Thakur. CFO of the company.”
“Inaya Al-Hamed. I work under Mr. Javed Al-Hamed.” I said taking his hand.
“Mr. Al-Hamed, you’re here early.”
The voice comes from the door.
“Yes. Adhir mentioned you were nervous. Thought I’d arrive ahead of time” Javed says walking toward him.
I turn and freeze for a second. The man from the elevator.
“Easy boy, you’ll get this” my father assures him.
He nods.
“Meet my daughter.” he said glancing towards me.
The man steps forward and extends his hand, composed and professional.
“Shivang Ravalyan.”
Our eyes meet. His gaze holds mine a second too long. And for some reason my heartbeat quickens as I take his hand.
“Inaya Al-Hamed.”
His grip is firm, his palm rough against mine.
Unexpected.
My breath catches just slightly.
And just like that my heart forgets its rhythm.
The four of us take our seats and begin discussing about the deal, but my gaze keeps drifting toward him—again and again.
One by one, the seats fill. HR, the manager, a few team members. Low murmurs spread across the room.
But my attention stays on him.
He’s focused like everything depends on this.
He answers his team’s questions with precision, preparing for the clients arrival, even with the tension written all over him.
Then the door opens.
His eyes snap toward it, and a soft smile forms on his lips as he rises.
I drop my gaze back to the iPad, pretending to scribble something as the figure walks toward him.
“How’s everything going?” the man asks.
Something clicks.
Wait—I’ve heard that voice before.
My eyes lift.
“Bhai, everything’s good” Shivang says as the man takes a seat beside him.
Then—his gaze shifts to me.
And he smiles.
Casual. Familiar.That bastard.
“Didn’t think we’d meet like this again” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Neither did I” I reply, returning the smile.
“You two know each other?” Shivang asks, his gaze shifting between us.
A pause.
Then he answers, far too calmly—
“Yeah. We’re close.”
My brows lift instantly.
Since when?
His lips twitch.
And then—
he winks.
Shivang blinks, clearly not following whatever just passed between us.
After what feels like an eternity, the clock finally strikes seven.
A few minutes later, the door opens.
A guard steps in, escorting a man and a young woman.
She walks in with quiet confidence, dressed in a tailored charcoal-grey pinstripe suit.
The wrap-style blazer cinches slightly at the waist, its deep V neckline giving it a sleek, modern edge.
High-waisted, straight-leg trousers fall cleanly to sharp black pointed heels.
A structured black handbag rests in her hand, while her soft, long waves frame her face. Minimal makeup—controlled and effortless.
And yet impossible to ignore.
Heads turn toward the door as it opens, and everyone rises as the two figures step inside.
Shivang takes a few steps forward, extending his hand, posture formal and composed.
“Good evening, Mr. Rudravanshi.”
Mr. Rudravanshi smiles, shaking his hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Ravalyan. Sorry for the delay.”
“It’s only been a few minutes—no problem,” Shivang replies.
Then his attention shifts.
He turns toward the young woman and extends his hand.
“Good evening. I’m Shivang Ravalyan.”
She nods, meeting his gesture.
“Aythijhya Rudravanshi.”
Shivang leads them to their seats. The room settles—focused, prepared, ready.
Everyone is composed.
Everyone—
except two.
Inaya.
Revanth.
Still. Silent. Shocked.
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