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Before the heavy doors of the Rathore mansion opened to welcome the predatory Singhanias, there was a moment of quiet stillness in the master suite.

The Master’s Gaze

Shivank stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, adjusting his cufflinks. He was already fully armored in his midnight-blue suit, his hair slicked back with lethal precision. He looked ready to take over a country, let alone a company.

But his reflection in the window wasn't what he was looking at. His eyes were fixed on the vanity mirror across the room.

Aanvi was struggling.

She was sitting on the velvet stool, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she tried to fasten the heavy gold-and-diamond choker—a Rathore heirloom—around her neck. Because of her "baby nature," her fingers were trembling slightly, making the tiny clasp slip away every time she almost had it.

"Oh, you stubborn little thing," she whispered to the necklace, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout that Shivank could see even from the window.

Shivank didn't move. He stood there, unobserved, simply admiring her. In the soft glow of the vanity bulbs, Aanvi looked like a painting. The peach-silk of her saree made her skin look like cream, and the innocence in her eyes made the sharp diamonds at her throat look almost dull in comparison.

He watched her try again, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth—that habit she had when she was doing something "serious." She looked so fragile, yet so vibrantly alive. She was the only soft thing in his hard, metallic life.

The Helping Hand

After the third failed attempt, Aanvi let out a tiny, frustrated huff and almost dropped the jewelry.

"Need a professional?"

His voice, deep and smooth, made her jump. She looked up in the mirror to see him standing right behind her. He looked like a giant next to her, his dark suit a stark contrast to her light colors.

"Shivank-ji! I... I can do it. I’m just being clumsy," she said, her face flushing pink.

"Clearly," he murmured. He didn't wait for her permission. He stepped closer, his presence enveloping her like a warm shadow. He reached down and took the heavy gold piece from her small, shaking hands.

As his cool fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of her neck, a shiver ran down Aanvi's spine. She sat perfectly still, her breath hitching. In the mirror, she saw him looking down at her—not with the "strictly CEO" eyes, but with a gaze that was heavy, dark, and filled with something that made her heart race.

He fastened the clasp with a single, practiced click. But he didn't pull away.

His hands lingered, his knuckles grazing the nape of her neck. He looked at their reflection—the wolf and the lamb. He leaned down, his lips inches from her ear.

"You look..." He paused, searching for a word that wasn't in his business dictionary. "Acceptable."

Aanvi giggled, the tension breaking. "Just acceptable? After I spent an hour trying not to trip over my own pleats?"

Shivank’s gaze dropped to her lips in the mirror, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "If I told you how you really looked, Aanvi, I wouldn't let you go downstairs. I’d lock this door and tell the Singhanias to go to hell."

Aanvi’s eyes went wide. She had never heard the "Rude CEO" say something so... bold.

"Shivank-ji!" she squeaked, her face turning a deep shade of crimson.

He let out a short, dry chuckle and straightened up, his mask of stone clicking back into place. He held out his arm, stiff and formal. "The wolves are waiting, Aanvi. Don't trip on the way down. I’ve already had to fix your hand; I don't want to fix a rug too."

Aanvi smiled, tucking her small hand into the crook of his powerful arm. She knew that "rude" comment was just his way of hiding how much he had enjoyed that moment.

"I'll try," she promised. "But no guarantees!"

..........................

Before they descended the stairs, a blur of pastel pink intercepted them in the hallway. Kavya slid to a halt, nearly losing her balance. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of her brother standing protectively over a radiant Aanvi.

"Oh. My. God," Kavya gasped, clapping her hands together. "Aanvi, you look like a literal Maharani! Meera is going to have a heart attack the moment she sees those diamonds on you. She thought she was the only one allowed to wear the Rathore heirloom collection."

Aanvi bit her lip, her "baby nature" resurfacing as she nervously adjusted her bangles. "Do you really think so, Kavya? I feel like I might trip and break the diamonds. Or myself."

"If you break yourself, I'll fix you," Shivank cut in, his voice gruff but steady. "And if you break the diamonds, I’ll buy you a bigger set. Now, let’s go. I don’t like keeping people waiting—it gives them the impression that they’re important."

Kavya rolled her eyes at her brother’s arrogance but gave Aanvi a thumbs-up and a wink. "Go get 'em, sis!"

The Grand Entrance

As they reached the top of the grand staircase, the chatter in the foyer below died down instantly. The Singhanias stood there—Mr. Singhania, a man who looked like he breathed cigar smoke and interest rates, and Meera.

Meera was draped in her blood-red saree, leaning against the marble pillar with an air of practiced boredom. But as she looked up and saw Shivank—his hand possessively resting on the small of Aanvi’s back—her expression shifted into a mask of cold jealousy.

"Shivank!" Mr. Singhania’s voice boomed. "Impressive as always."

Shivank descended the stairs, his pace slow and calculated, forcing the guests to watch every step Aanvi took. When they reached the bottom, Meera stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply.

"Shivank, darling," Meera said, her voice dripping with a sweetness that didn't reach her eyes. She finally flicked a glance at Aanvi. "And you must be... Aanvi. I’m surprised you’re up! Kavya mentioned you were quite ill last night. Something about a tantrum over ice cream?"

Aanvi’s grip on Shivank’s arm tightened. She felt that familiar urge to shrink away, to hide from the sharp, judging eyes of a woman who looked like she stepped out of a fashion magazine.

"I'm much better, thank you," Aanvi whispered, her voice a bit small.

"Ice cream is for children, dear," Meera continued, reaching out as if to pat Aanvi’s cheek, but Shivank caught her wrist mid-air.

The air in the foyer turned sub-zero.

"My wife can eat whatever she likes, Meera," Shivank said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. He didn't let go of Meera’s wrist until she looked visibly uncomfortable. "And in this house, her 'tantrums,' as you call them, are more valuable to me than your father's entire textile division. Shall we go to dinner? I’m hungry, and Aanvi needs to eat—doctor’s orders."

The Dinner Table Disaster

The dining room was a sea of silver and crystal. Aanvi sat next to Shivank, feeling like a tiny bird in a cage of giants. Meera sat directly across from her, watching Aanvi’s every move, waiting for a mistake.

It didn't take long.

As the soup course was served, Aanvi’s "baby nature" and her lingering weakness made her movements a bit clumsy. She reached for the heavy silver spoon, but her sleeve caught the edge of a small crystal salt-cellar.

Clink. Thud.

The salt spilled across the table, and the cellar rolled right toward Meera’s expensive red saree.

Meera recoiled as if she’d been attacked. "Ugh! Really, Aanvi? I know you’re 'innocent,' but basic table manners aren't that difficult to learn, are they? Shivank, I honestly don't know how you handle this level of... incompetence every day."

Aanvi’s eyes filled with tears. She looked at the spilled salt, then at the angry Meera. "I-I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to..."

Shivank didn't look at the salt. He didn't look at Meera. He looked at Aanvi’s trembling hands.

"Aanvi," he said, his voice quiet but commanding. "Look at me."

She slowly lifted her tear-filled eyes to his.

"It’s just salt," he said, his hand covering hers on the table. He then looked at the waiter. "Clear this. And bring my wife a new set of cutlery. The heavy silver seems to be bothering her."

He then turned his gaze to Meera, his eyes turning into two shards of black ice. "Meera, if a little salt on your dress is enough to make you lose your composure, perhaps you aren't as 'classy' as you think. My wife is recovering from a fever. If you speak to her in that tone again, you won't be finishing this dinner. You’ll be finishing your business in this city instead."

Mr. Singhania cleared his throat nervously. "Now, now, Shivank. She didn't mean anything by it—"

"I mean exactly what I said," Shivank interrupted, his "rude" side out in full force. He turned back to Aanvi, his expression softening just for her. "Eat your soup, Aanvi. Or would you like me to feed it to you?"

Aanvi’s face turned bright red at the suggestion in front of everyone. "No! I can do it!"

She picked up her spoon, her hands steadier now that she knew the "Monster" was firmly on her side. Across the table, Meera stewed in a silent, hateful rage, realizing that no matter how clumsy Aanvi was, she was the only woman who held Shivank Rathore’s heart in her hands.

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The heavy oak doors had finally closed behind the Singhanias, taking Meera’s perfume and her sharp barbs with them. The mansion returned to its quiet, palatial stillness, but the air between Shivank and Aanvi was still charged with the electricity of the evening’s confrontation.

Once they reached the privacy of their master suite, the "Strict CEO" mask finally cracked. Shivank shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a leather armchair, and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Aanvi stood by the edge of the bed, her fingers fumbling with the heavy gold bangles on her wrist. She felt overwhelmed—by the night, by Meera’s cruelty, but mostly by the way Shivank had stood in front of her like an unbreakable wall.

"Shivank-ji?" she whispered.

He stopped moving, his back to her. "What is it, Aanvi?"

"Why did you do that? You didn't have to insult them. They’re your business partners." She took a small step toward him, her "baby nature" making her voice soft and hesitant. "You could have just... let me apologize."

Shivank turned around. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his hair was slightly disheveled. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a man who was reaching his breaking point.

"I don't let people insult what belongs to me," he said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. He walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet until he was standing directly in her space. "And you don't apologize for being yourself. Not to them. Not ever."

Aanvi looked up at him, her breath hitching. "But I am clumsy. And I did spill the salt. Meera was right about that."

"Meera is a snake who thinks a designer saree makes her superior," Shivank muttered. He reached out, his large hands cupping her face. His thumbs traced her cheekbones with a tenderness that felt almost painful. "You have more heart in your pinky finger than she has in her entire body. Don't you ever let her—or anyone—make you feel small."

Aanvi’s heart hammered against her ribs. She reached up, her small hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heart through the thin silk of his shirt.

"You're very loud today," she murmured, looking at his chest.

"My heart?" he asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"No," she giggled softly, her "baby nature" peeking through. "Your eyes. They're shouting."

Shivank’s gaze darkened. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. The scent of her—like lilies and the faint lingering smell of the medicine—swirled around him, drugging his senses. He was a man who took what he wanted, but with Aanvi, he always felt like he was handling a piece of rare porcelain.

"What are they shouting, Aanvi?" he whispered against her skin.

"They're saying..." she paused, her voice trembling. "They're saying you’re glad I’m here. Even if I break your crystal."

Shivank let out a jagged breath. "I’d break every crystal in the world if it meant you’d keep looking at me like that."

He didn't wait for her to respond. He tilted his head and captured her lips in a kiss that was a mix of everything he had been holding back—his ruthlessness, his protection, and his growing, terrifying love. It wasn't the kiss of a businessman; it was the kiss of a man who had finally found his home.

Aanvi gasped into his mouth, her hands sliding up to his neck, pulling him closer. She was soft and yielding, a perfect contrast to his hard, muscular frame. For a moment, the world outside—the mergers, the rivals, the millions—ceased to exist.

Shivank pulled back just an inch, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. "You’re still a little warm from the fever. You should sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," she pouted, her eyes heavy and dark with affection. "I want to stay here. With you."

Shivank let out a low, rough chuckle and lifted her off her feet, carrying her toward the bed as if she were a feather. He laid her down and, instead of walking away to his study as he usually did, he lay down beside her, pulling her small body into his arms.

"Fine," he murmured, kissing the top of her head. "But if you kick me in your sleep, I’m taking back the ice cream factory."

Aanvi snuggled into his chest, a sleepy, triumphant smile on her face. "You won't. You love your 'clumsy' wife too much."

Shivank didn't argue. He just held her tighter as the moon rose over Delhi, the "Devil" finally finding peace in the arms of his angel.

Aanvi shifted, her head resting on the firm muscle of his chest. She began to play with the top button of his shirt, her small fingers moving with that distracted, innocent rhythm that always made his heart skip a beat.

"Shivank-ji?" she whispered into the quiet room.

"Hmm?" He was tracing patterns on her bare arm, his touch so light it was almost a caress.

"You were really scary today," she admitted, looking up at him through her lashes. "When you caught Meera's hand... your eyes looked like a storm."

Shivank looked down at her. In the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp, she looked ethereal. "She was going to touch you. I don't like people touching what is mine, especially when they mean to do harm."

Aanvi pouted, her "baby nature" resurfacing. "I'm not a 'what,' Shivank-ji. I'm a person."

Shivank’s gaze softened—a look he saved exclusively for her. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down into her eyes. He reached out and gently pinched her nose. "You’re a very clumsy, very stubborn person who eats nine ice creams and scares me half to death."

Aanvi giggled, her cheeks turning a soft rose. "I don't scare you. You're the CEO of Rathore Industries. You aren't scared of anything."

"I wasn't," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate velvet. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Until I realized that if you so much as sneeze, I lose my mind. That's a very dangerous thing for a man like me, Aanvi."

He leaned in, not for a kiss this time, but to press his nose against hers in a playful, 'eskimo' rub. It was such a "soft" gesture—so un-Shivank—that Aanvi let out a tiny gasp of delight.

"You're being sweet," she teased, her hands coming up to cup his face. She ran her thumbs over his stubble, her touch grounding him. "Does the board of directors know you're actually a big teddy bear?"

"Tell anyone and I'll have to fire you," he growled playfully, nipping at her lower lip.

Aanvi laughed, pulling him closer. She felt so safe here, wrapped in the arms of the man the world feared. She felt like a small, precious secret he was keeping from the rest of the universe.

"I'm sleepy," she mumbled, her eyes fluttering shut as she snuggled deeper into his neck.

Shivank pulled the heavy quilt up, tucking it around her shoulders with obsessive care. He kissed her forehead, then each of her closed eyelids.

"Sleep, my disaster," he whispered.

As she drifted off, her breathing becoming slow and rhythmic, she subconsciously gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. Shivank didn't move. He lay there in the dark, watching her sleep, realizing that he didn't need the world's respect or billions of dollars to feel powerful. He just needed this—this small, clumsy girl who had somehow managed to trip and fall right into the empty space in his soul. ....

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