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The morning after their return from the Maldives was quiet, the air in the Rathore mansion still carrying the faint, lingering scent of sea salt and luxury.

Shivank woke up at his usual time, but for the first time in years, he didn't immediately reach for his phone to check the stock market. Instead, he propped himself up on one elbow and watched Aanvi.

She was deep in sleep, her "baby nature" fully on display. Her hair was a wild, dark halo across the white silk pillows, and her lips were slightly parted. She looked so innocent, so completely his, that the "Mountain" felt his heart swell with a protective heat.

He began to "bombard" her. First, a light kiss on her forehead. Then, a lingering one on each eyelid.

"Mmm... Shivank-ji... stop," she mumbled, her eyes still closed, a "clumsy" hand trying to swat him away like a persistent fly.

"No," he whispered, moving to her cheeks, then the tip of her nose. "You slept through the flight, you slept through the car ride, and now you’re trying to sleep through me."

He pulled her into a tight "cuddle-lock," burying his face in the crook of her neck. Aanvi finally opened her eyes, giggling as his stubble tickled her skin. She turned in his arms, getting "clingy" instantly, wrapping her legs around his and hiding her face in his chest.

"Just five more minutes," she pleaded. "The Maldives sun is still in my eyes."

"The Maldives sun is 3,000 miles away, little bird. Get up." He punctuated the command with a flurry of kisses along her jawline until she was squealing and fully awake.

The master dressing room was a scene of "clumsy" chaos. Shivank was trying to shave, but Aanvi kept leaning against his back, her arms wrapped around his waist, refusing to let go.

"Aanvi, I have a razor near my throat," he remarked dryly, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

"I'm just making sure you don't disappear into your 'Strict CEO' mode," she chirped. She reached for his cologne but gripped it poorly; the heavy glass bottle slipped from her hand.

Shivank’s hand snapped out, catching the bottle an inch from the floor. He sighed, his "hard" expression softening. "I should just bubble-wrap you every morning."

He ended up helping her zip her dress—a soft, cream-colored floral number—and adjusted her "blue pearls" with a lingering touch on her neck. "There. Now you’re presentable for the family interrogation."

Downstairs, the breakfast table was a lively affair. Mrs. Rathore, Kavya, and Shivank’s father, the elder Mr. Rathore, were already seated.

"So! Did the 'Mountain' finally learn how to relax, or did he spend the whole honeymoon on Zoom calls?" Kavya teased, passing Aanvi a bowl of fruit.

"He was very good!" Aanvi announced, "clumsily" dropping a piece of papaya into Shivank’s lap. "He only checked his emails... maybe fifty times."

"Only fifty?" Mr. Rathore laughed, looking at his son. "That’s a record for Shivank. Usually, it’s fifty before his first coffee."

The table was filled with laughter as Aanvi shared "innocent" stories about the Maldives—mostly about how she almost fell off a jet ski and how Shivank had to jump in to save her hat.

As the meal wound down, Mr. Rathore wiped his mouth and turned to Shivank, his expression turning slightly more serious, though his eyes remained kind.

"Shivank, I hope you haven't forgotten about tonight. The Chamber of Commerce is hosting the Annual Gala. It’s an important night for the new green-energy initiative."

Shivank stiffened slightly, the "Strict CEO" clicking back into place. "I remember, Dad. I’ve already prepared the brief."

"Good," Mr. Rathore added, glancing at Aanvi with a smile. "But remember, it’s a couple’s event. You’ll need to attend with your wife. It’s time the business world sees the woman who managed to make my son smile during business hours."

Aanvi froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "A gala? With... with all the serious people? Shivank-ji, what if I trip on the red carpet? Or what if I accidentally tell the Minister of Finance a joke about a penguin?"

Shivank reached over, covering her hand with his. His "hard" gaze was steady, but his voice was a low, private rumble for her ears only. "Then I’ll be there to catch you, and we’ll tell the penguin joke together. But for now, finish your juice. We have a long day before the 'Storm' hits the red carpet."

The evening of the gala arrived, and the master suite was a whirlwind of silk, perfume, and "baby-natured" anxiety. Aanvi was standing in front of the mirror, draped in a stunning, midnight-blue velvet saree with intricate silver embroidery. She looked like a celestial dream, but her face was a mask of pure tragedy.

"I can't do it, Shivank-ji. It’s a trap!" Aanvi wailed, pointing a "clumsy" finger at the six-inch silver stilettos sitting innocently on the rug. "These aren't shoes. These are stilts designed for my downfall. Literally!"

Shivank, looking lethal and devastatingly handsome in a bespoke black tuxedo, walked over to her. He had been ready for twenty minutes, but he didn't mind the delay. Watching Aanvi’s "stubborn side" battle her vanity was his favorite form of entertainment.

"Aanvi, they match the saree perfectly," he said, his "hard" voice dropping into that persuasive, CEO rumble.

"They are weapons of mass destruction!" she countered, crossing her arms and pouting. "If I wear these, I will tip over like a Jenga tower. The Minister of Finance will see my bloomers, Shivank-ji! Is that what you want for the Rathore reputation?"

Shivank didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped into her personal space, his hands settling firmly on her waist. He turned her to face the mirror, his gaze sweeping over her from the "blue pearls" at her throat to the way the velvet hugged her curves.

His "hard" expression didn't just crack; it dissolved into pure, unadulterated admiration.

"You look..." He cleared his throat, momentarily losing his professional composure. "You look breathtaking, Aanvi. The heels only add to the grace you already have."

Aanvi blushed, her "innocent" eyes fluttering. "Really? You don't think I look like a penguin trying to walk on ice?"

"A very beautiful penguin," he teased, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to the curve of her neck. "But listen to me. I will be right next to you. My arm will be locked with yours the entire night. If you even wobble a millimeter, I’ve got you."

Aanvi sighed, her "clinging" nature taking over. she turned around in his arms, burying her face in his tuxedo jacket, heedless of the makeup. "Promise? Even if I drop my fork? Even if I call the CEO of Mittal Group 'Uncle'?"

"I promise," he murmured, his hand stroking the small of her back. "Actually, calling him 'Uncle' might help the negotiations. It makes him feel old and vulnerable."

With a final huff of "stubborn" bravery, Aanvi stepped into the silver heels. She immediately teetered, her "clumsy" balance failing, but Shivank caught her by the elbows instantly.

"See?" she gasped, clutching his biceps. "It’s starting!"

"One step at a time, little bird," he whispered, guiding her toward the door.

As the black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the gala venue, the flashes of a hundred cameras went off. Shivank stepped out first, looking every bit the "Strict CEO" the world feared. But as he turned to help Aanvi out, his face transformed into something so soft and protective it made the reporters gasp.

Aanvi emerged, clutching Shivank’s arm so tightly her knuckles were white. She was smiling, but her "baby-natured" internal monologue was a frantic scream of 'Don't trip, don't trip, don't trip!'

As they walked the red carpet, a prominent journalist stepped forward. "Mr. Rathore! Is it true the Maldives trip was a secret merger meeting?"

Shivank didn't even look at the camera. He adjusted his grip on Aanvi, pulling her closer to his side. "It was a meeting of the hearts, nothing more," he said coolly, his "hard" persona acting as a shield for her.

Just then, Aanvi’s heel caught in a small gap between the carpet tiles. She let out a tiny "eep!" and her body jolted. Before the cameras could even capture the stumble, Shivank’s arm swept around her waist, lifting her slightly so her feet barely touched the ground as he propelled her forward.

To the world, it looked like a romantic, sweeping gesture. To Aanvi, it was a literal life-save.

"You're doing great," he whispered into her ear as they entered the ballroom. "Now, let’s go find that 'Uncle' you wanted to talk to."

The gala was a sea of black ties, glittering diamonds, and conversation so dry it made Aanvi’s throat itch. Shivank was cornered by three energy magnates, his "Strict CEO" face firmly in place as he discussed infrastructure.

Aanvi, feeling "bored" and a little overwhelmed by the heavy velvet of her saree, wandered toward the refreshment table. Her "clumsy" hand reached for what she thought was a simple fruit punch. It was sparkling, pink, and looked exactly like the "innocent" juice she drank at home.

She took one large, thirsty gulp. Then another. She didn't realize it was the "Rathore Signature Punch"—heavy on the vintage champagne and light on the fruit.

Ten minutes later, the world felt very soft and "melty" to Aanvi. The silver embroidery on her saree seemed to be twinkling just for her. Her "baby nature" took a wild, unfiltered turn as she floated back toward Shivank and the Board of Directors.

Shivank was mid-sentence: "The quarterly projections for the solar plant are—"

"Shivank-ji!" Aanvi chirped, sliding into the circle and looping her arm through his. She wasn't just "clinging"; she was practically leaning her entire weight on him. "Your friends are very tall. Do they grow them in a special tall-person garden?"

The three directors froze. Shivank’s "hard" gaze dropped to his wife. He saw the slight flush on her cheeks and the glassy, happy sparkle in her eyes. His heart skipped—partly from her cuteness, and partly from sheer corporate terror.

"Aanvi," he murmured, his hand settling on her waist to keep her upright. "Did you drink the punch?"

"It was pink!" she whispered loudly to the Chairman of the Board. "Like a flamingo! Did you know flamingos sleep on one leg? I tried that once in the shower. I fell. Shivank-ji had to buy a new shower curtain."

The Chairman, a man who hadn't smiled since 1994, blinked in shock. "I... I see. A shower curtain, you say?"

"Yes!" Aanvi nodded vigorously, her "blue pearls" swaying. "And you! You look like you need a hug. Shivank-ji says you're the 'Shark of the Industry,' but sharks don't wear silk ties. Why are you so grumpy? Is your tie too tight?"

She reached out with a "clumsy" hand, actually tugging slightly on the Chairman’s tie.

"Aanvi, stop," Shivank growled, but he was currently fighting the urge to burst into laughter. He pulled her hand away and tucked it into his own. "Gentlemen, I believe my wife has... encountered the catering staff’s enthusiasm."

"No, no!" Aanvi protested, looking up at Shivank with "innocent" pouty lips. "I'm just being honest. You tell them, Shivank-ji! Tell them how you cried when I fell down the stairs! He’s not a Mountain, he’s a big, soft marshmallow!"

The circle of directors went dead silent. The "Iron Man" of India, a marshmallow?

Shivank realized his reputation was being dismantled, one "tipsy" confession at a time. He looked at the directors with a look that said 'If anyone mentions this tomorrow, you're fired.'

"If you'll excuse us," Shivank said, his voice dropping into a "hard," authoritative tone. "My wife needs... air. And perhaps a gallon of water."

He didn't just lead her away; he practically carried her, his arm hooked under hers so her silver heels barely grazed the floor.

"Where are we going?" she giggled as they reached the quiet balcony. "Are we going to find the flamingos?"

"We are going home, you little firebrand," Shivank muttered, pulling her into the shadows. He pinned her gently against the stone railing, his "hard" gaze softening as he looked at her beautiful, disheveled state. "You just told the most powerful men in the country that I’m a marshmallow."

"But you are," she whispered, her "clinging" hands finding his neck. "My marshmallow."

Shivank sighed, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. "I am going to have so many phone calls to deal with tomorrow. But for now..." He kissed her—a deep, grounding kiss that tasted like champagne and sweet chaos. "...I think I’m just going to take my 'tipsy' wife home before she tells them about the 'Business Cat' sketches."

The heavy oak doors of the gala hall hadn't even fully closed behind them before Shivank’s "Strict CEO" composure began to fracture. The cool night air hit them, but the heat between them was rising.

By the time the chauffeur pulled the black Rolls-Royce away from the curb, the privacy partition was already up, sealing them in a world of leather, shadows, and unspoken tension.

Aanvi was still in her "tipsy" haze, her head lolling back against the expensive headrest. "Shivank-ji... the car is moving but I feel like I'm flying," she whispered, her "baby nature" turning into something far more magnetic.

Shivank didn't answer with words. He reached out, his large, "hard" hand tangling in the silk of her hair, pulling her head back just enough so he could look into her glassy, dilated eyes.

"You have no idea what you did back there, do you?" he growled, his voice a low, vibrating chord of raw desire. "Telling those men I'm soft... touching their ties... making me want to tear the room apart just to get you alone."

Aanvi’s breath hitched. The "clumsy" girl was gone, replaced by a woman who felt the sudden, dangerous electricity in the air. She reached out, her fingers "clinging" to the lapels of his tuxedo, pulling him toward her.

"Are you... are you going to punish me, Mr. Rathore?" she breathed, her "innocent" voice laced with a newfound provocation.

Shivank’s control snapped. He lunged forward, his mouth crashing onto hers with a "hard" intensity that stole the air from her lungs. This wasn't the gentle, protective kiss of the morning; this was the "Mountain" claiming what was his.

He pulled her across the seat and onto his lap, her heavy velvet saree bunching up around her thighs. The "blue pearls" at her neck clattered against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

"You're mine," he muttered against her skin, his hands roaming over the curves the saree had previously hidden. "Mine to protect, mine to scold, and mine to break."

Aanvi let out a small, broken whimper, her arms wrapping around his neck so tightly she was practically fused to him. The motion of the car—the smooth turns and the muffled hum of the engine—only added to the intoxicating friction between them.

She was "clumsy" even in her passion, her knee accidentally knocking the armrest, but Shivank didn't care. He caught her waist, his fingers digging into the velvet, anchoring her as he reclaimed her lips.

"Shivank... please," she gasped out, her "stubborn side" completely surrendered to him.

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and predatory in the flickering streetlights passing by the window. He looked at her—her hair a mess, her lipstick smudged, her chest heaving—and felt a fierce, primal pride.

"Not here," he rasped, his voice thick with a "hard" restraint. "I want you in our bed. I want to see every inch of you without these shadows."

When the car finally pulled into the mansion’s driveway, Shivank didn't wait for the chauffeur to open the door. He shoved it open himself, stepped out, and reached back in to haul Aanvi into his arms.

He didn't carry her "innocently" this time. He held her high against his chest, his stride "hard" and purposeful as he bypassed the staff and headed straight for the grand staircase.

Aanvi hid her face in his neck, her heart hammering against his ribs. The gala, the directors, and the "tipsy" jokes were forgotten. There was only the "Mountain" and the "Bird," and a night that was about to become the most "intense" chapter of their story.........

Continue.............