Mumbai’s monsoon lashed against the glass walls of Nexus Capital, turning the city’s skyline into a watercolor smear of neon and rain. At 26, Sanya Kapoor was the youngest Vice President in the firm’s history—a title she’d earned by outworking, outsmarting, and out-cursing every man in her way. Tonight, her office hummed with the glow of dual monitors, her silk chanderi saree crumpled at the waist, her hair a messy knot pinned by a gold juda pin.

“Bhenchod!” she hissed, slamming her phone down. “Rohan, if you don’t recalculate the Bharti Airtel acquisition multiples by midnight, I’ll sell your spleen to cover the margin call!”

Silence.

Her assistant, Aarav, peeked in, drenched from his sprint from the taxi. “Ma’am, the RBI just hiked interest rates. The Adani deal—”

“Is now 12% more fucked,” she finished, stalking to the whiteboard. Her kohl-smudged eyes scanned the equations, red marker slashing through flawed assumptions. “Tell the team I want new models in an hour. And coffee. No—Black Label. The legal team’s already drunk anyway.”

Aarav fled.

Alone, Sanya slumped into her chair, peeling off her heels. Her tiny flat in Parel sat empty, her mother’s missed calls piling up alongside her Tinder matches (”Investment Banker? Rich girl, huh? Send pics?”). Romance was a spreadsheet error—unnecessary, messy.

Then the lights flickered.

1:03 AM. Rain. Silence.

The trading floor was a graveyard of empty chai cups and abandoned ties. Sanya’s bare feet padded across the cold marble, her saree pallu trailing like a battle flag. She froze.

A shadow moved in the data room.

Thief? Rival? Her grip tightened on her stapler.

“Hello?”

The figure turned.

Blue screen light washed over sharp cheekbones, wire-framed glasses, and a wrinkled Oxford shirt hanging loose over lean shoulders. Vihaan Rao. The new 23-year-old associate from Hyderabad—quiet, baby-faced, with a habit of leaving besan laddoos in the breakroom.

“Ms. Kapoor.” He stood, voice deeper than she remembered. “I—I was adjusting the forex risk for the Japan deal. The yen’s volatility…”

She stepped closer, spotting his screen—a flawless Python script modeling currency fluctuations. “You coded this?”

He nodded, fingers brushing hers as he handed her a printout. “The carry trade’s collapsing. We need to hedge with USD futures.”

She scanned the numbers. Too precise. Too fast. “Who taught you this?”

“You.” His gaze dropped to her saree, where the pallu had slipped, revealing a sliver of bare waist. “Your lecture at IIM last month. On…on toxic arbitrage.”

Her lips twitched. “You attended?”

“Front row.” A blush crept up his neck. “You threw a marker at a guy for checking Instagram.”

“He deserved it.”

A beat. The AC hissed.

Vihaan’s glasses slid down his nose as he leaned to grab his bag, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of toned, honey-kissed skin. Sanya’s breath caught. Since when did nerds have abs?

“You should go home,” she said, sharper than intended.

He stiffened. “You first.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been here 72 hours.” His courage faltered, eyes darting to her smudged kohl. “Your LinkedIn says you’re 26, but you’re aging like…like prime minister.”

She stared. Did this toddler just roast her?

Then he grinned—a sudden, disarming flash of mischief—and her stomach flipped.

“Goodnight, Ms. Kapoor,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

As he passed, his sleeve brushed her arm. Three seconds.

Three seconds to smell his cologne (cedar and rain), to count the droplets clinging to his lashes, to wonder how his shy stutter hid such sharp, silent hunger.

The elevator dinged.

“Vihaan.”

He turned.

“The laddoos,” she said, voice steady. “They’re disgusting.”

Another grin. “You ate six.”

The doors closed.

Sanya’s knees buckled. She slid to the floor, her back against the data room wall, her skin burning where he’d touched her. Outside, thunder growled like a warning.

Three seconds.

Three seconds to unravel a woman who’d never needed anyone.