The next morning, Mumbai’s streets were rivers, swallowing taxis whole. Sanya’s Uber idled in the flood, her driver muttering prayers to Siddhivinayak. On her phone, the Bloomberg Terminal blinked red: ADANI DEAL CRUMBLES AS RBI RATE HIKE TRIGGERS BOND SELL-OFF.

“Bhagwan ke liye,” she cursed, tossing a 500-rupee note at the driver. She waded into knee-deep water, her Banarasi silk saree plastered to her legs, the gold juda pin in her hair glinting like a weapon.

9:15 AM. Nexus Capital. Chaos.

The trading floor buzzed with panic. Analysts huddled around screens, their voices rising over the thunder.

“We’re losing 20 crore an hour!”

“Legal says the term sheet’s void—”

“Quiet!” Sanya’s voice cut through the noise. She strode in, dripping monsoon fury, her eyes locking onto the whiteboard. “Aarav! Status.”

“Ma’am, Adani’s CFO just pulled out. They’re citing force majeure due to the RBI hike. Our leverage ratio’s at 9:1. If we don’t liquidate by noon…”

“We’re a joke on Dalal Street.” She snatched a marker. “Sell the Tata Steel holdings. Dump the rupee futures. And call Rohan’s ex-wife—I hear she’s shorting our stock.”

Aarav hesitated. “But…that’s his alimony—”

“Now.”

As the team scattered, Sanya’s gaze snagged on Vihaan, hunched at a corner desk. His Oxford shirt clung to his shoulders, damp from rain, fingers flying across his keyboard.

Ignore him.

She failed.

“Rao. Why aren’t you vomiting into a trash can like the other interns?”

He didn’t look up. “Because I’m right.”

A beat. The room held its breath.

Sanya stalked over, heels cracking like gunshots. “Excuse me?”

Vihaan turned his screen—a live model of the bond market, curves intersecting at a jagged peak. “Selling Tata Steel tanks our collateral. But if we convert the Adani debt into credit-default swaps and auction them to BlackRock…”

“They’ll laugh in your face.”

“Not if we bundle them with the Reliance fiber-optic leases.” His glasses slid down; he pushed them up, jaw set. “It’s a synthetic CDO. High risk, but the premiums…”

Sanya leaned in, her pallu brushing his wrist. The numbers danced—a brutal, beautiful calculus. “You’d turn our trash into a treasure.”

“Your trash,” he murmured.

Their eyes met. The AC died, leaving only the drumbeat of rain.

“Follow me.”

10:30 AM. Conference Room 3.

Vihaan’s laptop glowed between them, Python scripts devouring data. Sanya paced, her saree leaving a trail of water on the carpet.

“BlackRock’s team is in London. You have 10 minutes to pitch.”

“We have 10 minutes,” he corrected, fingers pausing. “They’ll want the VP, not the associate.”

She stopped. “You’re asking me to front your idea?”

“I’m asking you to sell it. Like you sold Reliance-Disney last quarter.” A faint smile. “I read the case study.”

Her chest tightened. How long had he been watching?

The phone rang. She grabbed it, slipping into her kill voice: “Lionel. You’ll bid 85 cents on the dollar, or I’ll tell the FT about your wife’s yacht in Goa.”

Vihaan snorted.

She glared, but his grin widened, boyish and unrepentant.

Focus.

Two hours. Three revised term sheets. One shared takeout box of pav bhaji they fought over with plastic forks.

1:00 PM. Breakthrough.

“Deal’s done.” Sanya hung up, slumping into her chair. “BlackRock took the CDOs. We’re out of the woods.”

Vihaan exhaled, rolling his sleeves past toned forearms. “Told you.”

“Don’t.” She kicked off her heels, flexing bare toes. “Why’d you help? I’ve bullied you for weeks.”

He hesitated. On-screen, his Slack flashed a message: MOM: CALL ABOUT WEDDING DATES.

“You’re not the only one with something to prove.”

Silence.

Sanya’s phone buzzed—MOM: 27 MISSED CALLS. She silenced it. “Arranged marriage?”

“Hyderabad’s finest.” He mimed a noose. “Gold medal at IIT? Check. CFA Level III? Check. Still not…enough.”

Their eyes met. Enough for whom?

Thunder rattled the windows. The lights flickered, plunging them into blue-dark.

“Shit.” Sanya stood, tripping on her saree.

Vihaan caught her, hands firm at her waist.

Time stopped.

Her palms pressed against his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart. His breath hitched, warm and whisky-sweet from the paan he’d sneaked earlier.

“Ms. Kapoor—”

“Sanya.”

His thumb brushed the bare skin under her blouse. “Sanya.”

The door burst open.

Lights blazed. Aarav stood, drenched, holding a Starbucks tray. “Ma’am! The—the chai you asked for—”

They sprang apart.

“Out,” Sanya hissed.

Alone again, Vihaan cleared his throat. “I should…”

“Yeah.”

He left, but not before glancing back—a look so hot it seared her spine.

3:00 PM. The Devil’s Hour.

Sanya scrolled his LinkedIn: Vihaan Rao. National Coding Champion. Carnatic violinist. Eldest son. Obedient. Lonely.

Her finger hovered over Message.

A notification popped up: VIHAAN RAO HAS VIEWED YOUR PROFILE.

She laughed, sharp and unsteady. Outside, the monsoon roared, washing the city clean.