š§ Saturday Night ā "Crimson Pulse" Nightclub, Mumbai
It started with glitter.
Ishita's dress shimmered under the club lights like she'd walked out of a music video. Rohan, in his charcoal shirt and mild anxiety, looked like a man who came to vibe but also read fire safety protocols.
Dev and Aanya were already half a drink in. Diya had dragged them all here as "recovery from the dinner disaster."
"No rich friends tonight," she promised. "Just alcohol, lights, and legs."
"Excuse me!?" Rohan said, almost spitting his Coke.
"Chill," Diya laughed. "I meant for dancing."
š 10:41 PM ā The Dance Floor
The music thumped. Flashing lights bathed the club in chaotic colors. Ishita grabbed Rohan's hand.
"C'mon."
"I don't dance."
"You also said you don't fall for rich girls."
He had no comeback.
She pulled him in.And to his credit, Rohan tried.
Two minutes in, he looked like a confused penguin, but Ishita was laughing, and that made it worth every awkward step.
They danced. They forgot.For a moment, they weren't office scandal or class clash.
They were just Rohan and Ishita.
š„ 11:22 PM ā Trouble Walks In
He wore designer cologne and arrogance.Kunal Sharma. Ishita's ex.
Tall. Drunk. Overdressed. The kind of guy who thought "No" was a negotiation.
"Ishita?" Kunal said, stumbling over.
"Nope," she replied instantly.
"C'mon, you don't remember me?"
"Unfortunately, I do."
"You lookā¦ God, even better now. Miss me?"
Rohan stepped in.
"She's not interested."
Kunal blinked at him.
"And you areā¦ the driver?"
"Boyfriend."
"Ahh," he nodded slowly. "So she's into charity now."
Rohan clenched his jaw.
"Walk away, Kunal."
"Or what? You'll break my nose with your... middle-class rage?"
He reached outājust to touch her armābut that was enough.
Rohan swung.
One clean punch. Right across the face.
Kunal staggered back, crashing into a table. The music kept playing, but heads turned. A bouncer rushed over.
"What's going on!?"
"He touched her," Rohan snapped. "Unwanted. Repeatedly."
"And he broke my nose!" Kunal yelled, blood dripping.
š 11:47 PM ā Police Station
Of course.
Because every Indian love story needs at least one scene involving cops and chaos.
Rohan sat on a bench, blood on his knuckles, watching the constable write like he was doing homework late at night.
Ishita was pacing.
"You didn't have to hit him."
"He deserved worse."
"I know," she said. "But you're not that guy."
"I am when someone touches you like that."
She looked at himāangry, proud, terrified.
Then the inspector walked in.
And behind him?
Mr. Rajawat.Her father.
"Beti, are you alright?" he asked, ignoring Rohan completely.
"I'm fine, Papa," Ishita said.
He turned to the inspector.Two phone calls and one glare later, the FIR vanished like magic.
"We're going home," Mr. Rajawat said.
"I'm staying," she replied.
"With him?"
She didn't answer.
She just stepped toward Rohan and took his hand.
"Yes."
š Later ā Rohan's Apartment
The city was quieter now. So was their anger.
He was cleaning the dried blood off his knuckles. She sat on the edge of his bed, hugging her knees.
"That was reckless," she said softly.
"I know."
"And unnecessary."
"I know."
"But also kinda hot."
He looked up.
She smirked.
"I'll take the punch," he said. "Every time."
"You didn't need to impress me."
"I wasn't. I was protecting what's mine."
She stood. Walked over. Took his hand.
"Then maybe it's time we stop hiding."