---
The glitter of chandeliers danced above Anaya Kapoor's head as she smiled politely for the fifth photo in a row. She stood in the center of the grand ballroom of The Ashmore Hotel—Delhi's most luxurious venue—flanked by shareholders, media moguls, and socialites. Her back was stiff, her heels ached, but the smile remained, flawless.
The Kapoor Enterprises Annual Gala was the crown jewel of her company's public calendar. Cameras flashed, crystal clinked in champagne glasses, and a full string quartet played in the background. Anaya looked every bit the queen she was expected to be—CEO at 27, heir to a multi-billion dollar media empire, and the face of modern Indian ambition.
But beneath the surface, the crown was heavy.
"Miss Kapoor, can we have one more with Mr. Dalmia?" a reporter called out.
Anaya turned smoothly, pasting on her professional smile. Mr. Dalmia was in his sixties, balding, and smelled faintly of cigar smoke and expensive whiskey. He chuckled as he placed his hand too low on her back for her comfort.
"You are the pride of this nation, Anaya," he said with a wink, his voice reeking of condescension. "But don't keep us waiting forever. The country needs to know who will win your heart."
"I'm focused on building the company first," she said lightly, stepping aside without breaking composure.
But his words echoed in her mind.
Her family had been saying the same thing for months.
Actually, years.
---
Later that night, in the privacy of her penthouse, Anaya kicked off her heels and leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, watching Delhi's skyline shimmer in the dark. Her gown, a hand-embroidered Sabyasachi custom, weighed on her like armor. She pulled the diamond pins from her hair, letting the curls fall free.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen island.
Mom Calling...
She ignored it.
Five seconds later, a text appeared.
> Mom: "He was impressed. You should talk to him privately tomorrow. This could be it, Anaya."
Anaya shut her eyes.
By he, her mother meant Armaan Malhotra—the golden boy of Mumbai finance circles. Rich, photogenic, pedigreed. And arrogant to the point of repulsion. He had approached her tonight with a smirk and a "I think our families are trying to push us into something, don't you?"
Yes, they were. And she hated it.
For all her accomplishments—Harvard Business School, turning around a failing vertical at Kapoor Media, landing a streaming deal with the biggest entertainment company in the U.S.—she was still a chess piece in the marriage game.
Her father had made it clear: "You can be the CEO, but this family needs alliances. You are not just a woman; you are a Kapoor."
Anaya threw her phone onto the couch and walked barefoot to her private bar. She poured a small glass of wine. She didn't drink often, but tonight, she needed to forget the forced smiles, the weight of diamonds, and the questions everyone was asking:
Who will she marry?
Is she hiding someone?
Is her success intimidating men?
No. She wasn't hiding someone.
But God, how she wished she were.
---
The next morning, dressed in a crisp navy pantsuit and minimal makeup, Anaya stepped out of her building into the chaotic noise of Delhi's business district. Her usual driver, Suresh, had called in sick. A replacement waited beside a modest-looking black SUV—nothing like her usual glossy BMW.
The man stood tall, lean, and unmoving as she approached. He looked early 30s, in a charcoal shirt and jeans—definitely not chauffeur attire. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms. His jawline was sharp, his expression unreadable, and his skin a few shades darker than hers.
Anaya hesitated.
"You're the replacement?"
He nodded once. "Rihan. Temporary assignment. Suresh said you had a board meeting at 9."
His voice was calm, low, and surprisingly pleasant.
She raised a brow. "You don't look like a driver."
He gave the faintest smile. "I clean up well when needed. May I?"
He opened the door for her with a smooth, practiced motion. She slid in.
As they pulled out, she stole a glance at him through the mirror. No perfume. No cologne. But a faint scent of soap and sandalwood filled the car. Clean, masculine. Quiet.
The city buzzed around them—horns, crowds, construction. Inside the car, it was oddly still. She expected him to make small talk, but he didn't.
Somehow, that felt refreshing.
Most men in her life—colleagues, suitors, reporters—couldn't stop talking about themselves.
This one didn't even look at her.
---
After the meeting, she had back-to-back appointments. She expected Rihan to be gone. Instead, he stood exactly where he'd dropped her, leaning against the SUV, arms crossed, a paperback novel in one hand.
"You waited?" she asked, surprised.
He shrugged. "You might've needed a ride."
"No one ever waits," she muttered, more to herself.
He didn't respond.
On the drive to her next meeting, she asked, "What did you do before this?"
"Different things."
"Like?"
"Drove trucks. Managed a warehouse. Helped set up a rural school in Himachal."
She blinked. "You don't sound like you're from this line of work."
"I'm not. This is... temporary."
"Running from something?"
He glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "Maybe. Aren't we all?"
Their eyes locked for a second.
Then he looked away.
---
The next two weeks passed in a blur.
Rihan became a regular fixture in her life—showing up on time, always silent, always watching. He never asked questions. He never intruded. And yet, he was always there when she needed something before she even asked.
Once, when her heel broke outside a film studio, he appeared out of nowhere with a pair of sneakers in exactly her size. Another time, when she was late for an award show, he had already mapped a route that bypassed Delhi's infamous traffic. When paparazzi tried to ambush her outside her gym, he intercepted them so smoothly that she didn't even have to speak.
It was almost... eerie.
"Are you psychic?" she asked one evening, half-joking.
He smirked. "Just observant."
But there were things she noticed too.
Like the way he never accepted tips.
The way he always had cash, but no cards.
The way his phone was an old model with no social media.
And the way he disappeared after dropping her off—no texts, no calls, no online trail.
Who was he?
And why did she care?
---
It was a rainy Friday when everything changed.
Anaya was scheduled to meet a potential investor at a rooftop restaurant. The clouds had darkened the city, and the traffic was worse than usual. Rihan drove smoothly, eyes on the road.
"I'm not sure about this guy," she said aloud. "He's got ties to some shady Russian firms."
"You don't have to go," he said.
She looked at him. "I can't just cancel. It's business."
"No, it's pressure. There's a difference."
She stared.
He didn't elaborate.
At the restaurant, she stepped out with an umbrella. The rain poured harder. Her investor, Mr. Goyal, was already there—smiling too wide, hand lingering too long.
Fifteen minutes into the meeting, he leaned forward and said, "You know, business can wait. Why don't we have dinner sometime? Alone."
Anaya froze.
"I think we should keep this professional," she said, firm.
But he grinned. "Come on, Anaya. You're smart, but you're still just a woman in a man's world. Aligning with the right men matters."
She stood up. "This meeting is over."
As she turned to leave, Mr. Goyal grabbed her wrist—not violently, but possessively.
And suddenly, Rihan was there.
No one saw where he came from.
But he moved fast.
He stepped between them, calm but menacing. "Let go."
Mr. Goyal blinked. "Who the hell are you?"
"Her driver."
"Then drive off."
Rihan's voice dropped an octave. "You're trespassing personal space. That makes you irrelevant."
Something in his tone—chilling, authoritative—made even the arrogant tycoon back away.
Rihan turned to Anaya. "You okay?"
She nodded, heart pounding.
They left in silence.
---
Back in the SUV, the tension was thick.
"Thank you," she said.
He didn't respond immediately.
Finally, he said, "You shouldn't have to fight alone."
His words sat heavy in her chest.
No one had ever said that to her.
Not her family. Not her so-called friends. Not even the men who claimed to want her.
She looked at him differently now.
He wasn't just observant.
He was dangerous in the quietest, most noble way.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered. "Why drive someone like me?"
He pulled the car over to the side of the empty highway, rain still pattering on the roof.
Then he turned toward her, eyes calm.
"Because sometimes," he said softly, "the strongest people need someone to stand between them and the world."
She didn't know what possessed her.
But in that moment, she reached across the seat and took his hand.
Warm. Solid. Rough from labor.
Their eyes met.
And the air between them changed forever.