Everyone loved Akshay.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Not because people said it out loud—though they did—but because of the way the room leaned toward him. Conversations bent in his direction. Laughter softened when he passed. Even silence behaved better around him.
He stood near the centre of the charity hall, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked expensive without screaming for attention.
No flashy watch. No loud confidence. Just quiet control—like he knew the world would adjust itself around him, so he never bothered to push.
Tall. Calm. Beautiful in a way that didn't ask to be admired.
The ideal man.
That's what the woman next to me whispered, her voice almost reverent.
"Every girl's dream," she added, clutching her wine glass like a secret.
I didn't reply.
Not because I disagreed—but because something about him made my throat tighten in a way admiration never had.
I'd seen men like him before. Men who wore kindness like a tailored jacket. Men who smiled just enough to make people feel chosen.
Dangerous men didn't always look dangerous.
Sometimes they looked perfect.
I turned my gaze away, focusing instead on the massive banner hanging above the stage—Hope Foundation Annual Fundraiser. Soft lights, polite applause, carefully curated goodness. This was his territory. Clean. Controlled. Applauded.
"He donated half the building fund," someone behind me said.
"He runs three orphanages," another voice added.
"And he never speaks badly about anyone," a third sighed.
Saint. Savior. Dream.
I took a sip of my drink and tasted nothing.
That was the second thing I noticed.
While everyone else watched him, he was watching me.
Not openly. Not rudely. He didn't stare. He didn't track me like prey. That would have been easy to dismiss.
No—he watched me the way a chess player watches a board. Calm. Patient. Already several moves ahead.
I felt it before I saw it. That subtle pressure between the shoulder blades. The awareness that comes when someone has decided you matter.
I turned.
Our eyes met.
His were dark. Not cold—never cold. Warm enough to be inviting. Deep enough to hide things. He smiled, just slightly, like we shared a private joke I didn't remember agreeing to.
I looked away first.
A mistake.
I told myself it was nothing. That I was tired. That crowded rooms made me jumpy. Trauma did that—made patterns where there were none, monsters where there were mirrors.
Still, my fingers curled tighter around the glass.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. Time behaved strangely around him too.
When I looked again, Akshay't staring.
He was walking toward me.
Not directly. Never directly. He stopped to greet people, shake hands, accept praise with humility that looked practiced. Every step calculated, yet effortless.
By the time he reached me, it felt inevitable.
"Ms. A—" he began.
I stiffened.
I had never told him my name.
Up close, he was worse.
Not louder. Not scarier.
Quieter.
His presence pressed in without touching. His voice was low, controlled, smooth in a way that suggested he rarely raised it—and never needed to.
"I'm sorry," I cut in. "Do I know you?"
A lie. Or half of one.
I knew him the way everyone here did. By reputation. By worship.
But I needed to hear how he knew me.
He smiled again. That same small smile. No teeth. No ego.
"Not personally," he said. "Yet."
Yet.
The word settled between us like a promise—or a threat.
"My name is—" He paused, just long enough to see if I'd fill the gap.
I didn't.
"—Akshay Sharma," he finished, watching my face carefully, like he expected something to break.
Of course.
The name everyone here already knew.
"I know," I said. "You're hard to miss."
Something flickered in his eyes.
Amusement?
Interest?
Approval.
"Funny," he murmured. "Most people say that like it's a compliment."
"And you?" I asked.
"I prefer honesty."
I met his gaze fully now. Refused to look away.
"Then be honest," I said. "Why are you talking to me?"
Around us, the room buzzed. Laughter. Music. Applause as someone took the stage. We stood in a pocket of stillness no one else seemed to notice.
"Because," he said calmly, "you're the only person in this room who hasn't tried to impress me."
I almost laughed.
Almost.
"And that bothers you?"
"No." His smile deepened, slow and deliberate. "It intrigues me."
I felt the urge to step back—and hated myself for wanting to.
"I don't do intrigue," I said. "I came here because my friend forced me. I'll leave in ten minutes."
"Seven," he corrected gently.
I frowned. "Excuse me?"
"You've been checking the exit every three minutes," he said. "Your shoulders tense when someone gets too close. You'll wait until the applause after the next speech. Then you'll slip out."
My skin prickled.
"You should stop observing people like they're projects," I snapped.
"And you should stop assuming observation equals harm," he replied smoothly.
There it was.
The edge.
Sharp. Polite. Perfectly hidden.
"Enjoy the event, Ms. Kashvi," he added, stepping back. "I hope you stay longer."
He turned to leave.
Relief rushed through me—too fast, too intense.
Then he stopped.
Without looking back, he said softly,
"By the way… the man who's been hovering near you all evening? The one pretending to text?"
My stomach dropped.
"He's not your friend," Akshay continued. "And he won't bother you again."
The words were gentle.
The meaning was not.
Before I could respond, he walked away—swallowed immediately by smiles and handshakes and praise.
I stood frozen, heart pounding, scanning the room.
The man was gone.
Just… gone.
No confrontation. No scene. No explanation.
I left exactly seven minutes later.
Outside, the night air hit me like freedom. I inhaled deeply, my pulse slowly settling as I walked toward the parking lot.
You're imagining things, I told myself.
Powerful men notice details. That doesn't make them dangerous.
Still, my phone buzzed as I reached my car.
Unknown Number:
You made it home safely. Good.
My blood ran cold.
I hadn't told him where I lived.
I hadn't given him my number.
I typed back with shaking fingers.
Me: Who is this?
The reply came instantly.
Unknown Number:
The man you didn't try to impress.
I stared at the screen.
Another message followed.
Sleep well, kashvi.
Tomorrow will be quieter for you.
I should have blocked the number.
I should have gone to the police.
Instead, I stood there, phone glowing in the dark, wondering—
How did the ideal man already know so much about me?
And why did a small, traitorous part of me feel… safe?