Kira's POV
"Kira..."
I glance up from the plate of ridiculously overpriced hors d'oeuvres—each the size of a ping pong—to find my mother staring at me with that familiar, icy disapproval in her eyes. It's a look I've seen more times than I can count.
I brace myself for the inevitable guilt trip.
"Yes, Mom?" I force my voice to sound as calm and polite as possible, keeping my expression neutral, though it's a challenge.
"You eat hors d'oeuvres with your dinner fork, not your dessert fork."
She shoots me dead by her stare while I quietly switch my fork.
"Would you look at yourself We've been living in the city for what, a month? And already you're lost all sense of etiquette!"
"Yes, mom." I mutter, my tone flat and devoid of any real emotion.
"Honestly," she sighs her voice so exasperated you'd think I'd just suggested we move to the moon. "Is this how you plan to act when the Oberois get here? Like some uncultured heathen?"
"No, Mom," I reply, forcing a smile as I carefully adjust my posture, already knowing where this conversation is headed.
"Good. Because the first three dinners you ruined were just practice," she says, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a low hiss. "This is the real deal, Kira. The Oberois are billionaires. You hear me? Billionaires! Their total net worth is seventy billion US dollars! And that's just the public knowledge! They must have billions more in stocks, bonds, assets... and, of course, black money!"
She looks at me expectantly. Maybe I was meant to stand up and applaud, right here, in this empty three-Michelin-star restaurant. The place is practically desolate, all because the Oberois have reserved the entire skyscraper for the evening.
"Let's go over this again," my mom continues, her voice steady, as she examines herself in her compact mirror, fixing the elaborate hairdo she spent three hours on. "Who are we?"
"Millionaires."
"What are we not?"
"On the verge of bankruptcy. I know the drill."
She doesn't look satisfied. "Do you? Because this isn't just about you and your little social mishaps. This is about the future of our family. If you screw this up, we could lose everything..." A dark shadow passes over her features. "...including your sister. Your marriage to Karthik Oberoi is the only way we can even dream of paying for that drug that could save Maya's life."
I swallow hard, the weight of her words sinking in. It's not just about dinner etiquette anymore. This is life or death—not just for our business, but for the one person I love more than anything in the world... My little sister, Maya.
Maya's suffering from a rare muscle disorder called Spinal Muscular Atrophy, and the only thing that could save her is a gene therapy treatment called Zolgensma. But it costs 2.1 million dollars per dose.
And in my mother's mind, the only way forward is through a successful marriage to someone like Karthik Oberoi. The thought of it makes me want to gag.
But there's no room for emotion here, no space for anything other than the cold, hard truth: if I don't do this, I could lose Maya forever. So, I nod, swallowing the bile rising in my throat, and force myself to smile.
"Alright, Mom. I understand."
"Good girl." My mom finally smiles, a thin, satisfied curve of her lips, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Now, smile."
Her fingers linger for a moment, as if checking that every part of me is perfectly in place. I do my best to force a smile, feeling the fake curve stretch across my face, knowing it's the only thing that matters right now.
"They're here." she says, her eyes fixed on the entrance behind me.
I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. My mom shifts into perfect, practiced composure, their expressions smoothing out into a subtle sophistication. The kind of poise that screams wealth and control.
And all I can feel is the sharp wave of nausea rising in my throat.
The sound of footsteps grows louder, and I can feel the weight of their presence before I even turn around. My heart hammers in my chest as my parents exchange a look—one that tells me this moment is bigger than anything I've faced before.
I look over my shoulder and immediately know that I shouldn't have.
This is so much worse now.
They come as a trio, in a triangle formation, the strongest shape—as if rehearsed. He walks ahead as the apex, effortlessly leading, and his parents follow behind him, a perfect, imposing unit.
His parents are unnerving enough.
Asmita Oberoi, neé Naidu, his mother. Daughter of a telgu billionaire, married to a punjabi khatri billionaire straight out of Columbia University, which she got into through legacy and the donation of an entire campus building. She's tall, elegant, with a cold, almost sculpted beauty that doesn't invite warmth—only admiration. Her eyes flicker over the room with surgical precision, taking in every detail, as if she could size up a person with a single glance. She carries herself like someone who's never had to work for anything in her life, someone who's had everything handed to her on a silver platter, polished and flawless.
Amit Oberoi, his father. The fourth-generation Oberoi business tycoon, who inherited the family empire after graduating from Princeton University. The kind of man whose presence fills the room the moment he enters, and his sharp, calculating gaze lets you know that he's always five steps ahead of everyone else. He speaks little, but when he does, every word feels heavy with authority. There's no doubt in my mind that his influence stretches far beyond the walls of this restaurant. He's the kind of person you don't question, the kind of person you just... obey.
Together, they are a force—like a well-oiled machine, efficient and impenetrable. And as they move into the room, I can feel the weight of their gaze settling on me, a heavy pressure I wasn't prepared for.
But the chills they send down my spine have nothing on what the very sight of Karthik Oberoi does to me.
He's so devastatingly handsome it renders me immobile for a moment. My eyes trace over his features—each one sharper, more perfectly sculpted than the last. He is light skined, but not pale. His skin is the colour of canvas, changing shade ever so subtley with every motion. The clean, hard square of his jaw, the softer curve of his full lips that seem to be permanently set in a faint, knowing smirk. His nose is straight, almost regal. Every single feature of his is angular, as if measured by Leonardo di Vinci himself by his golden ratio. His hair—a sleek, bronze wave—falls perfectly into place, the exact same shade as his mother's. His posture is impeccable, as if he's been trained to stand like that since birth, exuding a quiet dominance that only comes from being raised in a world where every movement is calculated.
He looks like someone out of a portrait. A painting of an archangel made by the skillfull hands of a old master.
The suit he's wearing is deep blue, perfectly tailored, hugging his broad shoulders and trim waist, each crease as sharp as his demeanor. But it's his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—that hold me in place. Light brown, almost topaz, like a polished stone that has been worn down by years of experience. His gaze sweeps across the room with the precision of someone who's used to getting what he wants, when he wants it, and no one ever questions him.
For a split second, I wonder if I'm just another part of the scenery to him. Another thing he'll size up and disregard, like everything else in his perfectly controlled life.
But then our eyes lock.
And just for a moment, everything else fades.
Karthik's POV
The Saxenas rise from their seats as we reach the table—Mrs. Saxena and her daughter. It's strange. A business meeting, and yet I hadn't been told their daughter would be involved. Moreover, Rushikesh Saxena is not present. I figured I'd be meeting with the him, since he owns run buissness, maybe discussing terms, but this is... different.
Still, the mother dosen't demand much attention. The same prim and proper smile, that too-kind expressions that speak volumes. It's obvious in an instant—she'll pander to our every whim, as if she's desperate to make a good impression. The exaderated way in which she speaks and how she complements my parents over nothing instantly tells me she wants something from us.
I don't need to waste time on her. It's the daughter I need to focus on.
She stands there, awkwardly, as if unsure whether to extend her hand or simply nod, her smile stretched a little too tightly across her face. She looks... uncomfortable. But it's more than that. There's something about her presence, or maybe it's the way she carries herself, that doesn't quite match the rest of the room.
She's out of place here. I can see it immediately.
I study her more carefully now—her posture, the slight unease in the way she holds herself.
And then our eyes meet.
For a moment, everything sharpens.
I feel my skin pull tight against my muscles, my jaw setting in place, my eyes widening. My heart begins to thump hard against my chest, each beat louder than the last, echoing in my ears like a warning I can't quite understand.
Am I having a stroke?
The thought hits me like a sledgehammer, and for a brief moment, everything around me seems to blur—like the world is moving too fast, and I'm stuck in slow motion. The air feels thicker, the sounds duller. I force myself to focus, trying to shake off the dizzying sensation that's threatening to take over.
No. It's not that. It's her.
This woman standing in front of me. There's something in the way she's looking at me, a depth to her gaze that pulls me in, something that makes my heart race faster than it should. I can feel it now, like a magnetic pull between us, invisible but undeniable.
I watch, almost in slow motion, as her face shifts from polite curiosity to genuine concern, her eyes flickering over me, noticing the change in my demeanor. And that look—that look—sets my skin on fire.
She has smooth, porcelain caramel skin that seems to glow in the soft, golden lighting of the restaurant. The way the light hits her is almost unreal, as if the room itself knows she's something rare. She's dressed in a deceptively simple satin strap dress, but the shade of red is unlike any I've ever seen—rich and deep, like something stolen from a sunset.
Her chocolate-brown hair falls in perfect waves down to her elbows, the strands rippling with subtle hints of caramel, as if someone's painted her with every shade of warmth. Her eyes, those deep brown eyes, seem to pull me in like an endless ocean, dark but full of quiet mystery.
I blink, trying to clear the haze from my mind, and force myself to breathe normally. It's hard—way harder than it should be. I've faced billions of dollars in deals, mergers that could change the course of entire industries. But this? This moment? It's rattling me in a way I can't explain.
I don't know what it is about her—why she has this hold on me that no business deal, no amount of power, no amount of control, has ever come close to matching.
But as I stand there, feeling her gaze on me like a weight, I know one thing for sure: something is about to change.
I can feel it in my bones, and it—no.
She scares the hell out of me.