Chapter 18

The music slowed, a gentle tune filling the auditorium as the two moved in rhythm. Around them, students twirled in pairs, laughter and applause echoing, but to Veeresh and Poornima, the world had narrowed to just the steps, the music, and the space between their eyes.

Veeresh’s gaze held hers steadily, his voice low enough to be heard only by her.

“Tell me, Miss Rai,” he began lightly, as if making small talk while leading her through a turn, “what does love mean to a literature professor?”

Poornima tilted her head, smiling faintly at the indirect question. “Love?” Her tone was thoughtful, soft. “It is not in grand gestures or perfect words. It is in small things… a shared silence, an understanding glance. It is choosing the same person every day—even when they are difficult.”

Veeresh’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles. Not in deals… not in contracts, he thought.

He guided her in another step, his voice casual. “And dislikes? What is it that Poornima Rai cannot endure?”

She laughed softly, her eyes bright. “Dishonesty. Pretending. People who wear masks in life. I prefer harsh truths over sweet lies.”

The irony of her words sank deep into him. Here he was—a man of masks, of double lives, standing before a woman who despised such things.

“And likes?” he asked, smoothly spinning her under his arm, the students cheering at the move.

Poornima answered without hesitation, her words flowing like poetry. “Books. The smell of old pages. Tea on a rainy evening. Simplicity. And… someone who does not try to control me, but lets me be.”

Veeresh’s steps slowed for a fraction, her words hitting him harder than she knew. He masked it with ease, his voice steady. “A rare list. Most people would say cars, jewels, travels.”

Her eyes met his with quiet strength. “That is because most people do not know what truly makes the heart at peace.”

For the first time in a long while, Veeresh Raj—the man who commanded empires, who read people like strategies—felt as though he was the one being read.

The music swelled, the dance drawing to a close. Around them, students clapped and whistled, proud of their professors’ performance. But for Veeresh and Poornima, the applause was distant, unimportant.

What lingered was her voice, her truth, and the realization that with every graceful answer, she was slowly becoming a mystery he could not solve with files or intelligence reports