The next morning, Jaipur was alive with the sun’s golden glow, but Poornima felt anything but bright. She was back at her flagship restaurant, reviewing invoices and menus, trying to focus. But the memory of last night—the cake, the sparks, the way Veeresh had looked at her—refused to leave her mind.

And of course, as if fate had a sense of humor, her assistant interrupted.

“Ma’am… Mr. Raj is here. He says it’s urgent.”

Poornima’s eyes narrowed. “I told him I’m busy. He can’t just barge in here.”

Her assistant hesitated. “He… he insisted.”

With a sigh, Poornima straightened her posture. Fine. If he wanted a confrontation, she would give him one. But she wasn’t going to lose control. Not now.

Veeresh walked in, as commanding as ever, yet something in his expression was… different. Less amusement, more calculation. He approached her desk, eyes locked on hers.

“Good morning, Ms. Mewar,” he said, smooth, dangerous. “I trust you slept well.”

“Good morning, Mr. Raj. And yes, I did. Now, what is so urgent that you’ve interrupted my work?” Poornima’s tone was sharp, controlled.

He smirked. “The auction project. There’s a complication. And I need your insight… immediately. Privately.”

Her pulse quickened. Privately. The word alone carried a thrill she refused to admit. “Fine,” she said, masking her fluttering heartbeat with a brisk nod.

They moved to the private lounge in the restaurant, the space quiet, secluded. Veeresh pulled out documents, charts, and plans, and for the next hour, they immersed themselves in strategy, arguments, and careful negotiation. Every suggestion she made, he countered—but always with an edge of admiration she could feel, even if she refused to acknowledge it.

At one point, she gestured at a chart. “If we adjust the bids here, it could backfire. You’ll lose credibility with local partners.”

Veeresh leaned closer, eyes smoldering. “And if I follow your suggestion blindly… you’ll take all the credit?”

Poornima rolled her eyes. “I’m not your secretary, Mr. Raj.”

“And I’m not your client,” he shot back, smirk teasing, but the heat between them was undeniable. “Yet somehow, here we are.”

The tension was almost tangible, each glance, each brush of their hands over the papers sending sparks that neither dared acknowledge.

Suddenly, Veeresh pushed the papers aside and stood, walking closer. “You know,” he said, voice low, teasing yet dangerous, “you’re infuriating, Ms. Mewar. Every time I think I have control, you… disrupt it.”

Poornima’s heart stuttered, but she lifted her chin, fierce and defiant. “And you’re arrogant, Mr. Raj. You think you can control everything… even me.”

He smiled—an unreadable, magnetic smile. “Control? Never. I just… want to understand why you get under my skin the way you do.”

She stiffened, forcing herself to look away. “You don’t. Don’t flatter yourself. This—whatever this is—doesn’t mean anything.”

Veeresh’s gaze lingered, dark and dangerous. “Of course. Nothing at all.”

And yet, as they returned to the strategy documents, both of them knew the truth neither would admit. The attraction, the sparks, the undeniable pull—it was there, simmering beneath the surface. And they would deny it to the world, to each other… even as every interaction drew them closer.

Enemies? Yes. But dangerously, intoxicatingly close to something more