Chapter 3: Fuel to the Fire

The college canteen buzzed with careless laughter, steel plates clattering, conversations overlapping into noise that meant nothing to Veeresh Raisinghania.

He sat sprawled across the bench with his friends, posture relaxed, confidence effortless. A grin played on his lips—the kind that invited trouble and pretended innocence afterward. He looked like he belonged everywhere.

And that irritated Poornima Rathore more than she cared to admit.

She spotted him the moment she entered.

Of course he was there.

Gayathri stood near the counter, files hugged to her chest, talking animatedly about something academic. Veeresh leaned closer than necessary, listening with exaggerated interest. His voice dipped low when he replied—smooth, teasing, intimate enough to make it obvious what he was doing.

“You’re wasting your talent,” he said, eyes never leaving Gayathri’s face. “You should be leading the project. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”

Gayathri laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re impossible.”

“Only with people who deserve it,” Veeresh replied, smiling.

Poornima’s fingers tightened around her bag strap.

She told herself it didn’t matter. Gayathri was capable, mature, strong. She could handle harmless flirting. Veeresh was just being Veeresh—attention-seeking, arrogant, predictable.

Then his gaze shifted.

Slow. Deliberate.

Straight to Poornima.

For half a second, the noise faded. The canteen, the people, the laughter—gone. Veeresh’s eyes held hers, dark with something unreadable. Recognition. Amusement. Challenge.

He smiled wider.

And added more fuel.

“Maybe I should steal you for coffee,” he said to Gayathri, loud enough. “Strictly academic, of course.”

His friends snickered.

Poornima’s jaw clenched.

She stayed quiet. She stayed still. Pride demanded it.

But inside, something sharp twisted.

She hated the way he enjoyed this—the way his confidence grew when he noticed her discomfort. The way he knew exactly where to stand, how to speak, how to provoke without crossing a line that would make her react openly.

Veeresh watched Poornima from the corner of his eye, every subtle change registering—the stiff shoulders, the controlled breathing, the way her eyes hardened while her lips stayed calm.

Beautiful restraint.

Dangerous restraint.

He liked it far too much.

Gayathri excused herself, phone buzzing with a call, leaving Veeresh behind. He didn’t follow. Instead, he turned fully now, gaze locking onto Poornima as she passed his table.

“Finance, right?” he asked casually, as if they were strangers. “Must be nice—numbers don’t glare back when you hate them.”

Poornima stopped.

Slowly, she turned.

“I don’t talk to men who mistake arrogance for intelligence,” she said coolly.

The table went silent.

Veeresh’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.

“Good,” he said softly. “I like women who bite.”

Her eyes flashed. “Stay away from my family.”

Now that—that was interesting.

Veeresh leaned back, hands folding behind his head, gaze never leaving her face. In that moment, his thoughts sharpened into something dark, deliberate, final.

I will ruin you, Poornima Rathore.

Not loudly. Not publicly.

Slowly.

She walked away without another word, spine straight, expression unshaken.

But Veeresh watched until she disappeared into the crowd, the thrill humming under his skin.

Enemies were so much more fun when they didn’t know the game had already begun.