Mihir's POV

After Aayat left my office.

For a second just a second I watched the door longer than I should have after it shut behind her.

Aayat Kapoor.

Furious, fire eyed, and too proud for her own safety.

I didn't admire that. Not exactly.

But I respected it.

And I'd be lying if I said it didn't stay with me, the sound of her voice low, steady, full of controlled rage. She didn't come to beg. She came to warn me.

So I picked up the phone and dialed.

The inspector Virendra Kashyap answered on the third ring.

"I'm assigning you a case," I said. "Discreetly. It involves Noble Estate."

Silence. Then: "That's Kapoor's hotel group."

"Exactly. Start with the land records around that disputed property. Dig everywhere private, municipal, archived. Assume nothing. I want names, paper trails, and motive. And keep it quiet. If you get resistance, escalate it straight to me."

He hesitated only a second. "Understood, sir."

I ended the call.

For a moment, I just sat there, the weight of the politics settling in.

This wasn't a casual land scam. Too many files sealed, too many departments stonewalled. It reeked of state-level manipulation. And if someone was powerful enough to rewrite that kind of paper trail, they wouldn't stay quiet once I stepped in.

But I didn't care.

Not because of her.

Because of the principle.

⸻

The afternoon dragged. Cabinet notes, infrastructure briefings, and one long-winded argument about electoral optics that made me want to set my own desk on fire.

Then, around 4 PM, my phone buzzed.

Aayat.

I picked up.

"What's the progress?"

No hello. No small talk. Of course not.

I leaned back in the chair. "The inspector's been assigned. He's already started pulling records. Preliminary signs suggest your seller was a front."

She was quiet on the other end.

Then: "Good. I want results, not breadcrumbs."

"You'll get results," I said. "If they don't bury them first."

"I won't let them."

And she hung up.

That woman.

⸻

It was after 11 when I finally left office. Most of the staff had gone home. The city had cooled to a quiet, almost soft silence one of the few times it felt bearable.

I drove myself.

Halfway home, I turned onto a narrower road that cut through the inner district a shortcut I'd taken a hundred times.

That's when I saw her.

Standing too close to the edge of the old stone walkway near an abandoned plaza. Swaying.

Hair loose. Heels uneven. Arms hanging uselessly at her sides.

And she was about to fall.

I slammed the brakes. Opened the door.

And then, without thinking, I yelled loud, sharp, cutting through the quiet night.

"AAYAT!"

She jolted, eyes wide. Stumbled back a step.

For a second, she teetered.

Then she caught herself. Wobbly, but upright.

She blinked at me like she wasn't sure if I was real.

"Oh," she slurred, "you're loud."

I walked toward her.

"Are you mad?"

She grinned. "A little. But like... in a charming way."

"You almost fell face-first into stone."

"Yeah, but imagine how dramatic that would've looked. Headlines. Blood. Designer heels. I'd trend on Twitter."

I stared. "You're drunk."

"Thank you for noticing," she said, saluting clumsily. "You're observant."

I almost groaned. "Come here."

She didn't move. Just swayed. Then said, "Want to hear a joke?"

"No."

"Too bad. What did the real estate agent name his band?"

I glared.

She grinned wider. "Noble Estate and the Legal Disclaimers."

I stared at her.

She laughed at her own joke loud and completely unapologetic.

It was awful.

It was so awful, I actually laughed. Just once. Short and unexpected.

"God, you're hopeless."

"I know," she said proudly.

I stepped closer. "You're going to give me a headache."

"You already have one," she said. "I can feel it on your forehead. It's very... leader-y."

I shook my head, trying not to smile again. "Come on. You're not staying out here alone."

"I'm not alone. I was talking to a pigeon five minutes ago."

"There are no pigeons."

"Well, someone ghosted me."

I took her arm gently and started walking her toward the car. She didn't resist just leaned a little, still mumbling something about ghost birds and property taxes.

Then, I felt it.

A flicker in the corner of my eye.

I turned sharply.

Across the street half-hidden behind a power pole someone ducked down.

Too fast.

But not before I saw the glint of a camera lens.

I narrowed my eyes.

Someone was taking pictures.

Of me.

Of her.

Of us.

I tightened my grip on her arm. She didn't notice.

But I did.

This wasn't random anymore.

Someone was watching.

And now, they had a new headline to twist.

I looked down at her messy, drunk, laughing at her own terrible jokes and something settled sharp in my chest.

She had no idea what she'd walked into.

But I did.

And whoever was behind that camera...

Just made it personal.

I opened the passenger door and helped her in.

She flopped into the seat like she'd just finished a marathon.

"The seat is spinning," she muttered.

"It's the car," I said dryly, walking around to the driver's side. "Try sitting still for five seconds."

She gasped. "You're so mean."

"I'm being charitable."

"To who?"

"Myself."

I started the engine. She leaned her head back, groaning dramatically, then sat up with a sudden spark in her eyes.

"You want to hear another joke?"

"No."

She grinned. "Too bad. Why did the hotel manager get promoted?"

"Don't."

"Because she had room for improvement."

I shut my eyes for a second. "Stop."

"Okay. Serious one. What do you call a drunk CEO?"

I didn't answer.

"A boss-tard."

I sighed so loud the window fogged up.

She giggled like a five-year-old who got away with stealing candy. I didn't even glance at her I just kept driving.

"Do you want to tell me where you live now," I asked flatly, "or should I drop you off at a comedy club where they'll boo you into sobriety?"

She blinked at me. Then smiled.

And then said, totally straight-faced:

"Take me to the moon."

I stopped the car.

She looked confused.

I stared at her.

She shrugged. "Okay fine, not the moon. But like... the one with the yellow building and the blue gate."

I blinked once.

"That's not an address," I said slowly, "that's an art project made by a drunk toddler."

"It's a vibe."

"It's a logistical nightmare."

She crossed her arms. "Well if you're so smart, maybe you should know where I live."

"I met you twelve hours ago."

"You're the Chief Minister. You should know these things."

I stared at her.

She stared back.

And then hiccupped.

I facepalmed so hard it echoed.

"Get your phone," I said finally, my voice clipped. "Unlock it and show me your ride history or something."

"I would," she said, holding it up, "but my phone died."

"Of course it did."

She gave me the most pitiful look I'd ever seen. "Can we get ice cream?"

"It's midnight."

"Exactly! Midnight ice cream is elite."

I exhaled through my teeth and pulled the car back onto the road. "Alright. I'll figure it out. Just no more jokes. Please."

"Okay."

One beat of silence.

Then:

"What did the hotel bed say to the pillow?"

I glared at her.

She whispered, grinning:

"I'm mattress-ing you."

I didn't even answer. I just stared straight ahead.

But the corner of my mouth twitched.

And I hated it.

God help me I laughed again.

She leaned her head back again, smug and satisfied, like she'd just performed a sold-out show at a stand-up club.

"You laughed," she said.

"No, I didn't."

"I saw it."

"It was a scoff."

"You chuckled."

"It was involuntary muscle movement."

She turned her face toward the window. "You're terrible at lying."

"And you're terrible at existing."

She grinned. I hated how unbothered she was. Hated more how amused I was.

We kept driving. She started humming some old Bollywood song off-key, badly. I didn't stop her. Mostly because arguing would only encourage her more.

A few minutes later, she slumped sideways.

"Okay, I remember now," she said suddenly. "There's a yellow signboard near my building. And a dog that barks only at me. That's how you know we're close."

I blinked. "You live near an angry dog and a yellow sign."

"It's a system," she mumbled.

She started describing turns. Surprisingly, it led us somewhere real a quiet residential lane on the south side, lights dim, streets mostly empty.

I pulled the car to a stop outside a narrow four-story building. Older. Faded white paint. But clean. Quiet.

She looked out the window. "Huh. I actually got home."

I didn't say anything.

She didn't move.

After a second, she turned to me again.

"You're not half bad," she said. "For a bureaucratic bulldozer."

"And you're not half drunk," I muttered, "you're fully insane."

She smiled faintly, not her usual smirk—something smaller. Something real.

Then

The faint sound of a camera shutter clicked through the quiet.

My eyes snapped to the left.

Someone in the alley.

I stepped out of the car immediately. The figure ducked behind a wall. I got only a partial glimpse a phone, a flash, a retreat.

Paparazzi? Blackmail? Opposition setup?

I turned back to the car.

She was still sitting there, dazed but watching me carefully now.

"You heard it too, didn't you?" I asked.

She nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Go inside. Now."

"Mih—"

"Now."

Her face changed.

I wasn't shouting. I didn't need to.

She got out of the car, steadied herself, then walked up the steps. I waited until she was at the door. She turned.

"Thank you," she said, quiet.

"For what?"

She paused.

"For not letting me fall."

Then she went in. Door closed. Lights out.

I stood there another few seconds, watching the alley where the shutter had clicked.

Someone wanted this moment.

Me. Her. Drunk. Late night.

They wanted the story before we even lived it.

I exhaled, turned, and got into the car.

But even as I drove off, her voice still echoed.

Thank you.

Like it meant something more.

Late night. Inside the car.

The road ahead was quiet, but my mind wasn't.

Her perfume still lingered faintly on my jacket — a mix of sandalwood and some chaos I couldn't name. I should've never gotten involved beyond the office. Dropping her off? Personal. Sitting through those drunken ramblings? Dangerous. Laughing?

Stupid.

I ran a hand over my face, trying to scrub the moment out of memory. But that laugh hers, loud and unapologetic, as she told some joke about elevators having social anxiety   it had cracked something. Something buried. Something I didn't have the luxury to feel.

And still... I laughed.

I laughed.

Damn it.

The streetlights flickered past. I glanced at my phone for the time

And it buzzed before I could check.

Unknown Number.

Again.

This time, no call.

Just a message.

A single image.

I clicked it open.

And froze.

The photo was crystal clear. Shot from a perfect angle.

It captured me standing beside the open car door, head bent toward Aayat, her hand lazily resting on my shoulder.

She was swaying slightly, lips parted mid-sentence.

But the way the shadows hit the tilt of her head the closeness of our faces...

It looked like we were about to kiss.

Or worse that we were kissing.

My stomach dropped.

Before I could even process it, my phone buzzed again.

This time: Samarth Singh my PA

"Sir. Turn on the news. Now."

I swore under my breath and reached for the dashboard screen, connecting to the live feed.

The anchor's voice hit instantly, high with urgency and barely contained glee.

"A scandal is breaking tonight — Chief Minister Mihir Raghuvanshi, long seen as a clean, sharp leader, is caught on camera in what appears to be an intimate moment with Noble Estate CEO Aayat Kapoor — the same woman currently involved in a major land controversy."

The screen flashed.

The photo.

That photo.

Blown up. Cropped to perfection.

Her laughing.

Me caught mid-smile.

The headline scrolled across in bold, red letters:

BREAKING: Is the CM Dating the CEO?

Secret Romance or Strategic Distraction Amid Land Scandal?

My phone began ringing again. Press. Ministers. Damage control.

But I didn't answer.

Because in the middle of all this noise... one thought cut through everything:

That moment that laugh, that joke, that slip of humanness

They'd twisted it.

Turned it into a weapon.

And now?

Now they'd set the match.

I hit the brakes hard, the car screeching to a stop.

I stared at the headline one more time the image burning into my vision.

And I knew...

This wasn't just politics anymore.

This was personal.

And they had no idea who they'd just dragged into the war.

The call came just as I was pulling into the private garage.

Not my PA this time.

Aayat.

I stared at the screen for half a second, then picked up.

"Mihir", Then the line cut

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I don't think this chapter turned out the way I wanted it to... but I'd still love to hear your thoughts! What did you think?

To be continued

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