"Heyyy, Gauri! Tu kitni seedhi hai yaar..."

(Heeey, Gauri! You're way too innocent, seriously...)

Gauri blinked, looking up from her plate to Swara, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

"Yes," Ruchi added dramatically, "she is the dumbest person I have ever met."

Gauri narrowed her eyes at them. "Can you both stop discussing my innocence and focus on your food?"

It had been years since the four of them had met like this. College had ended, life had changed, responsibilities had grown — but some things remained the same. Like Ruchi teasing her. Or Swara exaggerating everything.

They were sitting in their favourite café, the same corner table they had once occupied almost every evening during college days. Nothing had changed. Except them.

"Look at Jiya," Gauri said, pointing at their fourth friend, who was quietly eating. "She's sitting peacefully. Why can't you both be like her?"

Ruchi burst out laughing. "Jiya is quiet because she's in mood swings due to pregnancy. Otherwise, she's the most talkative one among us."

Jiya glared at Ruchi, who shamelessly ignored it like she always did.

"Careful," Swara warned dramatically. "Pregnant women are very dangerous."

Gauri chuckled. "Like you were during your pregnancy days?"

Swara stared at her in shock. "Did you just—"

"Gauri," Jiya smiled warmly, "this is why I like you. You look innocent, but sometimes you're savage."

Gauri smiled softly but before she could respond, Ruchi leaned forward again.

"But seriously, Gauri... how can someone be this innocent even at twenty-five?"

Gauri's expression changed instantly. She hated that word.

"For the last time," she said a little louder than intended, "I am not innocent!"

The sudden raise in her voice made a man sitting at the table behind them turn around.

Gauri froze.

Her eyes met his for a brief second.

Sharp features. Dark eyes. Expression unreadable.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. "I'm... I'm sorry," she said softly.

The man didn't respond. He simply looked at her for a moment longer before turning back to his food, as if she didn't exist.

Gauri exhaled slowly.

Why did that feel so embarrassing?

She shook her head and returned to her friends, unaware that this small, accidental moment was about to change her quiet, simple life forever.

Hriday's POV

Hriday Singh Shekhawat hated noise.

Not the unavoidable kind — traffic, business, movement.
He hated careless noise. The kind that lacked discipline.

The café he was sitting in was average at best. Too bright. Too crowded. Too loud. Kolkata had many premium places, but he had chosen this one because it was close to a project site. Efficiency mattered more than ambiance.

Still, it irritated him.

He preferred silence — the kind that obeyed him.

He was halfway through replying to an email when a sharp female voice cut through the air.

"For the last time, I am not innocent!"

His fingers paused mid-type.

His jaw tightened.

Slowly, he looked up.

A group of girls sat two tables away. One of them had stood up slightly, clearly annoyed. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide with frustration.

She wasn't dressed extravagantly. No heavy makeup. No dramatic styling. Just a simple Kurti, long black hair falling down her back in soft waves.

Ordinary.

And yet...

His gaze lingered.

Not because she was stunning in a conventional way. She wasn't the type that usually caught his attention.

It was her eyes.

Clear. Honest. Unfiltered.

When she noticed him looking, she froze.

For a moment, their gazes locked.

Then she lowered her eyes immediately.

"I'm... sorry," she said softly.

Not defensive. Not arrogant. Just embarrassed.

Interesting.

Most people avoided eye contact with him instinctively. There was something about his presence that made them cautious.

She hadn't looked afraid.

Just... sincere.

Hriday turned back to his screen.

Irrelevant, he told himself.

Just a group of overexcited girls.

"Stupid teenagers," he muttered under his breath.

But a few seconds later, he realized he hadn't typed a single word.

Annoyed, he shut his laptop and picked up his coffee.

"Stupid heart," he murmured when he felt an unfamiliar flicker in his chest.

His phone rang.

Mom.

A faint smile appeared on his face — rare and unguarded.

He answered immediately. "Hello, Mom."

"I am your father, not your mother, my dear son."

Hriday leaned back in his chair. "Dad. Why are you using Mom's phone?"

"Because your mother is angry at me," Shikar Singh Shekhawat replied with dramatic exhaustion.

Hriday almost smirked. "What did you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do."

On the other side, Shikar lowered his voice. "Your mother's legs are hurting from shopping all day. I told her to rest tonight and that we'll go tomorrow instead. Now she refuses to talk to me."

In the background, Hriday faintly heard Maithili's annoyed voice.

"For God's sake, Shikar! It's midnight in London. If you want to talk to your son, go outside. Let me sleep!"

Hriday shook his head.

His father — powerful businessman, respected by thousands — was completely defenceless in front of his wife.

"Dad," Hriday said calmly, "with all due respect, I am not getting involved in husband-wife politics."

"Ungrateful brat," Shikar muttered.

Hriday allowed himself a small smile. "You'll manage. You always do."

"Take care of things there," his father said, voice turning slightly serious now.

"I will."

That part didn't need discussion.

Hriday had been handling business responsibilities for years. His father trusted him — not blindly, but confidently. Their relationship wasn't overly emotional. It was built on respect, understanding, and quiet strength.

Shikar had taught him discipline.

Dadaji had taught him dominance.

And Hriday had perfected both.

"Good night, Dad."

"Good night, beta."

The call ended.

Silence returned.

Almost.

A burst of laughter erupted again from the girls' table.

His eyes moved toward them without permission.

She was laughing now — head slightly tilted back, completely unaware of the world around her.

Carefree.

Soft.

Untouched by calculation.

So different from the women who usually surrounded his world — polished, ambitious, strategic.

This one looked... simple.

And simplicity had never interested him.

He finished his coffee, stood up, adjusted his watch, and walked past their table.

As he did, she looked up again.

Their eyes met once more.

This time, neither looked away immediately.

Something unspoken passed between them.

Then he walked out.

Controlled. Composed. Unaffected.

At least that's what he told himself.