Naina Sharma adjusted the strap of her bag, her sketchbook tucked securely under her arm as she stepped into the grand lobby of the Oberoi Hotel. She wasn’t used to places like this—high ceilings adorned with intricate chandeliers, marble floors that gleamed under soft lighting, and the quiet murmurs of elite guests who seemed to belong here. But tonight, she had no choice.
Her professor had insisted that she attend this exclusive architecture seminar. “It’s a golden opportunity, Naina,” he had said. “The best minds in the field will be there. You should experience it.”
So here she was, a master’s student in architecture, surrounded by towering figures of the industry, feeling completely out of place.
She took a steadying breath and moved toward the seating area. Just as she was about to settle in, a low, commanding voice stopped her in her tracks.
“You’re sitting in my seat.”
The deep baritone sent a shiver down her spine. Calm, firm, and utterly unyielding. She turned, expecting to see an annoyed guest, maybe an older architect, but instead, she was met with the sharp, assessing gaze of a man who didn’t look like he belonged to this event either—at least, not in the way the others did.
Dressed in a tailored black suit, he stood tall, his broad frame effortlessly exuding power. His sharp features, neatly trimmed beard, and piercing dark eyes held an intensity that made her stomach twist. He was younger than most of the men around, probably in his mid-thirties, but there was something about him—something in the way he carried himself—that made him seem far more experienced, far more dangerous.
Naina blinked, gripping her sketchbook tighter. Who does this man think he is?
“I didn’t see any name on it,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
His lips quirked, just slightly. “That’s because I don’t need one.”
She narrowed her eyes, refusing to be intimidated. “Then maybe you should have come earlier.”
For a moment, he didn’t react. He just watched her, his expression unreadable, as if he were trying to decide what to make of her. Then, instead of arguing, he took a slow step closer—not enough to touch her, but just enough to make her feel his presence.
“You’re braver than I expected.” His voice dipped lower, almost teasing, but laced with something heavier.
Naina clenched her jaw. “And you’re more entitled than I expected.”
Something flashed in his eyes—amusement? Interest? She couldn’t tell.
Before she could say anything else, the event organizer appeared beside him, looking almost flustered. “Mr. Malhotra! We’re honored to have you here. Please, this way.”
Her breath hitched. Mr. Malhotra?
The man didn’t react, simply turning to the organizer with a brief nod. But just before he stepped away, he cast her one last glance.
There was no arrogance in his expression, no hostility—just quiet certainty, like he already knew something she didn’t.
Then, as he walked away, his voice reached her one last time.
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