Chapter 1: Collision
(Armaan Singh Rathore & Shravya Oberoi’s First Encounter)
ARMAAN SINGH RATHORE
For a man known for his control, today was nothing short of chaos.
Rain lashed against the windshields of luxury cars and battered two-wheelers alike as traffic piled onto the wet streets of Mumbai. A thick curtain of grey turned the city into a slow-moving blur. Somewhere in the middle of the evening mess, a sleek black Mercedes-Maybach S680 crawled forward, its engine purring with restrained power.
Behind the wheel sat Armaan Singh Rathore, CEO of Rathore Empire, and a man used to commanding boardrooms, bending steel nerves, and intimidating billionaires into silence. But nothing could prepare him for the torture called Mumbai traffic at 6:30 PM.
He sat upright, lean fingers tapping against the wheel in impatience. His stormy black eyes were fixed on the jam ahead, jaw rigid. His charcoal shirt clung slightly to his sculpted frame, and the cuffs were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the simple yet deadly Vacheron Constantin watch ticking too fast for his liking.
He hated being late.
But he especially hated being unprepared.
Today was a site inspection for the biggest hospitality venture of his company. He didn’t like delays. He didn’t tolerate failure. Not even from traffic.
“Sir,” came the voice through his Bluetooth system — Dev, his assistant. “Jai said the engineers are already on-site. Should I inform them you're ten minutes late?”
Armaan’s eyes darkened. “No. Tell them I’ll be there in five.”
“Understood.”
But Mumbai had other plans.
Just ahead, a deep blue Range Rover Velar cut across lanes recklessly, the wheels skidding in water as it splashed through a large pothole. The wave of muddy water slapped onto Armaan’s Maybach, clouding the windshield for a second.
He hit the brakes hard.
“What the—” he muttered, furious.
The SUV didn’t slow. Instead, it swerved even closer and tried to push its way forward on the already narrow lane.
His knuckles whitened. “Unbelievable.”
He opened the door, the rain soaking his shirt instantly, and stalked toward the offending car. As soon as he stepped out into the storm, his clothes clung to his body, raindrops racing down his temples. Yet he didn’t flinch. He moved like a blade — cold, silent, sharp.
He approached the driver’s side of the Range Rover.
The window of the Range Rover rolled down partway.
Armaan expected a reckless driver. A careless college kid. Maybe an old man on the phone.
What he saw instead?
A woman.
Not just a woman — a storm in the shape of one.
All Armaan saw was a pair of perfectly manicured fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. Then her face turned.
She wore oversized black sunglasses despite the rain, her lips painted a mauve shade that matched the storm around them. Waist-length wet hair clung to her shoulder pads. She didn’t look alarmed. Not even curious.
Just… annoyed.
“Excuse me,” she said coolly. “Do you mind moving your car?”
Armaan blinked once.
He almost laughed.
“I should move?” he asked, stepping closer.
“You’re blocking traffic,” she said, her tone clipped, impatient. “Just because you drive a showpiece doesn’t mean you get to stop the world.”
Armaan raised an eyebrow. “Says the one who nearly slammed into my car while driving like a lunatic.”
“I was avoiding a pothole,” she replied. “Which I assume your luxury wheels can’t handle.”
He took a step closer, his voice dangerously soft. “Next time, try driving with your eyes open instead of your ego.”
That made her snap her sunglasses down onto her nose.
Her eyes were sharp, golden-hazel and blazing with disdain. “You seriously think this is my fault?”
“Do you see any other driver here playing Mario Kart on Mumbai roads?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No, I’m just not in the habit of tolerating—” he paused, scanning her from head to toe with calm indifference “—overdressed, overconfident women who think breaking traffic rules is empowerment.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
Then she exhaled and opened her door forcefully.
Armaan stepped back as she emerged into the rain, now fully exposed — tall, poised, dressed in an ivory pantsuit that hugged her frame with elegance. Even soaked, she looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. But her jaw was clenched, her eyes fiery.
She took a step forward.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re one of those men who can’t stand it when a woman drives better, speaks louder, or refuses to apologize.”
He folded his arms. “And you’re the kind who mistakes aggression for confidence.”
She scoffed. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t need to. I’ve seen your type. Daddy’s money, too much pride, zero patience.”
She stared at him, stunned for a second.
Then she did something Armaan never expected.
She turned on her heel, grabbed her black leather handbag from the passenger seat — and in one fierce move — slammed it into his side mirror.
CRASH.
The glass shattered, raining across the wet pavement like broken ice.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Rain kept falling. Traffic honked somewhere far off. But Armaan stood still.
His eyes locked on hers.
Shravya was breathing hard, chest heaving beneath her drenched blouse, eyes ablaze.
“There,” she hissed. “Now you have a reason to hate me.”
Armaan didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
And then, he stepped around her — slow, like a lion about to strike — and walked up to her Range Rover.
She turned just as he raised his fist and with a calculated force, punched her side mirror, snapping it sideways and cracking the edge.
“Now we’re even,” he said calmly.
Shravya stared at her car. Then him. Her lips parted in shock. “Are you serious?”
“Perfectly.”
“You absolute—”
“Don’t. You started this.”
“You insulted me the second you walked up to my car.”
“And you drove like a maniac.”
“You are the most arrogant, egoistic, cold—”
“Emotionally unstable, temperamental, overly dramatic—”
“Asshole!”
“Brat!”
They stood inches apart, rain pouring between them like a curtain neither was willing to step back from.
They were both soaked. Furious. Inches apart.
Their expressions mirrored: Anger. Disgust. Pride.
Shravya’s teeth clenched as she stepped back. “I hope I never see your face again.”
“Trust me,” he said, stepping back toward his car, “I’d rather break my other mirror than ever see yours again.”
She slammed her door.
He did the same.
Engines roared.
The storm around them now had names.
Armaan Singh Rathore.
Shravya Oberoi.
ARMAAN — LATER THAT EVENING
The rain hadn’t stopped by the time Armaan pulled into Rathore Empire HQ.
His assistant Dev blinked in surprise when he saw Armaan’s disheveled form.
“Sir... you’re—”
“Drenched. I know,” Armaan muttered, walking straight into his private cabin.
Inside the room adjoining his cabin — a private suite he rarely used — he changed into a fresh black shirt and trousers. His hair was damp but styled again, and his expression was carved from stone.
For the first time in years, Armaan Singh Rathore walked into a meeting late.
The team didn’t comment. But the shock was visible on their faces.
He sat through the meeting with cold efficiency, not letting a single flicker of emotion show — but inside, a storm was brewing.
That girl had not only ruined his favorite car.
She had ruined his discipline.
She had made him late.
And for a man like him, that was unforgivable.
As the team filed out, Jai Singhania, his partner and best friend, walked in, holding two cups of coffee.
“Well, well,” Jai said, amused. “Armaan Singh Rathore. Five minutes late. I thought I’d have to call security.”
Armaan rolled his eyes and took the cup. “Don’t start.”
Jai smirked. “What happened?”
Armaan sighed. “Some arrogant, out-of-control girl decided to block the road with her giant SUV and then broke my Maybach’s mirror.”
Jai blinked. “She what?”
“Hit my car. Argued. Threw a tantrum. And then smashed the mirror with her bag.”
Jai looked half-horrified, half-impressed. “Damn. What did you do?”
Armaan took a slow sip. “Broke her mirror too.”
Jai stared. Then burst out laughing.
“You serious?”
Armaan didn’t smile.
“She was the most irritating woman I’ve ever met,” he said. “Full of attitude, probably some rich fashion brat with nothing better to do than wreck cars and argue with strangers.”
Jai leaned back. “Wow. You’re actually pissed.”
“I’ve never been this annoyed by someone in five minutes.”
Jai sipped his coffee. “You know… in movies, this is exactly how the hero meets the heroine. They fight first, then fall in love.”
Armaan looked at him, deadpan. “I’d rather burn my car than see that woman’s face again.”
Later that night
Shravya threw her wet heels aside and stormed into her apartment.
Her mind was still screaming.
Her hands shook as she unzipped her jacket, the scent of rain and anger still clinging to her.
Who the hell was that man?
He didn’t just make her angry — he infuriated her.
He looked like money. Moved like power. And spoke like the world was beneath him. But what truly got under her skin was his calm — that unshakable, annoying calm that made her feel like the irrational one.
Shravya Oberoi was not irrational.
She was logical. Controlled. The one who fixed things, not destroyed them.
And yet, today…
Today she had smashed someone’s car.
“God, what is happening to me?” she muttered, pacing.
She ran a hand through her damp hair, face burning with a strange cocktail of guilt, pride, and residual rage.
She hated how he looked at her — like he had her figured out in a glance. Like she was just another name in his little book of rich, reckless women.
He didn’t know she’d built her own company from scratch.
He didn’t know the scars she carried.
And yet, he judged her.
Shravya walked to the window. The rain still fell, soaking the city she loved.
She didn’t even know his name. Just that he had eyes like black fire and a voice like polished steel.
She hoped — genuinely hoped — to never see him again.
The clock struck 12:13 AM.
Armaan lay in bed, the city still glowing outside his window.
And yet, instead of boardroom numbers or property maps, his mind kept replaying that scene on the road.
Her face.
Her fire.
The way she didn’t flinch — even when he retaliated.
He turned on his side, frustrated.
“Damn girl,” he muttered.
Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
FATE SMIRKS IN SILENCE
Is the beginning of something far more dangerous than love.
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