Shahneel's pov

The winter sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Shahneel Gill’s bedroom, painting soft golden stripes across her cream duvet. Her alarm screamed for the third time, but she was already up — reluctantly — hair messily piled on top of her head, one eye half-closed as she dragged herself toward the bathroom.

“Another day, another dose of humiliation,” she muttered under her breath, brushing her teeth like she was preparing for battle.

By 8:45 a.m., she was already dressed in her signature sharp-casual combo: a fitted blazer, crisp high-waisted trousers, and nude heels. Her long hair cascaded in waves, and her lipstick was red enough to match the mood — dangerous. She dabbed on perfume, threw a sideways glance at her reflection, and scoffed, “You’ve got this, queen. Even if your boss is a devil in disguise.”

Her car keys jingled as she locked the door behind her, stepping out into the cool Chandigarh morning. The roads bustled with routine life, but her headspace was far from calm.

Her phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth. Ruhi.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Ruhi drawled in her typical dramatic tone.

“Don’t,” Shahneel warned, already sighing. “Don’t ask how I am. Just know I woke up thinking of 34 creative ways to slap my boss.”

Ruhi cackled. “Kya karegi tu, Shah? Roz ka same drama. Quit already.”

“I’m actually thinking about it today,” she snapped. “It’s either that or end up in jail for murder. And my makeup’s too expensive for prison.”

Ruhi snorted. “Good! Quit. Then let’s go on a girls’ trip. Himachal? Goa? Bali?”

“Ugh, sounds so tempting,” Shahneel said wistfully, pulling into the company parking lot. “But let me go end my professional misery first.”

“Text me if you resign!” Ruhi sang, and the call ended just as Shahneel stepped out.

The office air was the same — cold, dry, and buzzing with the false energy of overworked employees. She walked past the reception, waved half-heartedly to her team, and entered her cabin.

The moment her bag touched the desk, the office peon popped in. “Ma’am, boss bula rahe hain.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course, he is.”

She grabbed the envelope from her drawer and marched toward the Lion’s Den — aka her boss’s office.

He sat behind his massive glass desk, wearing that eternally disapproving expression. His chair swiveled slightly as she walked in.

“Late. Again,” he said without looking up. “Also, the presentation slide on marketing had three typos. Maybe you were too busy posting reels about your brother’s century?”

Shahneel froze for half a second — and then, with calm fury, walked forward and slammed the envelope on his desk.

He raised a brow. “Throwing tantrums now?”

“Read it,” she said coolly.

He opened it. Resignation.

“Well, well. Finally giving up?” His tone was mockingly amused. “With this attitude, Shahneel, you won’t last long anywhere. Not everyone gets a job because they’re ‘Shubman Gill’s sister.’”

She smiled. The kind that could burn palaces.

“And not everyone tolerates disrespect, sir. Not anymore.”

With a final glance that could freeze lava, she turned and walked out — straight-backed, unshaken, queen mode activated. Behind her, the stunned silence of the office was louder than applause.

---

By the time she reached home, the fatigue had melted into satisfaction.

“Maa!” she called, tossing her bag on the couch.

Her mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Tu aa gayi, meri jaan. Kya hua?”

“I quit,” Shahneel said, collapsing onto the dining chair like it was her throne.

Instead of scolding, her mom gently brushed her hair back. “Acha kiya. Khush nahi thi, toh rehna kyun?”

“You’re not mad?” she asked, blinking.

“Pagal hai kya? Tu meri bachi hai. Self-respect sabse pehle.” Her mom beamed. “Now go freshen up. I made your favourite — pasta.”

Shahneel grinned, kissed her mother’s cheek, and squealed, “Love you, my darling!”

Her mom laughed as Shahneel bounded off to her room like a child who just got summer break.

---

Later that evening, with a warm bowl of pasta by her side and cozy music playing low, Shahneel sat on her laptop. Unemployment was not her vibe. She wasn’t someone who could sit still — or stay quiet.

She browsed through job openings, rejecting most within seconds. Not worth her time. Not worth her dignity.

Until one caught her eye.

A & C Co-Op. Fashion division. Creative Lead – Chandigarh HQ.

Her heart skipped. This was big. Exactly the kind of role she’d wanted all along.

She filled out the application, double-checked every word, and hit send. A satisfying sigh escaped her lips.

“May the universe be kind,” she whispered, stretching.

Little did she know…

The universe wasn’t just about to be kind.

It was about to turn her world completely upside down.

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Aman's pov

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet when Aman Randhawa was already halfway through his workout.

Chandigarh’s early morning chill did little to tame the heat in his blood. Dressed in a black tank and joggers, every rep of his weights felt like a war waged against the chaos that dared to creep into his ordered world.

By 6:30 a.m., he was done.

Shower. Crisp black suit. Hair slicked back. Rolex strapped on at precisely 7:00 a.m.

A quick espresso. No sugar. No distractions.

The car ride to the A & C Co-Op headquarters was silent. Just the sound of wheels rolling over tarmac — like a warning bell to whoever crossed his path that day.

And someone would.

He entered the office like a shadow — silent but commanding. Employees straightened. Phones lowered. Coffee mugs went cold.

Inside his cabin, the usual awaited: reports, files, and his soon-to-be-regretting-it creative head.

She was already there — a little too eager, a little too dressed for 9 a.m.

"Sir, I wanted to walk you through the ad campaign. It’s quite… visual."

She leaned over, voice honey-slick, perfume clouding the air between them. Her fingers brushed the desk, dangerously close to his.

Aman’s eyes narrowed. “Back off.”

She blinked. “I just meant to—”

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” His voice cut sharper than broken glass. “You’re not here to sell campaigns. You’re here trying to sell yourself.”

She flushed. “Sir—”

“Out,” he said coldly. “You’re fired.”

“But—”

“You think you can flirt your way into job security? I don’t pay for desperation.” His voice echoed. “Rahul!”

His assistant peeked in, looking like he might throw up from secondhand tension.

“Get her out. And find me a new creative head. Two days. Not more.”

Rahul nodded, wide-eyed.

The door shut behind the dismissed employee. The silence that followed was heavy — until Aman’s fury turned into cold command.

“Why is this entire floor breathing like it’s on a ventilator? MOVE!”

His voice roared through the corridor. Everyone scrambled like ants.

Rahul dared to peek back in. “Sir, the schedule for—”

Aman’s phone buzzed. The name flashing across the screen sliced through his rage like sunlight through clouds.

He picked it up, instantly softer.

“Haan, meri jaan,” he said, his tone low and unrecognizably warm.

A tiny voice chirped excitedly from the other end.

His lips curled. “Okay, okay. I’ll bring them. But only if you promise not to eat mine this time.”

Laughter from the other side.

When he cut the call, he was still smiling.

Rahul gaped like he’d seen a ghost.

Aman’s eyes slid to him.

“What?” he snapped. “Why are you staring at my face like it’s the Mona Lisa?”

Rahul stiffened. “Nothing, sir.”

“Get to work. And—wait.” Aman raised a hand. “First, get me some chocolate muffins. And cancel my 5 p.m. slot. I’m leaving early.”

Rahul nodded like a soldier obeying his general. “Yes, sir!” He was gone in seconds.

---

Later that evening, Aman stepped into his family’s bungalow, the one place where his iron-clad armor cracked.

And there she came.

“Bhaiyaaa!” Harman squealed, bounding down the hallway in pink pajamas and messy hair.

Aman opened his arms. She crashed into them.

“There’s my gudiya,” he murmured, hugging her tightly.

She pulled back only to snatch the muffin box from his hand. “You got them!”

He laughed. “Anything for you, meri jaan.”

She kissed his cheek and ran off with the box, already stuffing one in her mouth.

Aman chuckled, ruffling her hair as she disappeared into the kitchen. His softness. His only peace.

He changed, ate dinner with his family — minimal talk, maximum warmth — and finally sat in his home office with his laptop.

Emails. Campaign approvals. Internal reviews.

And then—

A resume caught his attention.

Shahneel Gill.

The name made his brows lift. He clicked. Fashion background. Confident portfolio.

Sister of that cricketer. But unlike most, she hadn’t leaned on that fame.

His eyes glinted.

Interesting.

He leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk forming on his lips. There was something sharp about her eyes in that attached photo. Like she didn’t bend easy.

Let’s test that.

He picked up the phone. “Rahul.”

“Yes sir?”

“Tomorrow’s interview lineup. I’ll take them myself.”

“Sir?” Rahul asked, confused. “But you usually don’t—”

“Just do as I say.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Yes sir. It’ll be done.”

Aman cut the call, walked over to the balcony, and slid open the glass door. The night air hit his face.

He stood there, hands in his pockets, staring out into the dark city.

Then, almost like a silent challenge to the universe, he smirked — slow and devilish.

Something told him this applicant was going to be more than just another interview.

And he was ready for it.

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Third Person POV

Somewhere, beneath the same sky blanketing Chandigarh in its warm summer hush, two hearts unknowingly prepared for impact.

He — cold as steel, eyes sharper than ambition, not used to hearing ‘no.’

She — fire wrapped in silk, unafraid to walk away from comfort if it meant protecting her self-worth.

Neither of them believed in fate.

Both believed in control.

But life… it was about to teach them otherwise.

At that exact moment, Shahneel lay on her bed, hugging her pillow, unaware her resume had landed in the hands of a man who rarely smiled — and even more rarely approved.

And yet, he had.

While miles away, Aman leaned against the glass of his balcony, his smirk still ghosting his lips, unaware that the woman he was about to meet didn’t just match his fire — she’d dare to challenge it.

The interview they were both headed toward?

Wasn't going to be an interview.

It would be the start of a war neither saw coming.

A war with no rules — and no escape.

Because some stories aren’t about falling in love.

They’re about colliding into it.

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So here's the first chapter

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