The city lights had begun to shimmer by the time I reached the venue. From the outside, the Grand Lotus Hotel looked like it was breathing lights blinking, people rushing, flashes going off as the evening unfolded into something louder than life.

Inside, it was chaos wrapped in elegance. Staff ran around with walkie-talkies, adjusting lights and table numbers. My heels clicked steadily against the marble as I moved through the noise, clipboard in hand, my voice steady even as the sound swallowed every thought in my head.

“Stage lighting fixed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sound check?”

“Happening in two minutes.”

It was always like this, a rhythm I knew by heart. The more noise around me, the calmer I felt. It kept my mind busy, and when my mind was busy, it didn’t wander.

“Devi!” Naina’s voice cut through the music check. She came running, a strand of her hair escaping her bun. “The auction table layout got changed. Some idiot from catering thought it was decor.”

I sighed, looking at the far end where glass sculptures gleamed under the lights. “Of course they did. Let’s move it back. And please tell me the sponsor banners are up?”

She nodded, panting. “You know, for someone who never panics, you’re way too calm. The India squad’s about to arrive.”

“That’s why I don’t panic,” I said, almost smiling. “Someone has to stay sane.”

She grinned, bumping her shoulder against mine before running off again. I took a deep breath and looked around the ballroom was glowing now. White lilies on every table, soft gold drapes, and chandeliers reflecting a thousand tiny suns. For a moment, I just stood there, letting the lights blur.

I hadn’t dressed up much, just a navy-blue saree, plain, elegant. My hair was tied low, my makeup minimal. I wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted to be seen. I’d had enough of that once being looked at, being admired, before it all turned into pity.

“Ma’am, the cricketers are here,” one of the assistants whispered.

A ripple went through the hall, a soft hum of excitement that grew louder as flashes burst like fireworks near the entrance. The Indian squad began to walk in, one after another, shaking hands with sponsors and greeting fans. It was like watching confidence personified by tall frames, tailored suits, practiced smiles that hid exhaustion beneath charm.

Kabir entered first, with an easy grin and commanding presence; then came Rohan with his quick wit, Jay’s swagger, Om’s boyish charm. The energy shifted entirely, a thousand eyes drawn to the blue blazers and familiar faces. Cameras clicked. Conversations turned to murmurs.

And then the noise dimmed.

Achintya Malhotra walked in.

He didn’t need to demand attention; it found him anyway. The spotlight caught the faint sheen of his stubble, the way his crisp white shirt fit just right, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. There was nothing flashy about him no loud cologne, no overdone gestures. Just a quiet sort of gravity that pulled focus without effort.

I’d seen his face before on TV, in magazines, on billboards. But none of that prepared me for how still he seemed in real life, how his eyes sharp, assessing, a soft shade of brown, seemed to notice everything. He had that calm men rarely carried easily, the kind that came from patience rather than ego.

And God help me, he is good-looking. Not the kind that made you swoon. The kind that made you forget what you were about to say.

I exhaled quietly and turned back to my checklist. Focus. Work. Not looks.

“Ms. Kapoor?” The hotel manager caught up with me. “The presentation screens froze. Something with the HDMI setup.”

Of course, they did.

I crossed the floor quickly, trying to ignore the crowd gathering near the entrance. My focus narrowed to the projection area, but as I reached the control booth, someone was already standing there, bent slightly, trying to help the tech guy.

Achintya.

Up close, the details sharpened the faint scar near his thumb, the veins on his wrist as he adjusted the cable, the slight furrow of concentration in his brow. He looked like a man who didn’t like waiting for others to solve a problem.

“Maybe switch to the backup port,” he was saying, when he noticed me. His tone softened instantly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interfere.”

“It’s fine,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Interference that fixes things is always welcome.”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile, but close. “You’re the organizer?”

“Yes. Devi Kapoor.”

“Achintya Malhotra.”

“I know,” I replied before I could stop myself. He chuckled, the sound low, unhurried like velvet sliding through a room full of noise.

The technician announced that the display was back up, and I nodded, stepping aside. For a few seconds, the crowd noise seemed to fade. I didn’t know what to say next. I never do in moments like that. So I went with the only thing I could.

“Thank you for the help.”

“You’re welcome,” he said simply. “Good event, by the way. You’ve got the chaos under control.”

He said it like he meant it, not polite, not performative. Real.

Then someone called him, and he turned away, disappearing into the glittering crowd.

“Okay, I officially hate you,” Naina hissed, appearing beside me again with two glasses of sparkling water. “You just spoke to Achintya Malhotra like it was no big deal. Do you know how many people are losing their minds here?”

I took one of the glasses and smiled faintly. “He’s just another guest.”

“Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Her teasing made me laugh a real one this time, though soft. It felt strange, like testing a muscle I hadn’t used in years.

The night rolled on. Speeches, laughter, the click of cameras, the rustle of gowns. I moved through it all like a ghost in silk present but untouched. Every so often, my eyes would catch him in the crowd talking, smiling, looking effortlessly part of a world that once felt so far from mine.

And every time, I told myself I wasn’t watching.

When the last guest left and the lights began to dim, I finally sat down for the first time that evening. My feet ached, my throat was dry, but the job was done. The gala had gone well.

Naina leaned against the table beside me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my wrist absently the faint scar there catching the low light. “Just tired.”

She smiled knowingly. “You always say that when you’re trying not to feel something.”

I looked at her, then at the half-empty hall, and exhaled. “Maybe that’s all I am, Naina. Tired.”

She didn’t argue. She never does.

As she went to wrap things up, I caught a glimpse near the far corridor—Achintya, standing alone for a moment, talking on the phone. The noise had finally faded, and he looked oddly distant from the world that adored him.

Our eyes met for a heartbeat not long enough to mean anything, not short enough to forget.

I looked away first.

Just another event. Just another night.

But as I packed up my things, my heart whispered something quieter—then why does it feel different this time?