Aarohi lay awake in her small Mumbai apartment, the hum of the ceiling fan doing little to ease the tension coiling in her body. The rain had stopped, but the city's noises still seeped through her open window-the occasional honk of a car horn, the distant laughter of night owls returning home. But none of it could drown out the echo of Ishaan Singh Rathore's voice in her head.
"Once you enter, there's no turning back."
She glanced at the business card on her nightstand, the sleek black design catching the faint light from her bedside lamp. His name was embossed in silver, with only a phone number beneath it-no title, no company. It was as if Ishaan operated beyond the typical structures of power, commanding his world with just his presence.
Aarohi exhaled, running a hand through her still damp hair. She wasn't the type to get intimidated by powerful men. Her entire career as a journalist had been about chasing the truth, no matter how deep or dangerous the rabbit hole went. And yet, there was something about Ishaan that rattled her. Not just the intensity of his gaze, or the cold confidence in his voice-but the way he made her feel.
She hadn't expected her body to react the way it had in that club. His voice, his presence, had ignited something deep inside her. A desire she didn't want to acknowledge, but couldn't ignore. She was drawn to him, in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.
But this wasn't just about lust. It was about the story. About uncovering the truth. About justice.
With a sigh, Aarohi reached for her phone, her fingers hovering over the number. What was she really getting into? Could she handle a man like Ishaan, both professionally and personally?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed the number.
It rang twice before a deep, familiar voice answered, "Aarohi."
Just her name-nothing more. Yet the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine.
"I didn't expect you to answer," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.
"I was waiting for your call," Ishaan said smoothly, as though he'd known she wouldn't be able to resist.
There was a long pause on the line. Aarohi's mind raced. What did she even want from this? An interview? Information? Or was it something else-something she didn't dare admit to herself?
"I want to meet," she said, more boldly than she felt. "Someplace private, away from your associates. I have questions."
Ishaan chuckled softly. "Of course you do. You wouldn't be you if you didn't. Tomorrow night. I'll send a car to pick you up."
Aarohi frowned, suddenly feeling like she was being swept up into a current she couldn't control. "No," she said firmly. "I'll meet you on my terms. Somewhere neutral."
There was silence on the other end of the line. For a moment, she thought she had overstepped, but then Ishaan's voice came through, colder now, but still laced with that dangerous charm. "Very well, Miss Sharma. I'll text you the details."
Before she could respond, the line went dead.
Aarohi stared at her phone, her heart pounding. She was in, and there was no backing out now.
---
The next day dragged on, a blur of meetings, deadlines, and half-hearted attempts to focus on her other stories. But no matter how hard she tried, Aarohi couldn't shake the anticipation that hung over her like a storm cloud.
By the time the sun set, she found herself in front of her mirror, examining her reflection with a critical eye. She had chosen a simple black dress-professional enough for a meeting, but with just enough edge to remind her that she was in control. Her makeup was understated, just a hint of red lipstick that made her feel bold.
She wasn't dressing for him. She was dressing for herself. Or so she told herself.
When her phone buzzed with a text, her stomach tightened. The message was brief: "8:00 PM. The Crimson Lounge. I'll be waiting."
Aarohi had heard of the place. It was an upscale, hidden gem in one of Mumbai's quieter neighborhoods-exclusive, private. Of course, he would choose somewhere like that. She took a deep breath and grabbed her bag, trying to push down the nervous energy bubbling inside her.
---
The Crimson Lounge was as discreet as its reputation promised. The entrance was an unassuming door tucked between two high-end boutiques, but inside, the ambiance was something out of a movie-rich, crimson velvet drapes, low lighting, and plush seating designed for intimate conversations. There was a subtle scent of jasmine in the air, mingling with the scent of expensive cologne.
Aarohi scanned the room, her heart racing as her eyes landed on Ishaan. He was seated at a corner table, his long legs crossed, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His dark eyes met hers the moment she entered, a slow smile spreading across his lips. He was dressed in a tailored black suit, effortlessly commanding the space around him, as if the room bent to his will.
She swallowed hard, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she approached him.
"You're punctual," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "I like that."
"I'm a professional," Aarohi replied, taking the seat across from him, refusing to let him see how unnerved she felt. "I assume you've prepared answers for my questions?"
Ishaan raised an eyebrow, his gaze traveling slowly over her face, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle. "You're not here for answers," he said softly. "You're here for something else."
Aarohi's heart skipped a beat. His words were too close to the truth. She shifted in her seat, feeling the tension coil between them. "I'm here for the truth," she insisted. "I'm not playing your games, Mr. Rathore."
"Ishaan," he corrected, leaning forward slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. "And we're already playing, Aarohi. Whether you admit it or not."
Aarohi opened her mouth to protest, but the intensity of his stare silenced her. She felt like a moth drawn to a flame, knowing full well the danger but unable to pull herself away.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice quieter now, more vulnerable than she intended.
Ishaan took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes glinting with amusement. "That's the wrong question," he said. "The real question is, what do you want from me?"
Aarohi blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. What did she want? She wanted information, she reminded herself. She wanted to expose whatever secrets the Rathore Group was hiding. But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't the full truth.
She wanted to understand him. The man behind the power. The darkness that flickered in his eyes.
"I want the truth," she said again, though her voice lacked the conviction it had before.
Ishaan smiled, a slow, predatory smile that made her pulse race. "The truth is complicated, Aarohi. It's messy. Are you sure you can handle it?"
Her heart thudded in her chest. This was a game to him-a dangerous one, and she was teetering on the edge of falling into it.
But she was no stranger to danger.
"I'm not afraid of messy," she said, meeting his gaze head-on.
Ishaan's smile faded, his expression turning serious, almost contemplative. "You should be," he said quietly. "Once you step into my world, there's no going back."
The air between them was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that made Aarohi's skin tingle. She could feel it-the pull, the temptation to give in to the dark allure that Ishaan radiated. But she couldn't afford to lose herself, not now.
Before she could respond, Ishaan leaned back in his chair, breaking the spell. "I'll answer your questions," he said, his voice cool again. "But understand this: the answers come with consequences."
Aarohi stared at him, her heart pounding. She had come for the story, for the truth. But now, sitting across from Ishaan Singh Rathore, she wasn't so sure what she wanted anymore.
The game had begun.
---
End of Chapter 2
This chapter deepens the tension between Aarohi and Ishaan, pushing her further into his dangerous world. Their chemistry grows, and the balance of power between them is a constant push and pull.
As we move further in the story we'll see Aarohi getting more indulged in Ishaan's Dark and Dangerous World and she can't help but get more pulled towards Ishaan.
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