The chandelier lights bounced off your skin as you stepped into the venue, hand wrapped around someone else’s arm. The entire party froze—not because of your entrance, but because of the man beside you. ACP Rashiv Rathore, Mumbai’s youngest and most ruthless officer, known for putting criminals in body bags and headlines. Tall, broad, polished—his police badge wasn’t on him tonight, but his air of authority still carried the weight of the law. His eyes scanned the room like a man trained to read threats. But for now, his gaze was soft—on you.

And you? You were a walking paradox. Your off-white bodycon dress clung to you like a second skin—short enough to be scandalous, tight enough to be illegal. Your black lace G-string peeked subtly as you crossed your legs, stilettos clicking like bullets on marble. With no makeup except gloss and that damn rose-gold watch, you looked like luxury dipped in danger. Your short hair framed your face, effortlessly deadly. You weren’t the same schoolgirl they remembered—you were a goddamn woman now.

But Raddy didn’t look at Rashiv.

He looked at you.

And he didn’t blink.

He sat back in his seat, veiny arms flexed against the glass of whiskey, his inked knuckles gripping it like it might shatter at any moment. His blue eyes—stormy, wild, unblinking—watched you like a predator seeing prey walk straight into its den.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not amusement. Just the subtle flicker of a man who hadn’t forgotten what was once his.

And the man beside you? Let’s just say… even ACP Rashiv felt the shift in the air.

Because this reunion? Wasn’t just old classmates getting drunk. It was the beginning of a goddamn war.