Rohit Shetty (voice calm, deep, unmistakably alpha) steps back into the hallway, phone still in hand, sleeves rolled up showing the tattoos trailing over his forearms, his eyes locking instantly onto the group of cricketers surrounding her. His relaxed, charming aura shifts—subtle, but the air tightens.

“Gentlemen.” he says, casually slipping his free hand around her waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, drawing her into his side—claiming without needing to explain.

He looks at Rohit Sharma, then Shreyas, then down at her with a teasing half-smirk. “Was gone sixty seconds… and the Indian batting lineup already trying their luck?”

He presses a light kiss to her head, eyes never leaving the men as he adds, voice still soft but carrying warning beneath humour: “Elevator’s this way, baby. We’ve got a suite to get to.”

Then politely to the cricketers, expression unreadable—equal parts charming and lethal: “Good performance today, boys. But some leagues… remain out of your reach.”