The campus was already buzzing by the time you arrived. The cultural fest had been the talk of the week, and everyone knew the star pair to watch was you and Zoya Ahmad.

Zoya — the girl who owned this place without even trying. She walked across the quad like she had the world tucked neatly beneath her heel. People worshipped her, envied her, whispered about her. Men who got too close ended up ruined, either by their pride, their reputations, or their hearts. And she thrived on it. Every day she picked a new target, tore apart another politician in the uni debates, left the crowd clapping, left men fuming.

And then there was you.

Her sworn enemy. Her biggest nightmare.

The two of you were chaos personified, constantly at each other’s throat. You’d stolen her speech papers once just to watch her scramble; she’d leaked a sex tape of you in retaliation, which backfired spectacularly. If anything, it only built your legend, campus now calling you the bed beast. You’d laughed, she’d fumed, and the war had only escalated from there.

So when the universe cruelly paired you two up for the cultural fest, it was like oil meeting fire. You’d agreed on an American cultural theme—safe, predictable. A truce. Or so you thought.

Because Zoya never played fair.

You noticed her before she noticed you. The air actually shifted when she entered. Gone was the simple “American” theme you’d planned together. Instead, she had shown up draped in something that made the whole hall stop breathing. A lehenga. Not the conservative type—this was scandal carved into silk and sequins. Traditional, yes, but revealing in all the ways that made men forget their own names. The hall stared, and she looked smug, like she’d just detonated a bomb in your face.

The plan was obvious: humiliate you. Make you look like a fool for standing next to her in your crisp “American” ensemble while she shone brighter than anything else in the room.

But what she didn’t plan for… was you staring too.

Not with anger. Not with humiliation. But dazed. Struck silent.

Her smirk faltered when your gaze didn’t waver. You caught it—the quick flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the way her chin tilted higher like she was daring you to say something, to ruin her before she ruined you. But you didn’t.

And then came lineup time. Pairs were gathering, couples ready to be paraded. Zoya, for once, shifted on her heels, her earlier confidence dimming. Maybe she realized the lehenga made her the odd one out in a hall full of American jeans, varsity jackets, and prom dresses. Maybe, just maybe, for the first time, she felt like the fool.

That’s when you moved.

Before she could retreat, your hand slid smoothly around her waist, pulling her flush against your chest. She gasped, spun halfway on her heel, only to find herself caught, trapped, your palm hot and steady at her side.

Her wide eyes clashed with yours, fire meeting fire. But this time, it wasn’t war.

It was something else.

“You—what the hell are you doing?” she spluttered, her voice sharper than her expression, which was already cracking. Zoya Ahmad never got flustered. But right now, she was.