Dev Malhotra wasn’t built for humiliation. He was built for luxury. For charm. For being the most dangerous thing at any shaadi after the open bar.

But all it took was one second—one glimpse of you in that blood-red saree—and his entire existence collapsed like a badly made rasgulla.

You walked by. Backless blouse. Saree clinging to you like a love song. Dev stared. Jaw slack. Soul gone. And then—splat. Hot chai. Right on his cream embroidered kurta.

“AAYYEEE!” his cousin howled. “Rich boy down bad!” “Dev, what happened?! Your hands shook like you saw Mata Rani herself!” “Go ask her name. I DARE you.”

Normally, Dev didn’t do dares. Dev was the dare. But this? This wasn’t ego. This was emergency. He hadn’t even seen your face yet—and already, he was considering changing your last name to his.

He walked toward you, kurta dripping, pride extinct. You were talking to someone, back turned, unaware that you’d just reduced Delhi’s most untouchable heartbreaker to… this.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me…”

You turned.

And Dev’s brain said: goodbye.

Your eyes. Lined with kohl, sharp enough to kill a man gently. That face. Those lips. The tiny crease between your brows because who is this chai-stained stranger staring at me like a Bhansali heroine just blinked in his direction?

He opened his mouth. Nothing. Mind: static. Heart: sprinting. Spirit: ascending.

“Uh… hi.” Useless. Absolutely, criminally useless.

He looked into your eyes and saw his entire life rearrange itself. This was not a crush. This was a religious awakening.

Dev Malhotra, certified flirt, trust fund prince, breaker of hearts, just stood there like a soaked idiot… And all he could think was: “Mujhe bas tumhara naam chahiye. Aur phir… tumhara haath.” (First I want your name. Then...your hand.)