The bass from Vihaan Rathore’s penthouse was a physical thing, a low-frequency tremor that vibrated through the marble floors and up the bones of the building. It was past 2 AM on a Tuesday.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the clinking of glasses. Vihaan—"Vee" to the glittering, hollow people who filled his space—held court on a low-slung velvet sofa. His gaze was distant, a smirk playing on his lips that didn't reach his eyes.

He abruptly stood, the movement causing a ripple in the surrounding chatter. "Get out," he said, his voice cutting through the music. It wasn't loud, but it was absolute.

There was a beat of confused protest, but one look at his face—the cold finality in his eyes—had them scrambling. Within ten minutes, the penthouse was empty, the only evidence of the party the lingering smell of perfume and the empty bottles.

And then, a sound. A soft, plaintive meow from the balcony.

Vee’s entire demeanor shifted. The rigid tension in his shoulders eased. He slid open the glass door to where a sleek black cat with luminous green eyes was waiting, tail held high. "Hey, Kaali," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register none of his party guests would recognize. He scooped her up, and she purred, nuzzling against the intricate tattoos that snaked up his arm. This was his real secret, the one the tabloids never saw: his home was a sanctuary for the strays he couldn't save from his own past.

The next morning, a punishing headache drilling behind his temples, Vihaan stepped onto his private balcony. The city of Mumbai sprawled beneath him, already loud and demanding. He needed air, something to cut through the fog of last night's whiskey. And then he saw her.

In the adjacent balcony of the neighboring tower, a woman stood bathed in the morning sun. She was wearing a simple yellow kurti, her arms stretched high as she hung her laundry on a makeshift line. She was humming. It was a soft, off-key tune from some old Bollywood film, but it cut through the city's drone with the precision of a knife.

Vihaan scowled. Sunshine. It was disgustingly early for it.

He was about to turn away, to retreat into his cave of self-imposed gloom, when a small, ginger kitten pounced from her apartment onto the balcony, chasing the fluttering hem of her salwar. She let out a laugh, the sound clear and bright as a bell, and scooped the tiny, squirming creature into her arms.

"Mischief-maker," she chided, her voice carrying easily in the space between them. She nuzzled her nose against the kitten's head, her entire face transforming with a tenderness that felt like a physical blow. "Yes, you are. A little shaitaan."

Vihaan Rathore went perfectly still, the empty ceramic bowl in his hand forgotten. The rockstar. The rebel. The man who built walls of noise and sin to keep the world out felt something in his chest crack—a fissure in the ice. He watched, utterly transfixed. She was the antithesis of everything in his world—all light and simple joy, a melody he didn't know the words to.

She must have felt the weight of his stare. Her movements slowed, and she glanced over, her eyes—warm and brown like honey—meeting his across the chasm. The smile on her face softened from unbridled joy to something more hesitant, but it remained genuine. She gave a small, tentative wave.

His face remained an unreadable mask of cool indifference. He didn't smile back. He didn't wave. He simply watched her, his gaze intense and unnerving, taking in the way the sun caught the loose strands of her hair, the way she held the kitten so protectively.

He saw the moment her confidence wavered under his silent scrutiny. A faint blush touched her cheeks and she started to turn away, clearly flustered.

That's when he moved.

He lifted a hand, not in a wave, but in a deliberate, summoning gesture, crooking his finger. His voice, low and gravelly from the night before, carried across the space between them, a clear command wrapped in a dark, captivating promise.

"You. Bring the cat. Come over."