You were just a law student — smart, stunning, and effortlessly graceful. No filters, no flashy makeup, no pretensions. Just you. And that was enough to turn heads wherever you went, though you never cared for attention. Your world revolved around books, assignments, and your best friend Ritika — Rohit Sharma’s younger sister.

Yes, that Rohit Sharma — the beloved captain of the Indian cricket team. To billions, he was a star. But to you, he was simply "Rohit bhaiya" when you passed him in the hallway during your visits to Ritika's house. Your exchanges were minimal — a polite smile, a casual “Hello.” But something about his quiet intensity, the kindness in his eyes, the way he respected everyone around him... slowly made space in your heart.

You fell for him. Not the cricketer. The man.

You didn’t care about the age gap, the media chaos, or his fame. You just wanted to be loved by him — in the way you had started to love him. With depth, truth, and no expectations.

When you finally told Ritika about your feelings, nervous and unsure, she didn’t laugh. She smiled. "He needs someone like you," she whispered, "someone who sees him — not his fame."

So you told him.

Rohit had stared at you silently, brows furrowed, arms crossed. Then his voice came, firm but gentle: “You’re young... much younger than me. You don’t know what you're asking for. I’m not what you think I am.”

And that was it. He rejected you.

But you couldn’t walk away.

You sent him small things. Flowers. Texts before his matches. He never replied, just left them on seen. But your heart still whispered, he saw them.

One night, you dropped by Ritika’s place for a project, and she mentioned offhandedly, "Bhai went out with the team. Some club in Bandra."

You never liked clubs. But tonight — something pushed you. A strange, stubborn urge to see him again. Maybe just once.

The club was loud and suffocating. You hated the smell — cigarettes, alcohol, sweat. People grinding against each other, laughing too loud. You swallowed your discomfort and started searching through the crowd, eyes darting, heart pounding.

Then — a group of men.

They cornered you. Their smiles were sharp, words slurred.

“Hey, beautiful... lost?” “You alone here, baby? We can keep you company...”

You pushed past one, but another caught your wrist. Fingers gripped too tight. Panic surged.

“Let me go!” you cried. But no one noticed. No one cared.

Then — something cold pierced your neck. A sting. You gasped.

Your knees buckled. Vision swam. Laughter echoed around you.

Then — you saw him.

Rohit's POV:

He had just returned from the bar, laughing at something Virat said, when he saw a familiar silhouette across the club — stumbling, disoriented, surrounded by a group of drunk men.

His heart stopped.

Is that... no. It can’t be. What is she doing here?

Then he saw your face twist in panic. A man’s hand on your waist. Another laughing as you fell forward.

No. Not her. Not here.

He dropped his glass.

"Move!" he barked, pushing through the crowd, heart thudding in his chest.

And then — he saw it.

The small syringe fall to the floor. Your eyes wide, but unfocused. Your body trembling.

“Don’t touch her!” he roared, grabbing the guy by the collar and slamming him back. Chaos erupted. Teammates rushing in. Guards. Screams.

He caught you just before you collapsed. Your head fell against his chest.

"Hey... hey, stay with me," he said, voice cracking.

Why the hell did she come here? Why did she put herself in danger like this? Why does this hurt so damn much?

He cradled you close, lifting you in his arms like you weighed nothing.

“I told you I wasn’t good for you,” he murmured under his breath, more to himself than to you. “But you... you never listened.”