"Madam chup chap yaha sai niklo, chalo." The guard of the gym snapped at me, standing tall and broad like a wall in front of my small petite body.

[Madam, please get out of here.]

How rude!

"Pehle dhaka dete ho, fir kehte ho niklo!? I think I just sprained my ankles, ouch," I winced in pain while my hand clutched my ankle as the sting digs in harder with every second.

[First you pushed me, then you say get lost?]

"You were acting too smart just a moment ago, and now suddenly you sprained your ankle the second Sarthak sir showed up? Jao madam pagal kisi or ko banana. We know better why you are here. Chasing and simping handsome men is a fashion between girls nowadays." The guard barked.

[Go madam, make someone else fool.]

"Oh first of all, stop acting nonchalant guard of honour, would you? And change your cheap perception before you open your mouth. I am a reporter and I always record conversations on my phone, and for your kind information, whatever you said is recorded on my phone and now I'll show this to the police and they'll know how you behave and think of a woman." I lied because why not.

I mean how could he say that I am here to throw myself on Sarthak? Do I look like some lovesick fan girl?

On the other hand, Sarthak was just standing there at the entrance watching us creating a scene of no use.

Ishika, ignore that idiot and focus on your mission. But damn, how am I supposed to approach him? He hasn't said a single word since he got here. Is he mute or what?

Nah, more like an introvert. The way he dodged the media, makes it obvious that he is a camera-shy, and clueless about what to say or how to say it I assume

"So you finally confessed yeah, and I am not even scared of losing my job because my boss doesn't believe in the media's made up news. It's clear now that you are a reporter and you are here to secretly film Sarthak sir. That's why you wanted to access the gym. Sarthak sir, you go in, I know how to tackle these reporters." That idiot speaks again.

"Mr. Sarthak please listen to me once, I am here to discuss something very important with you." I said in a low, pleading voice, still sitting on the dusty ground, pain pulsing steadily in my ankle.

"Mr. Sarthak please get in." The guard asked, but he stayed rooted in place, his cold, unreadable gaze locked on me.

"At least help her to stand on her foot Karan, don't be so rough on a fragile woman like this. Here, get up." Sarthak said firmly, then extended his hand toward me in a silent offer of help.

So he can speak, he is not a mute. Better.

"But Sir she is a reporter." The guard whose name I just got to know is Karan, tried to stop him again.

"And a woman too, you can't let her winch in pain when you just pushed her. Get the first aid box from inside." He said in a commanding voice.

With an annoyed eye-roll and a strange look in my direction, Karan turned on his heel and headed into the gym to fetch the first aid kit.

And you are taking my hands or should I get going?" Sarthak said in his cold, distant tone, and honestly, I felt incredibly awkward accepting his help. But Ishika, you don't really have a choice-you can't even stand on your own.

With hesitation, I slowly raised my hand toward him, and the moment my fingers brushed against his, a sharp jolt of electricity shot through me.

He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me to my feet, but the pain in my ankle flared up sharply, and just like that, I lost my balance, the same way I had lost every trace of luck in my life.

Before I could stumble back and hit the ground again, Sarthak's arm wrapped around my waist in an instant. Like the seasoned cricketer he is, his reflexes didn't fail to catch me in his arms. It was very quick and steady, but I hate my sudden reflex because my hands instinctively clung to his neck.

My eyes widened at the sudden contact, and then his dark gaze locked with mine. He didn't look away. My heart thundered in my chest as he kept staring at me, his expression unreadable, too complex, and too guarded for me to figure out.

"Are you alright?" Finally he spoke causing me to blink my eyes repeatedly.

"Oh yes, but I quit can't stand of my one." I said hesitatly.

"Come, sit here." He guided me toward the nearest chair—ironically, the one that belonged to that idiot Karan, the very reason I was in this mess to begin with.

Sarthak helped me sit down, and just then, Karan came striding back with a first aid box in hand, shooting me a glare so sharp it felt like he was some jealous girlfriend or something.

"Sir here, the kit." Karan handed the box to Sarthak, who crouched down to my level and quietly began undoing my shoes. What he did next made the awkwardness rush back all over again.

He gently rested my bare foot on his toned thigh, inspecting the damage. My ankle was swollen, shades of purple and blue spreading across the skin.

Without a word, he grabbed a spray from the kit and applied it to the swollen area. The moment it hit, I hissed in pain, gripping the edge of the chair.

"See a doctor on your way back," he said, placing my foot gently on the ground. "For now, I've sprayed some pain reliever on your ankle. You would start feeling better soon."

I swallowed hard, watching him pull away. Come on, Ishika, say something-ask him about the interview before it's too late.

"Thankyou, I would surely see a doctor. But Mr. Sarthak please listen to me once. I came here to approach you for an interview organised by our channel." I speak.

He stood up and said, "You're a reporter, you must already know I don't do interviews. But you still came looking for me. So turn around and leave the way you came, because you're not getting what you want."

With that, he turned to walk back into the gym, but after just one step, he paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"Sit here until you feel better. And Karan—no more violence, please." He shot the warning at his bodyguard before disappearing inside.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Karan's cold gaze met mine for a second before he looked away, crossing his arms tightly over his broad chest.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he said, his voice lower. "I was just doing my job."

"It's okay, I understand," I replied, digging through my tote bag in search of my phone.

He cleared his throat before speaking again. "By the way do you really record every conversation on your phone?"

There was a flicker of hesitation in his voice as he added, "Since things are clear now, you're not going to the police, right?"

I glanced up at him and spoke quietly. "I lied. Just wanted to scare you a little. I didn't record anything. And for the record, it's illegal to record someone without their permission."

My fingers finally wrapped around my phone as I pulled it out of the bag.

"Oh? So you don't always shout like a cranky old lady? You actually sound smart like this. I like it," he said, lips twitching. Was that a compliment?

"I've got some work inside. Stay here and rest until you can walk," Karan added before heading back into the gym.

I got my phone out from my bag and it turned out that I ran out of battery. What can I even expect from life? Got my periods, ruined my skirt, sprained my ankle, and now I ran out of battery.

How the hell am I supposed to get home now? I don't even remember my brother's number—or Ina's. And with this sprained ankle, I can't walk more than a few steps.

It took everything in me to get here, even after Chris warned me not to come alone. But I still did. Life hasn't spared me once, not even for a second. And yet I still pushed through. Just to get a damn interview. Just to prove I could do it.

I really thought—just this once, maybe God would cut me some slack. Maybe something would go right. But no, it's on me. I was stupid enough to believe in myself. I challenged my boss, told him I could convince the one man no one else could. And now? I've got nothing to show for it.

In a week, Mr. Goyal is definitely going to kick me out of this job. No doubt about it.

Tears welled up, blurring my vision. My chest felt heavy, my body drained like it couldn't carry the weight anymore. Was it just the damn hormones or was my life really this cruel?

A single tear slipped down and landed on the black screen of my dead phone, lying useless in my lap. And then I broke. The sniffles came first, then the ugly crying followed, raw and unfiltered.

I should've listened to Chris. I never should've come here alone. What the hell was I thinking? That a big-shot celebrity like Sarthak Singh-who clearly hates the media, would just smile and agree to my request? Who the fuck am I? Nobody. I haven't even had my first proper debut. I'm nothing.

Thoughts swirled, loud and cruel, as the tears kept falling down my eyes. And just when I thought I was completely invisible to the world a hand appeared in front of me, holding out a handkerchief.

"Kiddo, don't cry. You look ugly," a voice said, too casually for the moment.

I blinked up through my tear-blurred eyes, and met the face of someone familiar, but completely unexpected.

Agastya Bhatt. Right-hand batsman, and childhood best friend of Sarthak. Their bond? They share a bond—the kind people romanticize. Loyal, unbreakable, and almost legendary.

I took the handkerchief from him without a word and wiped my eyes quickly. I hate crying in front of anyone. It doesn't make me feel comforted-it just makes me feel small. Weaker than I already am.

"I'm not a kid, I'm a grown woman, mister," I snapped back.

"But just a minute ago, you looked like a kid who didn't get her lollipop," he chuckled, clearly amused.

I didn't respond. My eyes were still swollen from crying, and honestly, I didn't trust my voice not to crack again. So I just stared down at my lap, fiddling with the hem of my skirt.

"So... why's this grown woman sitting here all alone?" he asked, his tone softening.

"I sprained my ankle," I mumbled.

"Ohhh," Agastya said dramatically, eyes widening as he placed a hand over his mouth. "So you're the reporter who got knocked out by that sumo wrestler Karan?"

I just nodded.

"Poor kid. You shouldn't have come here alone. How are you planning to get back home?" Agastya asked again.

"I don't know," I replied quietly.

"And why don't you know?" he shot back, that playful sarcasm still in his voice. "It's not safe for a woman to sit out here all night. Call someone. Or book a cab. Come on, strong woman."

"My phone's dead. And no cabs come out this far," I sighed, eyes dropping to my lap again. I was trying my damn best not to cry again but my hormones had other plans.

"Then here," he said, handing me his phone, "use mine. Call whoever can pick you up."

My crystal blurred eyes lifted to meet his. "I don't remember their numbers," I muttered, then looked away again.

Embarrassment wrapped around my throat like a noose. I couldn't even remember my own brother's number. I swallowed hard, holding back the flood again.

"Even kids these days remember their parents numbers," he teased gently. "Come on, I'll drop you."

"You?" I blinked, startled.

"Yeah. Problem?" he asked, one brow lifted.

"No... it's just that you're a famous cricketer. If the media saw you with a random girl, they'll start spinning some nonsense."

He chuckled. "Strong woman, I'm not that famous. Not like my brother, Sarthak. The media doesn't care about me. Relax, I'll drop you."

"Stop calling me that. I have a name," I snapped, folding my arms across my chest.

"Oh? What's your name then, strong girl?" he grinned.

"Ishika Kholi."

"Well then, Ms. Ishika, wait here. I left my car keys inside." He turned and walked back toward the gym.

He didn't have to be kind, but he was. And for a moment, that cracked something soft open inside me.

While he was gone, I decided to try putting on my shoes, but the moment I moved, pain shot through my ankle like fire, making me wince hard. I keep trying hard to wear my shoes.

Someone walked in from the entrance just as I was struggling to slip my shoe back on. I didn't bother looking up. Who else could it be but Agastya?

"If you can't manage something yourself, you could always ask for help."

That wasn't Agastya's voice.

My head snapped up, and there he was. Sarthak Singh. Again.

His jet-black eyes locked onto mine with that same unreadable intensity. A gym bag slung over his shoulder, black jacket hanging from one hand, and big headphones around his neck. He was clade in white tee and and a black joggers.

"I can't afford to ask for help all the time. I can manage on my own," I muttered, stubbornly trying to jam my foot into the shoe despite the sharp pain twisting through my ankle.

He didn't move. He just stood there, watching me struggle with silent judgment or maybe curiosity, I couldn't tell.

His gaze dropped to my hands fumbling with the shoe. Still, he said nothing.

Babaji or kitni bhejati karvao ge meri?

[God, how many more sends have you made of me?]

Sarthak clicked his tongue in annoyance before finally dropping to one knee. Without a word, he gently slid my foot into the shoe, his touch so smooth and precise I barely felt the pain.

"There." He stood, towering over me again. "Asking for help doesn't make you weak." His voice was clipped as he turned on his heel to leave.

"Mr. Sarthak," I called after him, rising slowly to my feet, forcing myself to stand despite the ache in my ankle. "Helping someone doesn't make you weak either."

His step halted as he turned towards me.

Those dark, unreadable eyes landed on me again, calm on the surface, yet something stirred beneath.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, keeping my voice steady even as my heart pounded in my ears.

"My job depends on this interview, Mr. Sarthak. One 'yes' from you could save everything."

He was about to say something when a voice cut through the air.

"Dekho vo rahe Sarthak Singh but he's with a girl."

[See there he is, Sarthak Singh.]

We both turned instinctively. A cluster of media people was heading straight toward us from a distance.

My eyes widened. Damn it! They must've gotten a tip about Sarthak being at this gym too. Couldn't they wait until tomorrow?

Panic crept in. What if they mistake me for his girlfriend? No why would they? I'm a reporter too, and I have my press ID for this very reason.

But Sarthak's next move?

Just made everything worse.

Without a word, he pulled his oversized jacket around my body, tugging me flush against his chest, shielding my face.

"Karan! Agastya! Get out here, now!" he shouted, calling for his bodyguard and his friend.

But the reporters were faster like vultures. Their cameras flashing, and questions fleeing.

"Mr. Sarthak, who is this woman?"

"Are you in a relationship, sir?"

They started crowding us, flashes hitting our faces like strobe lights in a storm. But Karan and Agastya finally pushed through the chaos, trying to form a barrier.

"She's Sarthak's sister. Adya," Agastya lied coolly, but the press wasn't buying it. They kept pushing them, determined to sniff out the truth.

"Then why is he hiding her face?" someone shouted.

I could feel Sarthak's chest tremble slightly against me as another blinding flash hit him. He was shivering, was he alright?

"Adya got a pimple on her nose," Agastya added quickly. "You guys know her, she's super conscious about her skin. Her big brother's just helping her out."

Another creative lie by Agastya Bhatt. But the reporters weren't buying it.

He didn't need to hide my damn face. I was a reporter too! These cricket idiots, I swear, always think with their brain before adding logic.

Agastya tossed his car keys to Sarthak and signaled for us to get out of there. But Sarthak just stood there, zoned out, clutching the keys but not moving.

What's wrong with him? Because he doesn't look good. His skin was pale.

The crowd swelled. They shoved us too hard. Even Karan—a damn bodybuilder lost his balance. He stumbled backward, knocking into Sarthak.

And that's when it happened. Sarthak's upper body jerked forward, and his lips crashed onto mine.

A jolt. Like static electricity flows straight through my veins, and our eyes flew wide open.

He pulled back immediately, his eyes darted between the press and me. Without a second thought, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me toward Agastya's car.

"Cover your face until you want to debut on the newspaper front page, as my first lover or girlfriend."

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