Luca POV
The morning was a ghost that wouldn't let me sleep.
I turned over in bed for the fifth time, the silk sheets twisted around my legs like chains. The digital clock on the side table blinked 5:03 a.m. in red. Delhi's early light filtered through the curtains—gentle, golden, and uninvited.
My mind was a storm. And in its eye stood two people.
"They."
And... her.
The girl from Lodhi Garden.
Khushi.
I didn't know her name then. I didn't know anything about her. But the moment my eyes had met across the distance, and she had laughed with her friends—something in me had shattered. That laugh had been hollow. Beautiful on the outside, but I saw it. The fracture. The fracture I knew too well.
Now, the moment wouldn't stop replaying. Over and over.
The knock came sharp and timely.
"Come in," I said, already sitting up, bare feet on the cold marble.
Viko entered first, his gait precise as always. Masha followed, tablet in hand.
"We have something," Masha said, wasting no time. "Not everything, but something that might help."
She handed me the tablet. I scanned it quickly. Surveillance. Financial traces. One repeated name jumped out.
Professor Ria Malhotra.
"Dragan Iyer met her on multiple occasions over the past three years," Viko said. "Always near the Indus School of Art and Design. She's faculty there."
My jaw clenched. The same school that my company partially owned. The same one where I'd opened an outreach initiative for young design students two years ago. I rarely paid attention to that investment. Now it pulsed in relevance.
"I'll go," I said, rising.
"We'll prep the car and inform Stefano—"
"No." I cut Viko off. "I'll go alone."
"Alone?" Masha raised an eyebrow.
"She's a woman," I said simply. "If she's innocent, I don't want her spooked. I'll deal with this."
They didn't argue. My decisions weren't up for debate.
By 8:20 a.m., I was walking up the pristine stone steps of Indus School of Art and Design.
A light breeze stirred my coat. The campus was still waking—sprinklers ticked in the distance, and the sun was barely touching the tops of the oldest academic buildings. I liked it this way—quiet. Untouched.
The director spotted me instantly.
His eyes widened. Fear, recognition, and reverence passed through them in a second.
"Mr. Volkov," he stammered, rushing forward, adjusting his tie. "We... we weren't expecting you today."
"I know," I replied coolly. "Where is Professor Ria Malhotra's office?"
He blinked, mouth parting, but no questions followed. That was the thing with power. When people respected it—or feared it—explanations weren't required.
"She's in the west wing, second floor. Design Faculty block," he said quickly, pointing toward a curved sandstone building just across the central path. "Room 217."
I nodded.
As we began walking together across the wide stone pavement that split the campus lawns, something caught my eye.
A girl was walking ahead of us. In the middle of the road.
She had earphones in. Sunglasses on. Her steps slow. Her attention nowhere near the present.
Behind her—a flash of movement. A car. It came too fast around the curve.
My blood turned cold.
"Watch out!" I barked.
She didn't hear me.
My body moved before my mind caught up.
I ran. Fast.
My hand closed around her arm, and I yanked her to me, bracing her against my chest as the car skidded, its brakes screeching in the silence of campus dawn.
She slammed into me—soft, warm, delicate.
Time folded.
I felt it instantly—an energy, an electricity—coursing through where our bodies touched.
Her earphones tangled between us, one falling onto my chest.
Taylor Swift's voice hummed faintly, "Begin again..."
She wasn't breathing. Neither was I.
Her cheek pressed against my chest. Her body trembled faintly. My heartbeat roared—too loud, too fast.
I tightened my arms around her, instinctively protective.
And then.... The director spoke asking me to leave her. I left her as my body missed her.Her sunglasses had shifted slightly. Her lips parted in shock. Her eyes—those eyes.
It was her.
The girl from Lodhi Garden.
My mind reeled.
What was she doing? Trying to die?
My voice came out harsher than I intended. "WHY WERE YOU WALKING IN THE MIDDLE OF ROAD WITH EARPHONES ON? IF I HADN'T SAVED YOU, YOU COULD HAVE DIED?"
Her hands trembled. I felt the fear rolling off her. I instantly regretted the tone.
She looked up slowly and stammered, "I am sorry sir... I was listening to music... I don't know how I— Thank you... Sir... for saving my life..."
My heart twisted.
Sir.
No. My name. I wanted her to say my name.
The director's voice cut the moment. "Student, this is Mr. Luca Volkov—the principal investor in the college. You should thank him properly."
She looked at me again.
"I... thank you, Luca sir," she said, voicebarely a whisper.
Something inside me shifted.
She had said it.
I gestured the director to go away and do his duties.
He hesitated, then nodded and walked off, leaving us alone on the pavement.
I looked at her one last time. She stood there, stunned. Fragile. Real.
Her tear fell silently down her cheek.
"Angel, are you okay?" I asked gently.
She nodded. "Yes."
"Are you sure?"
Another nod.
She was lying.
But I didn't press.
I don't know what possessed me—but I lifted my hand. My thumb gently brushed her cheek, wiping the tear.
The moment her skin touched mine—everything else disappeared. Again.
But her eyes widened in surprise. I realized then what I'd done.
I stepped away.
Hand on my chest. It wasn't performative.
My chest actually... ached.
I simply bowed my head faintly and walked away.
I walked fast—toward Room 217—before I changed my mind.
Before I pulled her back.
The corridor to the professor's office was quiet. A few students passed me and whispered to each other, some gasping softly. They recognized me. I ignored them.
I knocked on the door.
"Come in," came a warm, professional voice.
Professor Ria Malhotra stood from behind her desk. Late 30s. Stylish. Sharp cheekbones. She wore a cotton saree with artful patterns and a pair of glasses perched perfectly on her nose.
Her expression flickered as she saw me.
"Mr. Volkov? This is a surprise," she said, smoothing her hair. "How can I help you?"
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "About?"
"Dragan Iyer."
Her face changed. The shift was brief—but I caught it.
Surprise. Unease.
"I... I know him," she said. "We met through a design ethics conference three years ago. He spoke well. We kept in touch—he advised on some educational outreach models."
"And how often do you meet?"
"Once every few months. Mostly in public. Sometimes calls. Emails."
Her story held up. On the surface.
But I knew how to peel layers.
I spent two and a half hours with her in that office. Question after question. Cross-referencing with Masha and Viko in real time. Patterns. Gaps. Mismatched timelines.
But in the end... she was clean.
She wasn't part of "them." She didn't even know "they" existed.
Just another pawn Iyer used—either to hide behind or gather superficial data.
She offered me tea midway. I refused. My eyes never left hers.
By the end, she looked more exhausted than afraid.
"You thought I was part of something dangerous," she finally said.
"I needed to be sure."
"Why not just ask through proper channels?"
"Proper channels leak."
She nodded slowly.
Then, something changed.
She tilted her head slightly, her tone softening. "You're not what I expected, Mr. Volkov. I always pictured the CEO of Volkov Group as... colder."
"I'm not here to meet expectations."
She stepped around the desk, a little closer.
"Well, if there's anything else I can help you with," she said, voice lower, "on or off the record..."
I stepped back. Slightly.
"No," I said firmly. "You've helped enough."
The message was clear. She blinked, then nodded—masking rejection with practiced grace.
I left the office with a tight jaw.
As I stepped outside into the daylight again, I called Masha.
"She's clean," I said. "Keep digging elsewhere. Follow the shipments again—this thread ends here."
"Copy that," she said. "Be safe."
I hung up.
And then I saw her again.
Khushi.
She was on the other side of the lawn. This time with friends. Laughing, but quieter now. She looked... unsettled.
And yet, something in her had grace. Even in chaos.
Her friends waved and moved on. She was alone now—gazing at the horizon like she was still trying to understand what had happened.
I walked toward her.
She turned, startled, as I tapped her shoulder lightly.
Her eyes widened.
"Mr. Volkov?"
My heart twisted yet again.
Mr. Volkov.
No. My name. I wanted her to say my name. My first name, Luca. "Are you okay?" I asked, voice softer now. "Did I shock you?"
She blinked. Words caught in her throat.
And for a moment, I wished I could silence the entire world.
Just to hear her answer.
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Hey guys, thank you for reading this part.
Stay tuned to know how Luca and Khushi life are going to revolve around each other.😉😎
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