"The Slap and the Seed of Revenge"
Aarav walked straight toward Arundhati, confident and deliberate.
To him, women fell into two predictable categories:
One, those who painted themselves as delicate creatures, desperate for rescue—relying on a man's sympathy to find a place in his heart.
Two, those who wrapped themselves in icy aloofness, acting as if their mere existence was an act of charity to mankind—playing hard to get just for the thrill of it.
But regardless of their act, Aarav knew their weakness: money. And money? He had in overflowing abundance. So what reason could any of them give to resist him?
Arundhati stood near a decorative fountain, chatting with a friend. Her friend beamed and clasped her hands.
"Congratulations, Arundhati! Social Activist of the Year—again. You're becoming a bit of a legend."
Arundhati gave a modest smile, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Thanks, but it's the people's work. I'm just the voice."
Her friend suddenly leaned in, her tone turning teasing. "Heads up. Another man's about to offer his heart to you."
Arundhati glanced over her shoulder and spotted Aarav, suave and composed in a sharply tailored suit, walking toward them. Her friend leaned in again, whispering with exaggerated glee, "That's Aarav Trivedi. Best Entrepreneur of the Year, ridiculously rich, and practically a collector of broken hearts. Don't break his too hard, okay?"
Arundhati arched an eyebrow. 'Are you really my friend or a secret agent trying to ruin my image?' Before she could ask, the girl had vanished, leaving her alone with the man in question.
Aarav stepped closer and extended his hand. "Hi. Aarav Trivedi. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Arundhati…"
She met his handshake firmly. "Iyer. Arundhati Iyer."
"Yes, Miss Arundhati Iyer…" Aarav was just about to launch into his pre-prepared charm when a middle-aged gentleman interrupted.
"Oh, Mr. Trivedi! Congratulations on the award. Your company has done exceptional work. You've generated employment across sectors. The youth needs more visionaries like you investing in this country."
Aarav didn't mind praise—especially when it was deserved. But this man had unfortunately picked the worst moment to deliver it. To everyone else, it might seem like a casual compliment. To Aarav, it looked painfully like a staged stunt to impress a woman.
He stole a glance at Arundhati.
She was smiling.
No mocking, no discomfort—just a calm, unreadable expression.
Aarav was silently relieved. Thank god. If she'd looked the slightest bit irritated, I'd have punted this geezer straight into the buffet table. Now get lost before I lose my patience.
Outwardly, Aarav smiled with practiced ease, hiding every ounce of irritation.
The moment the old man finally walked away with a polite smile, silence settled between them like a thin veil. The background buzz of clinking glasses and murmuring guests faded into a distant hum.
Arundhati folded her arms, one eyebrow slightly raised. Her voice was steady, almost amused.
"So, Mr. Aarav Trivedi... what was that? Do you always bring a cheerleader with you when you approach women?"
Aarav laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"No, that was just divine timing. I usually make an impression on my own."
She tilted her head, cool and composed.
"You certainly have. Though I can't tell if it's the good kind yet."
Aarav took that as his cue to lean in ever so slightly, his trademark smirk creeping up.
"Well, I like challenges, Miss Arundhati. And you seem like the Everest kind."
She arched a brow, unimpressed.
"Climbing Everest can get you killed."
"Only if you're unprepared." His voice lowered a bit, eyes lingering on her. "But I've always believed the view from the top is worth it."
Arundhati gave a half-smile. Not amused. Not impressed. Just... watching.
"That's assuming you'll even get halfway."
Aarav chuckled, then gestured toward her drink.
"Can I get you another?"
"Why? Are you planning to say something that'll make me need one?"
He paused. "That depends. If I told you I came all the way over here just to talk to you, would you believe me?"
"No."
"Brutally honest. I like that."
"Don't mistake honesty for warmth."
His eyes flickered with mischief. "Oh, I wasn't. You're not warm. You're—" he took a second, his voice dropping to something silkier—"dangerously cold. The kind that makes men want to burn themselves just to feel alive."
Arundhati's smile was thin. "You should work on your lines. That one was almost poetic. Almost."
"I save my best lines for later," Aarav said smoothly, brushing an imaginary speck off his sleeve. Then, as if deciding to abandon all pretense, he looked at her directly.
"Alright. I'll get to the point."
He smiled. That crooked, too-handsome, rich-boy smile.
"I'd like to sleep with you."
SLAP.
The sound echoed. Conversations paused. Glasses froze mid-air. Someone dropped a canapé.
Aarav stood stunned, cheek red, more from disbelief than pain.
Arundhati turned slightly, facing the crowd now watching them with bated breath. Her voice rang clear, slicing through the awkward air.
"Is this the kind of man we award in this country?"
"One who doesn't even know how to respect a woman?"
"Shame on you for applauding success with no measure of character."
Aarav stood frozen. Not because of the sting on his face, but the quiet storm rising in his chest—the taste of humiliation, bitter and new.
And with that, Arundhati turned and walked away, her poise unshaken, her steps firm.
Reporters began filming. Photos were snapped. The crowd rippled with judgment.
Aarav stood frozen, still holding his cheek.
But nothing came into light.
Because he handled it that very night, before anyone could sniff out gossip. Before the media could catch a whisper. Before his family could even ask why he was back home early.
He bought silence like a man drowning in money buys oxygen—desperately and without hesitation. Security footage wiped. Witnesses spoken to. Strings pulled. Connections activated.
No one ever heard a thing.
But he did.
The sound of that slap rang loud in his head even weeks later.
The Rooftop Pact
It was past midnight. Aarav nursed a glass of scotch on the rooftop of his penthouse, Mumbai glowing beneath him.
Vikram and Sid, his oldest friends, sat on either side—both trying to be supportive while not laughing.
"So…" Sid smirked, "Any new endorsements? Maybe for Fair & Lovely? Or something for pain relief?"
"Shut up." Aarav's voice was cold.
He took another swig. The liquor wasn't enough to drown the echo of the slap.
"She made me look like a fool," he muttered, his voice gravelly.
"Like some entitled prick who couldn't take a 'no'."
Vikram chuckled darkly. "I mean… that's what you are. But still—slap was harsh."
Aarav didn't smile.
Instead, he leaned forward, eyes glowing with something far more dangerous than hurt.
"I'm going to destroy her."
The laughter stopped.
"You're serious?" Sid asked.
Aarav's lips curled.
"She'll fall in love with me. I'll be everything she's ever wanted. A man who listens. Who respects her ideals. I'll let her believe she's tamed me."
"And then?" Vikram prompted.
Aarav's voice was almost a whisper.
"Then, I'll humiliate her in front of the same world that clapped for her."
He tilted his glass, watching the liquid swirl like poison.
"Right when she's the most vulnerable—right when she dares to hope—I'll walk away. And let her feel what it's like to be mocked by headlines."
Sid let out a low whistle.
"That's... dark. I love it."
"Cruel." Vikram added.
"But poetic."
Aarav finally smiled—cold, calm, calculated.
"She wants a villain?" he said, downing the rest of his drink.
"Then I'll become the best damn villain this city's ever seen."
Present
"I did. It was… fun."
Aarav leaned back in his chair, the lie smooth on his lips, though his thoughts whispered otherwise:
Yeah, fun my ass. Now she follows me everywhere like a vengeful ghost in heels. I can't even blink without her thinking it's a power move. She's obsessed with revenge and ready to pounce the moment I let my guard down.
His expression was serious, but his tone held a touch of mischief.
The man across from him raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Then why don't I hear that joy in your voice?"
Aarav's gaze sharpened. I didn't even say it aloud, and yet he's sniffed out my thoughts? Dangerous man.
"If you think that," Aarav said in a level voice, "then you're mistaken. I'm very happy."
But the man didn't back off. "You say that... but your voice lacks the spark of someone enjoying victory."
Had he really believed that? He'd have already left and begun his plan with Avi. No, he's testing me.
"Snap out of it, Iqbal," Aarav said, brushing the moment aside. "We have work. How's everything going?"
Iqbal's playfulness vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp calm.
"We're growing well. Roots are deep, the trunk is sturdy, branches are wide. All that's left... are the fruits."
"Good," Aarav replied, rising. "Fruits will come in time."
He turned away. "Bring me the company files. And one more thing—I'll be staying here for a while."
Iqbal bowed his head. "Yes."