Rahul sat in the back of his car, his fingers absently tapping on the seat, his mind far from the business discussions he'd just had. The soft hum of the engine was the only sound that filled the space, but his thoughts were miles away—back at the mall, replaying the unexpected encounter with her.
He couldn't get the encounter out of his mind. The moment she bumped into him, there was something different about her. The way she stood her ground, the fire in her eyes—it was unlike any woman he'd ever met. He was used to being the one with the upper hand, the one who could make people bend to his will with a flash of a smile, but with her? It was like he hit a brick wall.
She had this effortless confidence that was so unbothered by his usual charms. Most women—scratch that, everyone—was usually quick to fawn over him. But not her. She didn't just stare at him with indifference; she actively threw his own arrogance back in his face. Her words cut through the air with precision, and the way she threw his own "charisma" back at him was both infuriating and... intriguing.
And that smirk. It was like she knew exactly who he was but didn't give a damn.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had managed to get under his skin so effortlessly. His pride had taken a hit, no question about it. But there was something more, something he couldn't quite shake. Her attitude, her sharp wit—she wasn't like the others.
The way she dismissed him without hesitation, like he was just another face in the crowd, was almost... refreshing. But no, he couldn't let that thought linger. He wasn't used to being challenged like that. He wasn't sure if he should be annoyed or impressed, but one thing was for certain: she wasn't easily intimidated.
He had been looking forward to some simple shopping, some mindless distraction after a long day, but now he found himself replaying their exchange in his mind like a bad habit. What was it about her that kept him thinking? The more he thought about it, the more he realized—he couldn't just let it go. No one had ever spoken to him like that without later caving in or apologizing.
He didn't need an apology, though. He wasn't that petty. But she was definitely someone he wouldn't mind crossing paths with again.
Perhaps next time, he'd be the one who got the last word.
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Diya's mood was absolutely terrible after that encounter with the arrogant jerk at the mall. Seriously, what was his problem? What kind of delusional fantasy was he living in? Did he honestly think she was just some starry-eyed girl waiting for him to grace her with his oh-so-precious presence? The guy didn't even have the decency to apologize after nearly knocking her over with his fancy shopping bags. Oh no. Instead, he stood there like some arrogant prince, singing his own praises like a broken record, throwing sarcastic jabs her way as if he was doing her some kind of favor just by existing in her space.
How dare he?
She could practically feel the steam rising from her ears, like a boiling kettle one second away from screaming in frustration. If it hadn't been for Khushi standing there beside her, she swore she would've slapped that smug grin right off his perfectly sculpted face. The one that looked like it belonged to some model from a magazine. What a piece of work. No, scratch that—an arrogant piece of work. The nerve of him to think she would fall for whatever charm he thought he had. Did he seriously look at himself in the mirror? Because from where she was standing, he looked like a monkey in a designer suit. She didn't care who he was or what grand thing he thought he had going for him. He could've been the prince of some royal, self-important kingdom of bullshit for all she cared. He was still a jerk. A big, pompous, clueless jerk.
And do you know the worst part? He probably thought she was just another lovesick fool who would fall all over him. That she couldn't stand. You see, Diya didn't drool over people. She didn't even know what that was like. Back in high school, her friends used to call her "weird" because she never had a crush. And trust her, she wasn't talking about those innocent, fleeting "crushes" on actors or random cute guys in class—no. She was talking about the kind of obsession where people stared at someone like they were the sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one. She had never understood that. While they were out here swooning over some washed-up actor or some pretty boy from school, she was just… well, her. And the worst part? Some of them even had the nerve to say she was "pretending" not to care, like it was some kind of game she was playing.
Well, guess what? She couldn't care less what they thought. It wasn't her problem if they didn't believe her. It wasn't her job to meet their expectations of what a teenage girl was supposed to be like. If they didn't get it, that was on them. Diya was perfectly fine with being the "weird" one. She didn't need anyone's approval.
In fact, she'd never understood the whole concept of a "crush." Like, what was so special about it? What's the big deal? People acted like having a crush was some kind of life milestone, like it was the most important thing in the world. Newsflash—it wasn't. The only thing she'd ever "crushed" were paper balls filled with the remnants of failed math equations. Oh, and don't even get her started on math. The very thought of those horrific numbers and formulas made her stomach churn. She literally cringed just thinking about it. She'd rather gouge her eyes out than revisit algebra. But she digressed.
Her philosophy had always been simple: if you had a terrible personality, your face automatically downgraded in her eyes. It was a simple equation. If you were a jerk, you were automatically ugly—inside and out. And that absolutely applied to Mr. Jerk. He didn't just have the arrogance of a royal jerk; he had the nerve to think she would fall all over him like some teenage girl with a crush. No, buddy. From this moment forward, he was officially dubbed the Ugly Jerk in her book.
And honestly? Diya hoped she would never have to see him again.
She really did.
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Khushi's voice pierced through the room before I even had a chance to finish adjusting my gear. "I can't believe you're doing this again, Diya!" she shouted, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed at me like I was some kind of criminal. Ugh, Khushi. She was like a broken record, always yelling at me. "Seriously, Diya, I've told you a million times to stop doing this crap, but you never listen to me! If you keep this up, I swear I'm going to call your parents and tell them where you've been."
I couldn't help but chuckle at her. Of course, she'd threaten the parental call. That's her usual move. "Oh no, not the parents," I said, laying it on thick, placing a hand dramatically over my heart. "What would they do if they found out? Probably ground me for life and take away my Wi-Fi. Gosh, I'm so scared."
Khushi was having none of it. She shot me that look—the one where she's about to lecture me for the next hour. "Diya, you're not even taking this seriously. If your parents find out—"
I cut her off, rolling my eyes. "Relax, Khushi. My parents are too busy with their own lives to care about whether I'm out racing or, I don't know, saving puppies from a burning building," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Besides, I'm pretty sure they'd be more concerned with what I'm wearing than the fact that I'm risking my life on the road. Priorities, right?"
She crossed her arms, glaring at me like I was a disobedient child. But I knew the truth—Khushi couldn't stand me racing, and I loved pushing her buttons. I needed this rush. This life.
Alright, time to rewind so you understand why Khushi was so upset. I wasn't just any college student. I had a secret. I was an underground racer. Yeah, you heard that right. I'd been racing for years, ever since med school started. I lived for the rush—the speed, the thrill, and the sound of the engine roaring beneath me. I was good. Really good.
But the best part? I didn't race for the money. Nope, I raced for the adrenaline. I raced to feel alive. And every penny I earned from those races? It went straight to charity. Yeah, charity. Khushi couldn't wrap her head around that. The girl who thought saving the world meant recycling more, was honestly confused as to why I'd give away the cash.
No one else knew about this secret life of mine—no one except Khushi. And the way she found out was kind of a disaster. One night, I came sneaking into our apartment in full racing gear, trying to hide my identity. I was like a ninja, but Khushi being Khushi, thought someone was breaking in. And what does she do? Grab a frying pan and smack me across the face, of course. I screamed in pain, but she screamed louder. For help. Like I was an intruder.
After a lot of explaining, a fair amount of angry shouting from her, and some genuine begging, I finally admitted the truth. I had been racing all along—and she had no idea.
Needless to say, Khushi was furious. I mean, who wouldn't be? She thought I was putting my life in danger every single day. But what really got to her was the fact that I'd kept it all a secret. She begged me to stop. Told me I was crazy. But me being me? I wouldn't budge.
"Khushi, please. You promised you wouldn't tell anyone," I said now, trying to calm her down. "I've been racing for three years, and I'm fine. Really. I need this, Khushi. It's the only way I can blow off steam. Please, try to understand."
She started to protest again, opening her mouth like she had a million reasons why I should quit, but I interrupted her before she could get a word out. "Come on, Khushi. You trust me, right?" I said, giving her that look. The one I knew always made her question her sanity. "I'll be fine. It's not like I'm racing on the moon. I just need to get my fix. Nothing's going to happen. Well, nothing that can't be fixed with a few bandages and some ice packs."
She groaned, like she was dealing with a child who wouldn't listen to reason. I could see it in her eyes—she was done. "Whatever. You're a stubborn brat," she muttered, throwing her hands up in defeat.
"Thank you," I smirked, clearly pleased with myself. Then, without missing a beat, I grabbed my gear and started the transformation.
I slipped on the wig, stuffed my hair underneath it, and flipped my cap backward. God, I loved this moment. Every time I did this, I felt like a different person. Khushi could barely recognize me in the mirror, and I couldn't blame her. I looked like a whole new version of myself. A version that didn't have to follow the rules.
"You're crazy, Diya," Khushi said, shaking her head.
"Yeah, but I'm crazy good, Khushi," I replied, my eyes gleaming with excitement as I adjusted my gear. "Besides, who needs sanity when you've got speed?"
Khushi sighed, probably resigning herself to the fact that no matter how many times she argued, she wasn't going to change my mind. But there was something in her eyes—a weird mixture of admiration and frustration. She shook her head at me, still trying to play the responsible one. "Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and play the hero. Just don't come crying to me when you crash into a wall."
"I won't," I said with a wink, heading out the door. "But if I do, you better be there with the bandages ready. You know I'm not afraid to use you as a human cushion."
She called me impossible, but she didn't need to say it. I could see it in her eyes. She was worried. But Khushi knew me. She knew I was good at what I did, even if it made her want to strangle me sometimes.
As I disappeared out the door, the adrenaline hit me. This was who I was. And nothing would stop me.