I sat on the low leather chair, elbows on my knees, watching her (she tried leaving and almost fainted so I laid her back).

Aarini Razia Khan.

Even now-bleeding from a shallow cut just above her left temple, eyes red and streaming from the tear gas, salwar-kameez torn at the knee and streaked with grass and dirt-she wouldn't stop.

She was standing barely two feet away, swaying slightly but refusing the arm of the couch I'd offered her again.

The gauze I'd handed her was pressed to her head, already blooming crimson at the edges. A thin trickle had escaped and run down her cheek like a deliberate brushstroke.

Her braid had come half-undone; loose strands clung to her damp skin, dark against the flush of anger and chemical irritation.

Every time she spoke, her chest rose and fell sharply under the black cotton kameez, the tiny mirror-work along the neckline catching the harsh overhead light like scattered stars.

And still she argued.

I try to reason with her, "Ms. Khan, trust me-"

"Why should I believe a single word you say?" Her voice was hoarse from shouting slogans and coughing up gas, yet it carried that same sharp, unyielding edge she'd had in my office.

"Your 'procedure' put me on the ground. Your men swung batons like they were clearing vermin. And now you sit here in your spotless kurta, offering me a ride like I'm some inconvenience you can politely dispatch?"

I exhaled slowly through my nose, keeping my face neutral. Calm. The mask I'd perfected over years of microphones and flashing cameras.

"Ms. Khan, you were in the middle of a volatile crowd. My security team's priority is containment. The canister was not aimed at you. The baton strike-" I paused, choosing the word carefully "-was unfortunate. Collateral in chaos you helped create."

Her laugh was short, bitter, almost a cough. It made the cut on her temple pull; fresh blood welled up.

She didn't flinch. Instead she took one unsteady step closer, eyes blazing even through the tears the gas had forced out.

"Collateral. There's that word again. First it's prostitutes aren't important, now it's I'm collateral. Tell me, Mr. Rathore, do you practise these lines in front of a mirror every morning? Or does your father's media team write them for you?"

God, she was maddening.

I leaned back slightly, studying her despite myself. The overhead light carved sharp shadows under her cheekbones.

When she spoke, two faint dimples flashed-brief, reluctant, appearing only when her lips curled in that particular mix of fury and disbelief.

They were surprisingly soft against the hard set of her jaw. And there-across the bridge of her nose and dusting the tops of her cheeks-tiny freckles, almost invisible unless you were this close.

Sun-kissed specks that didn't belong on someone who spent her days chained to railings and breathing tear gas.

They made her look... younger. Almost delicate.

Like the fire inside her was burning through something far more fragile than she let on.

Wow.

No. Stop.

She's annoying. Dangerously so.

The kind of woman who turns a perfectly managed public event into a viral embarrassment in under ten minutes.

I forced my gaze back to her eyes-dark, fierce, still watering but refusing to look away. A single tear from the gas had traced a clean path through the dirt on her left cheek, cutting through the blood smear.

"You assume every injury is intentional," I said, voice deliberately even, almost gentle. "That's not strategy, that's paranoia. I've already asked for the body-cam footage to be pulled. If protocols were breached, heads will roll. But shouting at me while you're bleeding won't change the facts on the ground."

She pressed the gauze harder, winced, then immediately straightened as if the pain had personally offended her.

"Facts?" She gestured sharply with her free hand, the movement making her dupatta slip further off her shoulder, revealing the curve of her collarbone and a small, old scar just below it-probably from some earlier protest.

"The fact is, you sat in your air-conditioned office and dismissed every girl I fight for. You made me wait three hours like I was begging for scraps. And today you let your men gas and beat us because we dared to ask why nothing changes. I'm bleeding because your 'containment' matters more than our lives. That's the only fact that matters right now."

Her voice cracked on the last word-not from weakness, but from the sheer force of holding back a cough.

She swayed again. I caught myself half-rising before I forced myself back down.

No. Do not help her. She'll only throw it back in your face.

Instead I kept my tone cool, measured, the same one I used in parliamentary briefings.

"Ms. Khan... Aarini." Using her first name was a risk, but it felt necessary.

"You're exhausted. Chemically irritated. Concussed, most likely. Let the doctor look at you properly. My driver can take you to a private hospital-no paperwork, no questions. We can continue this conversation when you're not at risk of collapsing in my green room."

She laughed again-that same raw, incredulous sound.

The dimples flashed once more, deeper this time, framed by the mess of hair and blood and tears.

Those freckles stood out even more against the flushed skin.

"Continue? With you?" She shook her head, then immediately regretted it, pressing a palm to her temple.

"You still don't get it, do you? I'm not here for your scheduled dialogue or your private hospital favours. I'm here because girls younger than your next campaign slogan are being sold every night while you worry about optics and youth voter turnout. I'm bleeding, yes. But I'd rather bleed on your precious stage than sit quietly while you pretend everything is under control."

She took another step.

Close enough now that I could smell the faint jasmine in her hair-something warm and domestic beneath the sharp bite of tear gas and sweat. Her breathing was ragged, but her eyes never wavered.

"You can keep your calm, Mr. Rathore. Your perfect replies. Your Oxford accent hiding behind 'procedure.' But I see you. And I won't stop until you see them too."

For a moment the green room felt smaller. The distant shouts outside faded.

All I could focus on were those damn dimples appearing and disappearing with every furious word, the scatter of freckles like tiny constellations across her nose, the way a single strand of hair kept sticking to the blood on her cheek no matter how many times she brushed it away.

Maddening.

Utterly, completely maddening.

I stood up slowly, keeping the distance professional even as something inconvenient twisted low in my chest.

"Fine," I said, voice still cool, still controlled. "Bleed then. Fight then. But when the cameras leave and the gas clears, remember this: real change doesn't come from martyrs. It comes from people willing to sit at the table."

She smiled-sharp, defiant, those dimples deepening like a challenge.

"Then I'll keep standing until you're forced to drag the table to me."

She turned on unsteady legs, grabbed her torn dupatta from the floor, and walked out without waiting for permission. One of the bodyguards moved; I raised a hand to stop him.

Let her go.

I sank back into the chair, staring at the door long after it closed. The gauze she'd dropped lay on the couch, stained bright red.

Why is this woman so maddening?

The question looped in my head like a bad headline. She was reckless. Emotional. A walking liability to any structured reform.

And yet... those freckles. The fire that refused to dim even when her body was screaming for rest.

The way she looked at me like I was personally responsible for every injustice in Delhi.

I rubbed a hand over my face, feeling the faint smear of her blood that had transferred to my cuff.

Annoying.

Dangerously annoying.

The green room door had barely clicked shut behind her when my phone started vibrating on the side table.

I didn't need to look at the screen. Only one person called with that particular ringtone-the one I couldn't mute without consequences.

Father.

I let it ring twice more, staring at the blood-stained gauze Aarini had dropped like evidence at a crime scene. A single dark strand of her hair was stuck to it. I picked up the phone.

"Father."

Nishant Rathore's voice came through crisp and cold, the way it always did when he was furious but too polished to shout.

"Arhaan, have you lost your goddamn mind?"

I walked to the small bar counter, poured myself a glass of water, and took a slow sip before answering. The metallic taste of tension sat at the back of my throat.

"Good evening to you too."

"Don't get smart with me. I just saw the clips. India Today, Republic, every bloody channel is running the footage-some girl bleeding on your stage while you stand there like a statue. Tear gas at a youth rally? Batons? What the hell were you thinking?"

I set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound echoed in the suddenly too-quiet room.

"It wasn't my call to deploy the gas. The local SP made the decision when the crowd turned unruly. She-Ms. Khan-was inciting-"

"Inciting?" Father cut me off, his voice dropping into that dangerous low register I remembered from childhood boardroom lessons.

"She's one twenty-six-year-old activist from a kotha background, Arhaan. And you let her turn your carefully planned event into a PR disaster. The opposition is already calling it 'state violence against women.' The Prime Minister's son gassing protesters? Do you have any idea how this looks?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

The image of her flashed unbidden-those stubborn dimples flashing when she laughed bitterly, the scatter of freckles across her nose like someone had flicked paint with careless affection, the way blood had traced a perfect line down her cheek while she refused to sit down.

"She was bleeding because a baton caught her. Not because I ordered it."

"And whose responsibility is crowd control at your own rally?" Father's sigh was heavy, theatrical. "You're supposed to be the face of compassionate conservatism, Arhaan. The Oxford-returned moderate who bridges the gap. Not the man who turns a women's safety event into a tear-gas spectacle. Fix this. Apologise publicly if you have to. Meet her again. Charm her. Or sideline her. But do not let one fiery girl from the red-light district derail six months of positioning."

A long pause. Then, softer, almost disappointed:

"I didn't raise you to be sloppy."

The line went dead.

I stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear even after the call ended. The air-conditioning hummed overhead, but it did nothing to cool the slow burn crawling under my skin.

Sloppy.

One word. One perfectly aimed word that always hit hardest.

I loosened the remaining buttons of my kurta, shrugged it off, and tossed it onto the couch. The fabric landed near the bloodied gauze. Her scent-jasmine mixed with tear gas and something fiercer-still lingered faintly in the room.

Maddening woman.

I walked into the attached bathroom, stripped the rest of my clothes with sharp, efficient movements, and stepped under the shower without waiting for the water to warm.

Ice-cold.

The first blast hit my shoulders like needles. I hissed through my teeth but didn't adjust the temperature. Good. I needed the shock.

Water sluiced down my chest, over the faint scar on my left ribs from that polo accident in Oxford, down the tight muscles of my abdomen.

I braced both hands on the tiled wall, head bowed, letting the freezing stream pound against the back of my neck.

Why couldn't I stop seeing her?

The way her eyes had blazed even while tears streamed down her face.

The tiny freckles that danced when she tilted her head in defiance.

Those reluctant dimples that appeared only when fury made her lips twist just so.

The old scar below her collarbone-small, silvery, probably from some earlier protest.

The way her torn dupatta had slipped, revealing the sharp line of her shoulder, the rise and fall of her breathing as she refused to back down even while bleeding on my couch.

My body reacted instantly. Heat pooled low in my groin despite the arctic water. I was hard.

Painfully so. The contrast made it worse-the icy cascade against fevered skin, the throb that refused to listen to reason.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath.

I closed my eyes tighter. Tried to think of spreadsheets, budget briefs, the upcoming bilateral meeting with the French delegation. Anything safe.

Instead my mind supplied her voice-hoarse, cracked, yet burning:

"You still don't get it, do you? I'd rather bleed on your precious stage than sit quietly..."

Another pulse. Harder.

I wrapped my hand around myself without thinking, grip tight, almost punishing. The cold water made every stroke feel sharper, more intense.

My breath came ragged. Forearm muscles flexed as I worked myself faster, thumb brushing over the sensitive head with each upward pull.

Her dimples. Her freckles. The fire in her eyes when she called me a hypocrite to my face.

A low groan escaped my throat, echoing off the tiles.

I leaned my forehead against the cool wall, hips jerking involuntarily into my fist. The pressure built fast-too fast-coiling tight at the base of my spine.

I imagined her stepping closer again, blood on her cheek, voice low and fierce instead of shouting:

"You can keep your calm, Mr. Rathore... but I see you."

That did it.

Release hit me like the tear gas canister-sudden, overwhelming. I came hard, hips stuttering, spilling over my fingers while icy water washed everything away in seconds.

My knees nearly buckled. A harsh exhale tore from my chest.

For a long moment I just stood there, water pounding my back, chest heaving.

The physical relief was immediate. The mental one... not so much.

I turned the tap hotter, just enough to stop the shivering, and let the steam rise around me.

Aarini Razia Khan was a problem.

A bleeding, freckled, dimpled, infuriating problem who had somehow crawled under my skin in less than forty-eight hours.

And the worst part?

I wasn't sure I wanted her out.

I finished showering in silence, dried off with sharp, angry movements, and dressed in fresh clothes from the overnight bag my aide always kept ready.

By the time I stepped back into the green room, the bloodied gauze was still lying there like an accusation.

I picked it up, turned it over in my fingers once, then dropped it into the bin.

Tomorrow I would fix the optics.

Tomorrow I would be the calm, reasonable Arhaan Dev Rathore again.

But tonight, under the cold spray, I had already admitted the truth to myself in the only language my body understood.

She was under my skin.

And she was staying there.