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Adithyan had expected… something. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but this was not it.

And the girl—no, the woman—who walked in carried herself as though she owned the damn place.

The girl from his memories vanished instantly, obliterated in a heartbeat. She was nothing like the awkward, soft-spoken child he had met a decade ago. That quiet shadow of a girl had been replaced by a woman who could have stopped traffic simply by existing.

The sight jolted him in a way he hadn’t felt ever—sharp, unwelcome, unsettling. His throat tightened, forcing him to shift his jaw to ease the tension.

Her smile bloomed spilling warmth across her features, and to his dismay, through him. It unsettled his every carefully laid defense. For one dangerous, fleeting instant, he felt the absurd tug of youth again, like a boy robbed of breath by the sight of a girl.

And then he saw what she was wearing.

A denim mini skirt. Except mini was far too generous a word. Micro skirt was more accurate. Dangerously short, clinging to her hips, baring endless legs that were far too smooth, far too creamy, far too visible for his sanity.

The white tank top paired with it didn’t help. Its hem barely skimmed the waistband of her skirt, and when she moved, her midriff was left bare. That was when he saw it. The glint at her navel.

What the f*ck! His thoughts jolted. Is that a belly ring?

He sucked in a sharp breath, his brows snapping together as he deliberately dragged his gaze upward. Too late, he realized how long he had been staring. But when her eyes caught his—cool, steady, luminous hazel-brown—his irritation at himself twisted into something far more complicated.

Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in smooth, silken layers, framing her face with careless elegance. Streaks of auburn and brown hair intertwined with the natural black hair of hers. And that smile again, wider now, dimples flashing, like a private challenge only he was meant to answer.

This was not the girl who faded into the background. The years had carved her into someone magnetic. Impossible to overlook.

And in that moment, Adithyan understood a dangerous truth: any man who claimed not to notice her was lying.

His first words came out nothing like what he had intended.

“What,” he said, voice low, sharp, dangerous, “is this supposed to be?”

Vaamika paused mid-step, lips curving as though she had been waiting for exactly that reaction. 

“A reunion?” She offered lightly.

His gaze swept her from head to toe—slow, deliberate, utterly unimpressed. 

“That outfit,” he bit out, “belongs on a runway. Not in my office.”

Her eyes glimmered, sly with unspoken challenge. She glanced down at herself, deliberately running her fingertips along the waistband of her skirt until they brushed against the silver glint at her bellybutton. 

“You mean this?” She asked, faux-innocence dripping from her tone.

“Yes. That.” His jaw flexed.

“You are staring awfully hard for someone who disapproves,” she said, voice like silk laced with steel.

“I am assessing,” he shot back.

“Mm. I see.” She stepped closer, just enough for the faint whisper of her perfume to reach him. “And what is your assessment, Mr. Acharya?”

“That you are dressed entirely inappropriate for an official meeting with your guardian.” His teeth clenched. Her brows arched, amusement sparkling in her eyes. 

“I didn’t know there was a dress code. Not that I would have followed it even if I had.” She shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“What is that supposed to mean?” His scowl deepened. 

“It means nobody has the right to dictate what I should wear… or what I should do.” Her smile was soft, sweet, mocking.

“In your grandfather’s absence,” he ground out, “I am in charge of your safety. Your betterment.”

“You,” she countered smoothly, “are in charge of my financial business. Not my personal choices.”

Adithyan swore under his breath, low and sharp.

This was not how he had expected their meeting to go. In his mind, she would walk in quietly, they would exchange polite words, maybe share a coffee. He would make arrangements for whatever she needed during her two days in Bangalore, send her back to the suite, and move on.

But clearly, Vaamika Trivedi had walked in with a different script altogether.

“Let’s make one thing absolutely clear,” Adithyan said, his voice cold, controlled. “While you are under my care, I expect you to follow my instructions. As any ward should follow her guardian’s. According to your grandfather’s will, the Acharyas are responsible for you until you turn twenty-five.”

“Or until I get married,” Vaamika cut in smoothly. Adithyan froze. 

“Excuse me?” His brows furrowed, suspicion lacing his tone.

“As per the will,” she continued, calm and deliberate, “I receive my inheritance either when I turn twenty-five, or when I get married. Whichever comes first.” She let her lips curl into the faintest smile. “And I intend to get married… soon.”

“What?” For once, the unshakable Adithyan Acharya actually gaped, his composure slipping. 

“You heard me, Adithyan,” Vaamika replied silkily, her voice steady, her gaze unwavering.

“Who is he?” His throat tightened, his voice coming out rougher than intended.

Vaamika tilted her head, feigning innocence, hazel eyes glimmering with mischief. 

“He? He who?” She asked, as though she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of his meticulously ordered world.

“The man you are intending to marry,” Adithyan said flatly, his tone edged with authority. “I cannot let you marry some random man off the street. He will need to be carefully vetted.”

“I cannot?” Vaamika repeated, her voice silken with mockery. She tilted her head, a sweet smile curving her lips. “Well, too bad. I can.”

“Give me his details. I will run a background check myself.” Adithyan’s jaw tightened. He muttered a curse under his breath, the sound low and sharp. 

“There is no one at the moment,” Vaamika said airily, as if she were discussing her next coffee order. “I intend to find someone first… and then marry him.”

Adithyan stared at her, stunned into silence. Bewilderment darkened his eyes as a thought flickered. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Listen, Ms. Trivedi… you are getting—” He drew a steadying breath. 

“It’s nice to see you too, Adithyan Acharya,” she cut in, her voice rich with subtle reproach, sharp enough to sting. “My trip was comfortable, thank you for asking. The suite is beautiful. And yes, it has been a while, but I would recognize you anywhere.”

The faint bite of guilt caught him off guard. She was right. He had barreled straight into interrogation, skipping every civil nicety, sounding more like a suspicious uncle at a wedding than a guardian. It was rude. Beneath him.

“My apologies, Ms Trivedi,” he said finally, his voice quieter though still rough around the edges. “It’s been a long morning. I should have… chosen my words more carefully.”

He stepped closer, extending his hand, formal and deliberate, an olive branch meant to reset the tone—measured, professional.

She didn’t take it.

Instead, she crossed the space between them on her own terms, sliding her arms around him in a quick, confident hug. Before he could react, she brushed a soft kiss against his cheek. The contact was brief, fleeting… but it might as well have been a lightning strike wired straight through his spine.

For a heartbeat, he was frozen. His brain insisted this was nothing more than a friendly greeting. The granddaughter of an old family friend showing warmth. But his body betrayed him. His pulse surged, hammering against his ribs, loud and insistent, mocking his illusion of indifference.

“I am glad the trip was comfortable,” he managed at last, forcing his tone back into the cool, businesslike register that usually kept him steady. “And I trust the suite meets your expectations?”

“Very much so,” she said, her smile warm, though a glint of mischief sparked in her hazel eyes. She knew she had unsettled him.

Without waiting for him to continue, she drifted past him toward the glass wall overlooking the city. Sunlight streamed in, spilling over her as she leaned against the window. Her snug skirt hugged her like a second skin, her cropped top skimming her waist, barely enough to cover that maddening strip of smooth skin at her midriff.

Adithyan’s jaw tightened. He told himself to look away. He tried.

And then she stretched lazily, one arm raised against the glass, and the hem of her top slid higher. That’s when he saw it. Ink. A tattoo. Black lines etched against warm skin, peeking from the curve of her waist.

His teeth ground together. He didn’t know why it grated at him so much. Or maybe he did, and simply didn’t want to admit it.

First the piercing. Now the tattoo. What next? His mind, unhelpfully, offered an endless reel of possibilities. Each one designed to shred the last threads of his composure.

He reminded himself, firmly, Her body. Her choices. She isn’t a child. She isn’t mine to scold, to monitor, to rein in.

His role was simple. Ensure her safety until the will’s conditions are fulfilled. Nothing more.

And yet… as he stood there watching her framed in sunlight, something coiled hard and sharp in his chest. He could pretend it was responsibility. Protectiveness. Even irritation.

But the truth had a far more dangerous edge.

“Have you already finalized your travel arrangements for Mumbai, or would you prefer I handle them?” He latched on to the first neutral subject he could find.

She slid her hands into the front pockets of her skirt—a move that, given how tightly the denim skirt fit, looked like an exercise in defiance. 

“I am not going to Mumbai,” she said at last.