Ruhe Sharma hated three things in life.

Dishonest numbers.

Overconfident men.

And people who smiled in press conferences like they owned the country.

Unfortunately, Arjun Kapoor was all three.

She shut her laptop with a dramatic click.

“So this is what India’s captain looks like off-screen,” she muttered.

“Taller ego than net worth.”

Arjun Kapoor noticed her before she reached him.

Not because she was loud.

Not because she was flashy.

Because she looked at him like a balance sheet that didn’t balance.

That stare.

Professional.

Judging.

Dangerous.

“Ms. Sharma,” he said calmly, adjusting his watch.

“You’ve been trying to audit my existence for two days.”

Ruhe smiled sweetly.

“I prefer the term verifying inconsistencies.”

Ah.

Sharp tongue.

Arjun smirked.

“Then you must be disappointed. I’m not hiding offshore.”

She tilted her head.

“No. You’re hiding in plain sight.

Much more efficient.”

Touché.

They walked side by side toward the parking lot.

Silence stretched.

The kind that made headlines nervous.

Finally Arjun spoke, voice casual.

“You know, for someone who hates cricket scandals, you watch my matches religiously.”

Ruhe scoffed.

“Please. I only watch when money is involved.”

“Then why did you smile when I hit that cover drive yesterday?”

She stopped walking.

Turned.

Crossed her arms.

“I smile when numbers fall into place,” she said.

“And unfortunately… your timing is excellent.”

Something shifted.

That wasn’t hostility.

That was admiration—reluctant, annoyed admiration.

They sat across from each other in a quiet café.

Arjun ordered black coffee.

Ruhe ordered lemon tea.

“Of course,” he said dryly.

“Accountants always choose something bitter.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Cricketers prefer strong things they can’t handle.”

He laughed.

Actual laughter.

Rare.

Dangerous.

“Tell me honestly,” Arjun said, leaning back.

“Do you think I’m corrupt?”

Ruhe met his gaze.

“Honestly?”

She paused.

“I think you’re intelligent enough to know something is wrong…

and powerful enough to pretend it isn’t.”

That hit harder than any bouncer.

Arjun exhaled slowly.

“You’re brave.”

“No,” she corrected.

“I’m employed.”

Their eyes lingered.

Too long.

Too intense.

This wasn’t attraction.

This was recognition.

Two people tired of pretending.

“You should be careful,” Arjun said softly.

“Truth has enemies.”

Ruhe leaned forward.

“So does silence.”

For a moment, the world shrank.

No captain.

No auditor.

Just a man and a woman standing on opposite sides of the same fault line.

As she stood to leave, Arjun spoke again.

“If your report destroys my career…”

She turned.

“…will you still sleep peacefully?”

Ruhe smiled—sad, honest.

“If it saves the game you love,” she said,

“I’ll sleep better than you ever have.”

She walked away.

Arjun watched her go.

And for the first time in years,

the weight on his chest wasn’t pressure.

It was interest.