My heels, meant for the smooth marble floors of the auditorium, sank slightly into the soft, uneven earth as I reached the edge of the football field. The setting sun hung low, its light a fiery orange that stretched the shadows of the goalposts into long, skeletal fingers across the grass. The air was loud with the rough shouts and sharp, sudden laughter of a group of boys in athletic gear gathered near one of the goals.
I scanned the field, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against the delicate silk of my Anarkali. I was looking for the “devil,” and my eyes were immediately drawn to the most dominant figure among them.
He was tall, with broad, powerful shoulders, standing with his back to me. His voice cut through the noise, sharp and authoritative, clearly barking orders. He moved with a startling, almost dangerous grace—not the casual ease of a sportsman, but the focused, predatory rhythm of a professional. I watched as he took a ball and, with a single, brutal kick, sent it soaring high and far. The sheer force of that movement was a physical display of quiet power.
When he turned to face his teammates, the last rays of the sun struck his profile. My breath caught in my throat.
He was undeniably, stunningly handsome. His face was all sharp angles and chiseled definition, like a sculpture carved from marble, but his expression was cold. There was no warmth, no flicker of a smile, only an intense, unwavering focus—a cold, quiet power that confirmed the terrifying rumors. This was Aditya Singhania. The feared senior, the devil of the campus.
Confused but resolute, I spotted a young boy standing near the sidelines. I gathered my courage, my voice barely a tremor. “Excuse me,” I said softly. “I want to meet Aditya.”
The boy looked at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes, before pointing to the formidable figure near the goalpost. Then, he raised his voice. “Aditya! Someone’s looking for you!”
Aditya’s head snapped towards us. His gaze, sharp and cold as ice, pinned me instantly. He didn't say a word, but his eyes drilled into mine. It felt as though he wasn't just looking at the soft pink of my dress, but seeing straight through me, to every fear I was trying to hide, every insecurity I carried from my sheltered life.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I became instantly aware of my appearance—the unusual, traditional suit, my loose hair, the innocence that must have been written all over my face. I realized with a sudden, sinking dread that the other boys were starting to drift closer, their attention drawn to the spectacle of the small-town girl. I had never experienced this kind of direct, concentrated male attention before. I felt my cheeks burn, and I instinctively started to shrink in on myself, wishing I could disappear into the soft grass.
Aditya saw it too. A muscle tightened in his jaw. He started walking towards me, his steps long and bold.
He stopped just a few feet away, his shadow falling over me. He didn’t look at me, but at the cluster of boys who had gathered. He didn't raise his voice, yet the single word he uttered was a roar.
“Move.”
The sheer, terrifying authority in his voice made the boys flinch. They scattered immediately, not one of them daring to meet his eyes.
Now, his full, chilling attention was on me. “Why are you here?” he demanded, his tone stern, almost accusatory.
In my nervousness, I couldn't find my voice. I immediately handed him the mentorship letter, a flimsy piece of paper now weighted with my future.
He took it, his eyes quickly scanning the contents—my name, his name, the word ‘Mentor.’ Then, an expression of sheer irritation crossed his handsome face.
“I don't have time to waste mentoring scared cats,” he said, his voice laced with cold disdain. He didn't even look at me as he delivered the final, brutal blow: “NEVER BOTHER ME AGAIN.”
With a sickening, tearing sound, he ripped the letter in half, then again, reducing my official document—my introduction, my hope—to worthless confetti. He flung the pieces on the ground, and a few fell onto the pristine pink chiffon of my dupatta, right across the heart.
He turned his back and walked away, not sparing me a second glance.
I stood there, motionless, my chest aching. The torn paper lay scattered at my feet, mocking me. The insult was profound, a physical slap across my face. My breath hitched, and the heat of humiliation rushed to my eyes. Tears welled up, blurring my vision. All the joy, the excitement, the confidence I had felt in my father’s beautiful suit, evaporated instantly.
The angel had crashed.
My initial shock gave way to a powerful, blinding surge of rage. How dare he? How dare he tear up my chance? This was my father's dream! The tears that rolled down my cheeks were not of sadness, but of pure, furious anger.
Aditya Singhania. The name tasted like poison on my tongue. He might be the devil of the campus, but I was not some timid girl he could dismiss and crush. He might have won this small battle, but he would not win the war.
