Ameer Zade

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Anaya smirked. "Yeah, Janvi stirred her coffee absentmindedly, lost in thought. Anaya watched her closely, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You completely zoned out," Anaya remarked, taking a sip of her own coffee. "What were you thinking?"

Janvi scoffed, shaking her head as if to rid herself of unwanted thoughts. "Nothing important."

Anaya raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying her response. "Really? Because it looked like you were lost in some deep, dramatic thought about a certain Singhaniya."

Janvi rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. "Please, Anaya. Aarav Singhaniya is the last person I'd waste my thoughts on."

Anaya smirked, placing her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her palm. "Oh really? Because I remember a time when you nearly fell into his arms, and now you suddenly look like you're reliving a whole Bollywood scene in your head."

Janvi shot her a warning glare. "Excuse me? First of all, I didn't 'fall' into his arms. It was the damn elevator's fault. Second, he's nothing but a reckless flirt who thinks he can charm anyone with a smirk."

Anaya let out a soft laugh. "But did the smirk work?"

Janvi narrowed her eyes. "Do you want me to throw this cake at you?"

Anaya chuckled, holding up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, no teasing. But you have to admit—he gets under your skin, doesn't he?"

Janvi huffed, stabbing her fork into her cheesecake with a little more force than necessary. "He's annoying. That's it."

Anaya took a slow sip of her coffee, her expression unreadable. "Annoying... or interesting?"

Janvi pointed her fork at her. "I swear, if you say one more word—"

Anaya giggled. "Fine. But I think our project meetings just got a little more interesting."

Janvi sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "I don't have time for distractions, Anaya. This project is important, and Aarav… he's the definition of a distraction."

Anaya tilted her head slightly. "You really think he's a distraction? Or are you afraid he's something more?"

Janvi frowned, setting her fork down. "I just don't get him. One minute he's all playful, throwing smirks and teasing remarks, and the next... he's quiet. Observing. Like he's trying to figure me out. It's unsettling."

Anaya studied her for a moment before responding. "Maybe he is trying to figure you out. Maybe he sees something in you that intrigues him."

Janvi scoffed. "Or maybe he just enjoys messing with me."

Anaya chuckled. "That's also a possibility. But... do you hate it?"

Janvi opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Did she hate it? The way he looked at her, like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve? The way he made her heart race in moments she didn't expect? The way he lingered just long enough to make her question everything?

Anaya leaned forward, sensing her hesitation. "You don't have to answer that right now. But, Janvi, sometimes the things we resist the most are the ones worth exploring."

Janvi sighed, rubbing her temple. "I don't need complications, Anaya."

Anaya smiled knowingly. "Love, or whatever this is, is always complicated. But that doesn't mean it's not worth it."

Janvi shook her head, trying to change the subject. "Anyway, let's focus on the project. We still have a lot of work to do."

Anaya nodded, understanding that Janvi wasn't ready to talk about this any further. But deep down, she knew this was far from over. Because no matter how much Janvi tried to deny it, something about Aarav Singhaniya had already found its way into her thoughts—and that was only the beginning.

Here's your revised version with the added words:

Janvi snapped back to the present as Anaya waved a hand in front of her face. "Hey, where did you zone out? I'm talking to you!"

Janvi blinked, shaking off the lingering memory of that infuriating encounter with Aarav Singhaniya. She exhaled, taking a sip of her coffee before meeting Anaya's curious gaze. "Nothing, just thinking about work."

Anaya, ever perceptive, arched a brow. "Work? Or something—or rather, someone—else?"

Janvi scoffed. "Please, Anaya. If I ever waste my thoughts on some bekaar insaan, slap me."

Anaya chuckled, stirring her cappuccino. "Bekaar, huh? You were totally lost in thought just now. You sure it wasn't about Aarav?" She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Janvi rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh please, that ameerzada chipku is a walking, talking problem. He thinks he's charming, but in reality, he's just a spoiled playboy with too much time and too much money. I don't get why people fall for his nonsense."

Anaya hummed thoughtfully, taking a bite of her cake. "Well, he is Rudra's brother, and let's be honest—he does have that Singhaniya charm."

"Charm?" Janvi nearly choked on her coffee. "More like arrogance. He has this way of looking at you like he's analyzing your soul, and it's just…ugh! It's infuriating."

Anaya couldn't hold back her laughter. "I've never seen you this riled up about someone before."

Janvi crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. "That's because I don't usually waste my energy on people like him. But he—he just gets under my skin. Always acting like some jabardasti ka hero with that smug expression."

Anaya smirked knowingly. "Oh, I see now. You're not just annoyed—you're bothered."

"Annoyed, bothered—same thing!" Janvi huffed, waving a hand. "Anyway, back to what we were discussing before you derailed the conversation. The project with Aarav. Your Aarav, since you seem to think I care about him."

Anaya's laughter softened as she sipped her coffee. "You know, he isn't that bad once you actually get to know him. He might have that badtameez attitude, but he's not all talk."

Janvi scoffed. "You sound like you actually believe in him."

"Because I do," Anaya said simply. "He's smart, Janvi. And deep down, I think he does want to prove himself outside of his family's name. Maybe if you gave him a chance, you'd see he's more than just a spoiled rich boy."

Janvi pursed her lips, unsure how to respond. She didn't want to admit that, despite her irritation, there was something about Aarav that unsettled her in ways she couldn't quite define.

Before she could dwell on it further, her phone buzzed. A message from the office.

"Ugh, work calls." Janvi sighed, setting her cup down. "Let's finish up. We need to head back before Aarav thinks we're slacking off."

Anaya grinned. "Oh, we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Janvi shot her a glare, but Anaya only laughed as they gathered their things and left the café, the air between them light but filled with unspoken thoughts.

As they stepped out into the bustling street, Janvi couldn't help but wonder—was Anaya right? Was there more to Aarav Singhaniya than what she saw on the surface?

And more importantly, did she want to find out?

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The streets of Mumbai were alive with their usual chaotic symphony—honking cars, distant sirens, the murmurs of people crossing the road, and the rhythmic clatter of street vendors shutting down for the night. The city never truly slept, yet at this hour, the streets took on a different life, a mixture of fading exhaustion and stubborn resilience.

Inside the sleek black Mercedes, Rudra Singhaniya sat in the backseat, his eyes fixed on the blurred city lights rushing past. Aarav, seated beside him, was casually leaning back, scrolling through his phone, while Ravi focused on driving, maneuvering through the dense traffic with practiced ease.

Aarav suddenly broke the silence. "Should we tell Dad about this plan? I'm sure he'll decline it," he said with pure confidence, his voice laced with amusement.

Rudra didn't immediately respond. His gaze lingered on the towering skyline before shifting to the streets below. The traffic light ahead turned red, and their car slowed to a halt. Just as Ravi was about to comment on Aarav's statement, Rudra's sharp eyes caught something—or rather, someone.

A little boy. Barefoot. His skin covered in dust, his hair unkempt and tangled, his oversized shirt hanging loosely over his frail frame. He couldn't have been older than four. His tiny hands pressed together in a pleading motion as he weaved through the maze of cars, knocking on windows, his soft voice barely audible over the noise of the city.

Rudra's jaw tightened. His fingers curled slightly, resting on his knee. His breath, controlled as always, came out just a fraction slower.

"Stop the car," Rudra ordered, his voice calm yet firm.

Ravi blinked in surprise. "Why?" Aarav questioned, his brows furrowing.

"You wanted to celebrate, right?" Rudra's tone held no humor, no explanation—just a quiet command.

Ravi exchanged a glance with Aarav, curiosity sparking in their eyes. Yet, without further question, Ravi smoothly pulled the car to the side of the road.

The moment the car came to a halt, Rudra pushed the door open and stepped out. The crisp night air hit him, carrying with it the scent of street food mixed with the faint metallic tang of city pollution. His polished shoes met the uneven pavement with a stark contrast, the soft crunch of gravel beneath them grounding him to the reality in front of him.

The boy had just finished knocking on the window of a car ahead, his tiny fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion. His big, round eyes darted around, wary, filled with the kind of caution that came from learning too soon that the world wasn't always kind.

"Hey, kiddo," Rudra's deep voice called out, low but gentle.

The boy turned, startled. His dark, tired eyes met Rudra's gaze.

The hesitation was immediate. A stranger in crisp clothing, standing tall and powerful against the backdrop of flashing city lights—it was an image foreign to him. The boy swallowed, his small, chapped lips parting as if to speak but no words came out.

Rudra crouched down to his level, his sharp, intimidating features softening ever so slightly. "Tumhe khana chahiye?" (Do you want food?) he asked, his tone careful, measured.

The little boy's eyes flickered with something—hope, disbelief, uncertainty. He nodded, his head bobbing up and down quickly, his tiny hands still clutching his stomach as if afraid to let go of the hunger he had grown so used to.

Behind them, Aarav and Ravi had also stepped out of the car. Ravi, observing the scene with admiration, nudged Aarav with his elbow, grinning. "You know, people call Rudra Singhaniya cold and heartless. But these kids? They just stole his heart."

Aarav smirked. "Are bhai, aisa insaan sirf mera big bro ho sakta hai. Aur koi nahi." (Brother, only my big bro can be like this. No one else.)

As they walked closer, another voice, hesitant but firm, spoke up.

"Are you bad people?"

It was a girl this time. Older—around nine years old. Her hair was tied into two uneven ponytails, her face smudged with dirt, but her eyes were sharp, wary. She stepped protectively in front of the little boy, her arms instinctively stretching out as if shielding him.

Aarav chuckled. "We're the good guys. Trust us."

The girl didn't seem convinced. Her dark eyes studied them, flickering between their expensive clothes and polished shoes. She had seen too many people turn their backs on her and the others. Hope wasn't an easy thing to believe in.

Rudra, still crouching, looked at her with a steady gaze. "How many of you are here?"

She hesitated before replying, "We are twelve."

"Twelve?" Ravi repeated, brows raising.

Rudra exhaled softly and straightened, his towering figure imposing yet strangely comforting. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a clean napkin.

He knelt again, carefully dabbing at the four-year-old boy's dirt-smudged cheeks. The boy flinched slightly before blinking up at him with curious, innocent eyes.

"Who's hungry?" Rudra asked, his lips quirking into a small, rare smile.

The children exchanged glances. Their tiny stomachs had been growling for hours, but trust was a fragile thing.

The youngest boy hesitantly raised his hand, his tiny fingers curling inwards slightly. Rudra's gaze softened.

"Let's feed your little tummies," he murmured, ruffling the boy's messy hair gently.

For the first time that night, a small smile tugged at the child's lips.

And just like that, the walls of hesitation began to crack.

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As Rudra stepped out of the car, the city lights reflected in his sharp black eyes, their glow barely softening the cold intensity that resided within them. Behind him, Aarav and Ravi followed, their expressions serious yet tinged with curiosity. They were used to Rudra's unpredictable actions, but this… this was different.

A dozen small figures stood near the entrance of the lavish restaurant, their hesitant eyes darting between Rudra and the grand doorway that loomed before them. The youngest, a frail four-year-old boy, clung to his older sister's tattered sleeve, his wide brown eyes filled with a mixture of fear and confusion. His cheeks were streaked with dirt, his messy curls unkempt, and his tiny hands trembled ever so slightly in the cold night air.

Beside him, his nine-year-old sister, who had earlier been the most skeptical, stood with forced bravery. Her thin frame was wrapped in a faded, oversized sweater with torn cuffs. Her eyes—large and wary—studied Rudra, searching for even a flicker of dishonesty. The other children huddled behind them, their small hands gripping the fabric of each other's clothes for reassurance, their stomachs empty but their minds more preoccupied with the fear of rejection.

Rudra took a step closer, his polished shoes coming to a stop just inches away from them. He knelt down, his towering presence suddenly less intimidating. The cold authority in his gaze softened just enough to be comforting but remained firm. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pristine white handkerchief, and gently wiped the youngest boy's face, ridding it of dust and dried tears. His touch was unfamiliar to the child—gentle, careful, protective.

"Chale, bachho?" Rudra's voice was deep but carried an unexpected warmth.

The children hesitated. This was not their world. They belonged to the streets, to places where they were either ignored or chased away, not to air-conditioned restaurants where chandeliers sparkled like stars and where the scent of food was not something they could claim as theirs.

Seeing their reluctance, Rudra added, "Koi tumhe yahaan se nahi nikalega. Tumhare saath hoon main." (No one will throw you out. I am with you.)

His words lingered in the air, their weight heavy. The girl, still cautious, met his gaze and held it. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, as if making a decision, she gave the slightest nod and turned to the others. With slow, measured steps, the children followed, their steps unsure but no longer completely fearful.

Aarav and Ravi flanked the group like silent guardians, ensuring none of the kids lagged behind or felt abandoned. As they stepped inside, the restaurant's lavish interior came into full view. Golden chandeliers bathed the hall in warm light, the gleaming marble floors pristine beneath their feet. The soft hum of conversation, the clinking of silverware, and the faint notes of classical music filled the space.

Then came the silence.

Conversations stilled. Forks paused mid-air. Every pair of eyes turned toward the entrance, where Rudra Singhaniya—immaculately dressed in a black suit—walked in, surrounded by children in ragged clothes.

Near the reception counter, a group of waiters exchanged puzzled glances. One of them, a young woman with her hair neatly tied into a bun, whispered, "Yeh kaun hai, aur yeh bhikhar—" (Who is he, and these begg—) She stopped abruptly as Rudra's gaze flickered toward her, cold and piercing. A shiver ran down her spine.

A male waiter, clearly nervous, stepped forward. "Sir, aapka table number?" (Sir, your table number?)

Rudra's stride remained unbroken as he responded, "Ek bada table in bachhon ke liye book karo." (Book a large table for these children.)

A heavy silence stretched across the hall. The waiters hesitated, looking at one another in confusion. This had never happened before. A man of Rudra Singhaniya's status bringing street children into a fine-dining restaurant? It was unheard of.

Before they could process the request, the restaurant manager appeared. A stout man with a well-groomed mustache and an air of arrogance, he frowned deeply as his gaze landed on the children. His lips curled in disdain as he spoke, "In bhikhariyon ko andar kaun lane diya?" (Who allowed these beggars inside?)

The words had barely left his mouth when Rudra's head snapped toward him.

"Bhikhari kaun hai yahaan?" (Who is the beggar here?)

The cold warning in his voice was enough to send a chill down the manager's spine. The weight of Rudra's authority was suffocating, pressing down on the entire space like an unrelenting force.

The manager's arrogance wavered as realization dawned on him. His eyes widened slightly, his breath hitching. "S-sir, maaf kijiye… main bas keh raha tha ki—" (S-sir, forgive me… I was just saying that—)

Aarav cut him off with a slow, mocking smile. "Tum kaun ho?" (And who are you?)

The manager straightened, attempting to salvage his pride. "Main is restaurant ka owner hoon." (I am the owner of this restaurant.)

Then, his expression hardened again as he turned to his staff. "Sabko bahar nikaalo!" (Throw them all out!)

The children stiffened, fear rushing back into their eyes. The youngest boy clutched onto his sister's sweater, his small frame shaking. She held him protectively, but even she couldn't hide the panic creeping into her expression.

"STOP." Ravi's voice rang through the air, sharp and firm.

The staff hesitated, but the manager's glare pushed them forward.

Then, Rudra spoke. Cold. Commanding. Final.

"Maine kaha… STOP." (I said… STOP.)

The restaurant fell into dead silence. The staff froze mid-motion. The manager swallowed thickly. Even the diners, who had been mere spectators, dared not move.

Ravi reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek black card, placing it on the counter with a soft but deliberate thud. "In bachhon ka kharcha hum uthayenge." (We will bear the cost for these children.) His voice was casual, but his eyes held an undeniable threat.

Aarav leaned forward, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Ab batao, table kidhar hai?" (Now, tell us… where's our table?)

The waiters, now too afraid to question anything, scrambled to set up the table. The manager, silenced, could do nothing but watch.

Rudra turned back to the children, his gaze softer now. He knelt once more, this time addressing them with a small nod. "Bachho, chale?" (Kids, shall we go?)

The girl hesitated only for a moment before giving a small but determined nod. The younger ones followed, still holding onto each other but now with a tiny spark of trust in their eyes.

As they walked towards the table, Rudra took his seat among them, his presence no longer just commanding but also reassuring.

Ravi picked up the menu and grinned. "So, kids… kya khana hai?" (So, kids… what do you want to eat?)