The moment I stepped onto the stage of the Business Leaders Summit in Mumbai two years ago, I knew my words would start a war.

"Mr. Dixit's proposal, while ambitious, lacks the financial sustainability required for long-term market dominance. Aureon Group does not engage in projects that promise glamour but lack longevity. We need more than vision; we need calculated execution."

I hadn’t even looked at him as I spoke, but I could feel the weight of his stare from across the hall. Aditya Dixit, heir to Dixit Enterprises and self-made millionaire, had just been publicly rejected by me, Hrida Sharma—one of Aureon Group’s youngest decision-makers.

The media had latched onto the moment like wolves. "Aureon Group Snubs Dixit Enterprises in High-Stakes Hotel Deal," they wrote. "Hrida Sharma Questions Aditya Dixit's Business Acumen." That single moment had cemented our rivalry, turning every business move we made into a competition. And now, two years later, I was sitting in my Bangalore office with a crisis that made me sick to my stomach.

"They revoked our permits?!" I nearly shouted, gripping the edges of my desk.

"Goa’s environmental board isn’t budging, Hrida," my assistant, Tanya, said. "The resort project is dead unless we find a way around their restrictions. Investors are panicking."

I leaned back, pressing my fingers to my temples. This resort was supposed to be another major success for Aureon Group. Instead, it was turning into an unnecessary delay that could cost us millions. "We need someone with strong ties to the Goa tourism board," Tanya continued. "Someone who understands the hospitality industry inside and out."

I already knew where this was going. "No. Absolutely not."

"Hrida..." she hesitated. "We need Aditya Dixit."

I exhaled sharply. The thought of going to him—of asking him for help—was repulsive. But the alternative was worse.

I walked into Aditya Dixit’s Mumbai office with my shoulders squared and my pride barely concealed behind professional courtesy. His receptionist led me to a private conference room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the Arabian Sea. It smelled like expensive wood and power.

And then he walked in. Dressed in a tailored navy suit, he looked effortlessly confident, his sharp jawline lined with a faint shadow of stubble. He stopped when he saw me, one brow arching in surprise before amusement flickered across his face.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Ms. Sharma? Come to critique my financial sustainability again?"

I gritted my teeth. "I need your help."

His smirk deepened. "Do you now? That’s fascinating. You see, I remember a certain someone publicly destroying my business proposal and—oh yes—insulting my intelligence."

"If this is about your ego—"

"It’s always about ego, Hrida. That’s what makes this fun." He took a seat across from me, interlocking his fingers. "Let’s hear it."

I forced myself to remain composed. "Aureon Group’s Goa project is under threat. The government pulled our permits citing environmental concerns. I need access to your connections—people who can help us negotiate."

He let out a low whistle. "So you do need me."

"It’s a business proposition, not a favor."

"Oh, but this feels personal." He leaned forward. "Tell me, Hrida, how does it feel to be on the other side of rejection?"

I clenched my fists. "Make your demands, Aditya. What do you want in exchange?"

He tilted his head, considering. "Aureon Group pulls back from the luxury boutique segment. No competing properties in Goa for five years."

"That’s impossible."

"Then we have nothing to discuss."

I stared at him, my mind racing. If I refused, I’d lose the project. If I accepted, Aureon Group would lose market presence. But then an idea struck me.

"How about a joint venture?"

His brows lifted slightly. "Go on."

"Dixit Enterprises and Aureon Group co-own the project. You get access to our global clientele; we get your connections and expertise."

He exhaled, amused. "So now you do think I have expertise."

I ignored him. "Fifty-fifty partnership. Full transparency. Take it or leave it."

There was a long pause before he smiled, slow and deliberate. "Now that is interesting."

Working with Aditya Dixit was like engaging in verbal warfare every day. "We should highlight exclusivity," I argued in one of our meetings. "The resort needs to be positioned as an elite getaway."

Aditya scoffed. "Wrong market. We should focus on experience-driven stays—high-end but immersive."

"Immersive won’t bring in the wealthiest clientele."

"Says the woman who has never run a hotel in her life."

I exhaled sharply. "Says the man who nearly tanked his own expansion plans."

The tension was unbearable, but we made progress. Somewhere along the way, something shifted. It was subtle at first—meetings that stretched into late nights, conversations that weren’t just about business. One evening, over dinner, he looked at me differently.

"Do you ever get tired?" he asked, sipping his whiskey.

I frowned. "Tired of what?"

"Fighting. Competing. Always being the smartest in the room."

I hesitated. "No. Do you?"

He smirked but didn’t answer. That night, I wondered if rivalry and something else could exist at the same time.

And then, things became complicated. Not because of business, but because of something neither of us wanted to name. It was the way he looked at me when I spoke, the way my eyes sought his in a room full of people. It was in the near-misses, the almost-confessions, and the silences that carried too much weight.

Then, a new complication arose. Not one of business, but of trust. A leak—internal information from our partnership—surfaced in the industry, and all fingers pointed in different directions. Soon, Aditya and I were standing on opposite sides of a conference table, the undercurrent of our unspoken emotions buried beneath frustration.

"You think I sabotaged us?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.

Aditya’s expression was unreadable. "I don’t know what to think. But I know this—I can’t afford doubt."

Something inside me twisted. I had anticipated rivalry, I had even expected tension, but I had never expected this—disappointment. And it hurt more than any business defeat ever had.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, his gaze searching mine. "I like you, Hrida. I do. But this… all of this makes me question if I should. If we’re only ever meant to be rivals."

I swallowed hard. "And what do you want to do about that?"

His jaw tightened. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Or maybe we just keep doing what we do best. Competing. Fighting. Pretending we don’t know what this is. If that’s what you want."

For the first time in my life, I didn’t have an answer.