Rain slams against the glass walls of Zenith Advertising like a drunk ex begging to be let back in, turning Colaba’s neon chaos into a runny watercolor mess outside.
Inside, it’s all sharp edges and caffeine fumes. Revant Khanna slouches in his corner office, 15 years of ad-world scars scratched into his stubble, salt and pepper like he’s seasoning his own ego. His desk’s a brag fest, awards winking under the flickering lights, a chipped coffee mug that’s seen more midnights than a barstool. But there’s this shadow in his gut, a guilt that’s been simmering for a decade, thick and sour like overcooked dal.

Across the open floor, Aarohi Sharma’s hunched over her desk, 10 years of hustle sparking off her like static. Her pencil’s practically clawing the sketchpad, her hair a
messy bun that’s one tug from anarchy.

Between them? A warzone, ten years of snark, stolen ideas, and a betrayal that gutted her and left him pretending he doesn’t care.

Rewind to a decade ago. Aarohi, 22, fresh off the boat with a portfolio and eyes bigger than Bandra’s billboards, walks into Zenith. Revant’s her rockstar, smooth-talking,
sharp as a tack, the kind of mentor you’d follow into a brainstorm blindfolded. She’s glued to him, scribbling his one-liners in her notebook like they’re sacred.
“Ditch the fluff, chase the gut,” he’d toss out, and she’d nod, pen shaking like she’s meeting Shah Rukh.

Six months in, she cracks open her chest and hands him her first pitch, a chai campaign, “Chai pe charcha, dil se dil tak.” It’s her heartbeat in words, warm and punchy.
She’s jittery, waiting for his thumbs-up. He grins, slaps her shoulder, says, “Kid, you’re burning bright.” Two weeks later, he’s in the client room, her tagline rolling off his tongue like he birthed it. The applause hits like a monsoon wave. She’s in the back, drowning, her insides folding in on themselves.

She storms up later, voice cracking, “Why, Revant?” He shrugs, cool as a cucumber. “It’s the hustle, Aarohi. Toughen up.” That’s the day he stops being her hero and
starts being her ghost. For Revant, the guilt creeps in slow, her crushed face replaying every time he sips that damn mug, a bitter aftertaste he can’t rinse out.

Today, the office is buzzing like a live wire. Vespera, the big-shot luxury car client, drops a bomb. The campaign deadline’s hacked from six weeks to ten days. Vikram Desai, Zenith’s CEO, barges in, all wiry vibes and cigar smoke, his voice slicing through the rain’s tantrum. “Revant, Aarohi, you’re teamed up. Make it work or bust my brand.
I don’t care which.”

Revant’s pen stalls, his stomach lurching. “Vikram, I’d rather vibe with a flooded pothole than her.” He glances at Aarohi, and there’s her 22-year-old self, bright, trusting, before the guilt kicks him square in the ribs. Aarohi doesn’t blink, her pencil digging in. “And I’d pitch to a soggy street dog before this dinosaur, but life’s a twisted script, huh?” Vikram smirks, all teeth and steel. “Love the hate. Meeting room, now.”

The meeting room’s a pressure cooker, air thick enough to choke on. Revant’s sprawled at one end, playing it cool like he’s not sweating inside, while Aarohi’s at the other, spine straight, her notepad a scribbled war cry. Meera’s in the middle, the junior copywriter with a giggle that shakes and puns that stick, and Sameer, the art guy who’s chill till his sketches hit you like a monsoon gust.

“Let’s wrap this fast,” Revant grumbles, tossing out, “Vespera, Drive the Dream.” It slips out shaky, her chai line haunts him, a stolen echo he can’t mute. Aarohi snorts, loud
and sharp. “What, selling sleep now? How about ‘Vespera, Ignite the Asphalt’?” Her eyes lock on his, and it’s ten years of hurt staring back, raw as an open wound.

“Too edgy,” he fires back, leaning in. “We’re not hawking biker gang vibes.” Her glare cuts, and the guilt flares. He used to sharpen her claws, then snapped them for his own spotlight. Meera pipes up, voice wobbly. “Uh, what if we go dusk? Vespera’s all evening stars, right? ‘Vespera, Own the Twilight’?” Sameer nods, sketching a car against a purple haze. “Sleek, luxe, hooks you quiet.”

Revant and Aarohi’s eyes clash, a mess of old wounds and grudges. She worshipped him once. He let her fall, and it’s a brick in his chest. The campaign kicks off that night, a shaky spark in their chaos. Hours melt into dark, the room a dump of crumpled paper and stale coffee. Revant’s deep growl tangles with Aarohi’s quick jabs. Every idea’s a punch.

“You’re fossilized,” she snaps when he pushes print ads. “And you’re a trend-chaser,” he bites back at her TikTok pitch. Meera and Sameer duck for cover, their words lost in
the fray. Her every snap twists Revant’s gut. Her fire used to light him up, and he doused it. For Aarohi, every comeback’s a yell at the guy who broke her compass.

At 2 a.m., it all spills over. Aarohi slams her pen down, voice cracking like glass. “This is a dead end. You’re still the jerk who snatched my chai pitch, my first real shot. I looked up to you, Revant. You were my guru, and you ripped me apart.” Revant’s mug clatters, hands shaky. “And you’re still the newbie who thinks every idea’s a jackpot. I made it pop. I made it work.”
But it’s a lie he chokes on. Her crushed face from back then burns behind his eyes, and the guilt’s a tidal wave. “That applause? It’s a noose I can’t cut loose,” he mutters, voice rough. “A noose?” Her laugh’s a broken sob, wet and sharp. “You gutted me to shine brighter. That’s not mentorship. That’s a stab.”

Rain hums outside, the room dead quiet. Meera’s tearing up. Sameer’s staring at the wall. Revant’s voice drops, raw. “I was sinking. The agency was toast, and your idea was oxygen. I grabbed it. I shouldn’t have. I’ve been lugging that regret like a damn boulder. I’m sorry, Aarohi.” Tears pool in her eyes, stubborn. “Sorry? Ten years late?” “Don’t bank on it,” he mumbles, looking away, the guilt a lump he can’t swallow.

A shaky quiet settles. Then Aarohi grabs her pen, voice wobbly but fierce. “Twilight’s a vibe. Vespera’s bigger, legacy, guts. ‘Vespera, Legends of the Night’?” Revant nods, throat tight. “Solid. Throw in a story, black-and-white shots, a driver’s life popping into color at the wheel. Big-screen feels.” Their eyes catch, and the guilt eases, just a sliver.
The campaign builds over eight brutal days, a wild ride through their mess. Day one, they’re at each other’s throats. Revant’s “keep it sleek” versus Aarohi’s “make it roar” lasts till Meera floats the matriarch idea, a thread they both tug. Day three, Aarohi’s sketching a woman in a sari, silver hair glowing, her story raw: loss, fight, win. Revant’s pacing, guilt flickering as her old spark flares, and he adds the son, keys in hand, color bleeding in.

Day five, Sameer’s dusk-drenched visuals sync with Meera’s tagline: “Legends don’t fade, they drive.” They bicker nonstop. Revant’s “Dial it back” meets Aarohi’s “Push it harder,” but it sharpens the edges. Coffee cups stack up, nights blur into dawn, their past bubbling under every win. Aarohi’s hurt drives her wild ideas. Revant’s guilt keeps him locked in, tweaking till it’s perfect. By day eight, it’s a beast, her soul, his craft, a pitch that hums.

Ninth night, they’re in front of Vikram and the Vespera crew. Lights dim, screen flickers. The matriarch’s voice cuts through, grief, grit, glory, as she drives the Vespera through Mumbai’s dusk, streets alive with shadow and glow. Final shot: she hands the keys to her son, color floods in, tagline hits: “Vespera, Legends of the Night.” Vikram stubs his cigar, clapping slow. The Vespera VP, all pearls and steel, nods. “It’s ours. Sold.” The room buzzes, a win snatched from their chaos.

Later, they’re by the window, rain a soft hum. Aarohi breaks the quiet, voice bruised. “You were my idol once. Then you smashed my map.” Revant stares at the city, throat thick. “I get it. I was ace at guiding, crap at owning up. I see you in every pitch I nabbed, every one I didn’t deserve. But we nailed this, yeah?”

A beat. She sticks out a hand, rough, real, a lifeline. “So, next move, old timer? Swipe my next vibe, or we cooking fresh?” He grabs it, shaky, grinning thin. “Let’s cook, kid.

Past’s stale chai, time for a new brew.” Outside, Mumbai winks, like it’s in on their restart.