The Mumbai skyline glittered like a carpet of diamonds through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sweta Singh’s upscale apartment. Her space was a testament to her success—sleek, modern, and meticulously curated, much like the woman herself. The black marble countertops gleamed under soft recessed lighting, and the scent of jasmine from a nearby diffuser lingered in the air. But tonight, as she stood before her full-length mirror, adjusting the lapels of her crisp navy blazer and smoothing the lines of her tailored pencil skirt, Sweta wasn’t marveling at her achievements. No, she was waging war with her own damn reflection.
“Look at you, Sweta,” she muttered, her voice dripping with self-deprecation as she cocked a hip and glared at her image. “All polished and professional, but deep down, still a sucker for a pale face. Pathetic. You’ve built an empire on sharp words and sharper wit, and yet, what? One whiff of a foreign accent and you’re ready to throw it all under the bus? Get a grip, woman.”
She smirked at herself, shaking her head as she adjusted a strand of her glossy black hair, pinned back in a severe bun that screamed ‘don’t mess with me.’ But the memories crept in unbidden—those reckless nights of her younger years, tangled sheets, and the thrill of being swept away by men who looked like they’d stepped out of a Hollywood blockbuster. White men, with their easy charm and infuriatingly entitled smirks. She’d indulged, oh, how she’d indulged. And now, on the cusp of an international assignment that could skyrocket her career even further, the temptation lingered like a bad habit she couldn’t quite kick.
“Enough,” she snapped, pointing a manicured finger at her reflection. “You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Sweta bloody Singh, queen of the newsroom, breaker of egos. No pasty pretty boy is going to unravel you. Not this time.”
With a final tug at her blazer, she grabbed her leather tote and strode out, her heels clicking with purpose against the polished floor. The city buzzed below, a chaotic symphony of honks and shouts, but Sweta was already in battle mode. She had a show to run, a team to command, and a reputation to uphold.
---
The news studio was a different beast altogether—a hive of controlled chaos, buzzing with the hum of equipment, the glare of harsh lights, and the frenetic energy of deadlines. Sweta strode in like she owned the place, which, in a way, she did. Her presence commanded immediate attention; interns scurried out of her path, and producers nodded deferentially as she barked out orders about the evening’s segment. She was in her element here, a force of nature behind the anchor desk.
But then, there he was. Leaning against a camera rig with a smirk that could only be described as punchable, stood Ethan, her new cameraman. Tall, broad-shouldered, with tousled blond hair and a jawline that looked like it had been carved by a Renaissance sculptor, he was the very definition of her kryptonite. And he knew it. His pale blue eyes flicked over her as she approached, that smirk widening into something dangerously close to a challenge.
“Well, well,” Ethan drawled, his American accent smooth as whiskey. “If it isn’t the queen herself. I was starting to think you only existed on TV screens, Miss Singh.”
Sweta stopped short, crossing her arms and fixing him with a stare that could melt steel. “And I was starting to think they’d sent me a discount Brad Pitt with a tripod. What’s your deal, Ethan? You here to film or just stand there looking like you’ve got somewhere better to be?”
His laugh was low, almost a rumble, and it sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “Oh, I’m here to film, alright. But I’ve gotta say, the view’s already better than I expected. You’re even more intimidating in person. All bark and no bite, though, I’m guessing?”
Her eyes narrowed, lips curling into a razor-sharp smile. “Keep guessing, pretty boy. I bite hard enough to leave marks. And trust me, you wouldn’t survive the recovery. Now, get that camera set up before I decide to use it as a battering ram on that smug face of yours.”
Ethan raised his hands in mock surrender, but the glint in his eyes told her he wasn’t backing down. “Yes, ma’am. Wouldn’t dream of crossing the boss lady. Though, I gotta ask—do you always throw around threats like confetti, or am I just lucky?”
Sweta stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr as she invaded his space, the scent of her perfume—a heady mix of amber and spice—wafting between them. “Luck has nothing to do with it. I’m selective with my targets, Ethan. And right now, you’re painting a very big bullseye on that chiseled chest of yours. So, behave, or I’ll make sure you’re filming traffic updates from the back of a rickshaw by tomorrow.”
He held her gaze, unflinching, his smirk never wavering. “Promises, promises. I think I’d look pretty good in a rickshaw, though. Maybe you could ride along. Show me the sights.”
Her laugh was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Oh, darling, the only sight you’d see is me leaving you in the dust. Now move. We’ve got a show to prep, and I don’t have time for your frat-boy flirtations.”
She turned on her heel, striding toward the anchor desk, but not before catching the way his eyes lingered on her retreating form. Damn him. Damn that cocky, infuriatingly attractive grin. She could feel the old pull, the flicker of heat she’d sworn to extinguish. But Sweta Singh didn’t crumble. Not for anyone. And certainly not for some white boy with a camera and a death wish.
---
Later that night, back in the quiet of her apartment, Sweta stood over her open suitcase, methodically packing for the upcoming trip. Silk blouses, tailored trousers, and a few power suits—her armor for the international stage. But as she folded a particularly daring red dress into the mix, her thoughts drifted back to Ethan. Those sly comments, the way his gaze seemed to strip past her defenses. It was infuriating. It was... tempting.
She slammed the suitcase shut, her jaw tightening. “No,” she told herself, her voice firm in the empty room. “You’ve broken those chains, Sweta. You’re not going back. He’s just a distraction, a test. And you don’t fail tests.”
But as she turned off the lights and headed to bed, a small, traitorous part of her couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to let go, just for a moment. To let someone like Ethan unravel her carefully constructed walls. She pushed the thought aside, burying it deep. Sweta Singh was in control. Always. And no man, no matter how infuriatingly charming, was going to change that.
Not if she had anything to say about it.
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