The room was alive with energy. A flurry of raised paddles, murmured bids, and the sharp clang of the auctioneer's gavel created a rhythm that matched Mahak's heartbeat. She sat in the second row of the grand auction hall, her poised demeanor masking the anticipation simmering beneath the surface.

Tonight's auction wasn't just about adding another piece to her ever-growing collection-it was about the emerald choker. A masterpiece of delicate design and exquisite stones, it was the kind of statement piece Mahak adored: timeless, bold, and unapologetically luxurious.

Her paddle rested lightly in her manicured fingers, the deep red of her nails a striking contrast to her black off-shoulder dress. She exuded elegance, every inch the diva she was known to be. But her heart skipped a beat as the auctioneer called out the starting bid.

"Two hundred thousand pounds."

Mahak raised her paddle without hesitation. "Two hundred and ten."

The bids climbed steadily, each increase a step closer to victory-or defeat. Mahak remained calm on the outside, but her knuckles tightened around the paddle as the competition narrowed to her and one other bidder.

The anonymous bidder sat in the back, his identity obscured by the dim lighting. His bids came without hesitation, each one eclipsing hers.

"Three hundred thousand pounds," she called, her voice firm, her confidence unwavering.

"Three hundred and fifty," came the voice from the shadows.

Mahak's jaw clenched. Whoever this was, they were relentless.

"Four hundred," she countered, tilting her chin defiantly.

The room went silent for a moment, and she allowed herself a flicker of hope. But then, the final blow: "Five hundred thousand pounds."

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Mahak's lips parted, but she didn't raise her paddle again. Defeat wasn't something she experienced often, and the weight of it settled on her like an unwelcome guest.

The gavel struck, and the auctioneer declared the choker sold. Mahak leaned back in her seat, hiding her frustration behind a composed expression.

"Better luck next time," a familiar voice murmured as someone passed her aisle. She turned her head sharply, but all she caught was a glimpse of a leather jacket and a teasing smirk.

The following morning, Mahak arrived at the grand event she had spent months planning. The ballroom was transformed into a dazzling spectacle of lights, floral arrangements, and gilded tables. It was an exclusive charity gala, one of the most prestigious in London, and Mahak had been the mastermind behind every detail.

Dressed in a striking sapphire-blue gown that shimmered as she moved, Mahak was a whirlwind of activity. From ensuring the caterers were on schedule to directing the placement of centerpieces, she was everywhere, her heels clicking briskly across the marble floor.

"Miss Usman, the media team is asking for a quote," an assistant called.

"I'll be there in five," Mahak replied, scanning her clipboard before heading toward the reporters.

Hours later, the event was in full swing. Guests mingled, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. Mahak stood near the stage, watching the auction she had organized unfold seamlessly. But even as she congratulated herself on the success of the evening, a familiar figure caught her eye.

Faris.

He stood near the entrance, his broad frame commanding attention even in a crowd. Dressed in a classic black suit that somehow managed to look both formal and effortless, he scanned the room before his gaze landed on her.

Mahak's pulse quickened. What is he doing here?

Faris made his way toward her, his steps unhurried, his smirk faint but unmistakable. "Busy running the world?" he teased as he reached her.

"Something like that," Mahak replied, tilting her chin up. "Tum yahan kya kar rahe ho? Last time I checked, charity events weren't your thing." (What are you doing here? Last time I checked, charity events weren't your thing.)

Faris shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Shayad mujhe tumhe impress karne ka shauk hai." (Maybe I enjoy impressing you.)

Mahak rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide the faint smile tugging at her lips. "If you're here to distract me, don't bother. I'm too busy."

"Dekh raha hoon," he said, his gaze dropping to her heels. "Tum itni der tak inn torture devices mein kaise chal rahi ho?" (I can see that. How are you walking around in those torture devices for so long?)

"They're called heels, Faris. And some of us manage just fine."

As the evening wore on, Mahak found herself more exhausted than she cared to admit. Her heels, which had seemed like a perfect choice in the morning, now felt like instruments of torment. By the time the last guest left, she was barely standing.

Faris found her sitting on the edge of the stage, massaging her aching feet. "Aur yeh tumhara 'just fine' hai?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. (And this is your 'just fine'?)

She glared at him. "I'm fine."

"Tumhari definition of fine bohot interesting hai," he said, crouching down in front of her. (Your definition of fine is very interesting.)

Before she could respond, Faris slipped off his own shoes and held them out to her.

"Faris, don't be ridiculous," she said, her voice sharp.

"Ridiculous toh tum lagogi agar yeh heels pehen kar ghar tak walk karne ki koshish ki," he replied, his tone calm but firm. (You'll look ridiculous if you try to walk home in those heels.)

Mahak hesitated, her pride warring with her exhaustion. Finally, she sighed and reached for the shoes, her fingers brushing his briefly.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Faris's expression softened. "Kuch bhi tumhare liye, Mahak," he said quietly. (Anything for you, Mahak.)

Their eyes met, the space between them charged with unspoken emotions. For a moment, the world around them faded, leaving only the two of them.

But Mahak, ever the diva, broke the silence with a smirk. "Don't think this means you've won."

Faris chuckled, standing up and offering her his hand. "Tumhare saath toh har jeet ek nayi shuruaat lagti hai." (With you, every win feels like a new beginning.)

As they walked out together, Mahak couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there were some battles worth losing.