Mira Kapoor stood in the glass-walled conference room, her palms pressed flat on the sleek mahogany table. The city skyline glittered behind her like a promise — or a threat, depending on how you looked at it. She could feel forty pairs of eyes on her as she delivered the last lines of her pitch, voice steady, chin held high.

The big client — a luxury lifestyle brand — sat at the far end, nodding appreciatively. Mr. Khanna, her boss, looked smug. Mira allowed herself the smallest smile. This was hers. She had worked through weekends and caffeine-fueled nights to get it perfect — the tagline, the visuals, the hook that would win them the account and push her one step closer to the promotion she’d been chasing for three relentless years.

She clicked to the final slide: a bold splash of color, the slogan in her signature crisp font. Silence lingered in the room, the kind that always came just before applause.

And then he cleared his throat.

Rohan Malhotra. The new senior manager — recruited from a rival firm everyone whispered about. He’d been here for exactly five days, and Mira already hated the way he walked like he owned the place, how he sat through meetings with his arms folded, eyes half-lidded like he was endlessly bored by everyone else’s brilliance.

“Interesting,” he said, leaning back in his chair. His voice was low and smooth — the kind that made junior executives straighten their ties nervously. “But isn’t it a bit… predictable?”

Mira’s smile froze. She turned slowly, laser-focused on him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Rohan tapped the table lightly with his pen, completely unfazed by the tension crackling in the air. “The tagline is catchy, but the campaign feels like something any mid-tier agency could pull off. We’re not mid-tier, are we?”

A few people shifted uncomfortably. Mr. Khanna cleared his throat but said nothing. Mira’s pulse thudded in her ears. She forced her voice to stay calm. “The client specifically asked for something aspirational yet relatable. This hits both notes. If you have a better idea, please, by all means — enlighten us.”

A faint smile curved at the edge of Rohan’s mouth. He rose from his chair and walked to the screen, plucking the clicker from her stunned hand. Without asking.

“Imagine this instead,” he said, changing slides with an infuriating calm. “Same product — but let’s tap into the idea of desire and exclusivity, not just aspiration. People don’t want to feel like everyone else can have it. They want to feel chosen.”

He spoke in measured words, punctuating each point with a look at the client, then back at the team. The bastard was good — she hated that. He talked about luxury psychology, niche branding, scarcity appeal. Words Mira knew well — words she’d deliberately avoided because the client’s brief hadn’t asked for them.

When he finished, the room was quiet. The client leaned forward, intrigued. Mira wanted to throw the damn clicker at his head.

“So,” Rohan said, turning to face her. “What do you think, Mira? Should we play it safe — or play to win?”

She clenched her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth might crack. “I think hijacking someone’s presentation mid-way is spectacularly unprofessional.”

Rohan didn’t flinch. He only smiled that infuriating, polite smile. “We’re all on the same team. Best idea wins, right?”

Mr. Khanna interjected quickly, sensing the temperature in the room. “Thank you, Mira. And thank you, Rohan. We’ll… combine both directions and regroup tomorrow.”

The meeting dissolved in awkward murmurs. The client looked pleased — no idea they’d just witnessed a silent battle. Mira gathered her laptop, fingers trembling with rage. She could feel Rohan’s eyes on her as she stalked toward the door.

Outside the conference room, he caught up with her in two long strides. “Don’t take it personally,” he said, tone maddeningly reasonable. “It’s just business.”

She spun around, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Listen, Mr. Malhotra — you might have charmed your way in here with your fancy ideas and your smug attitude, but I’ve built my reputation in this place with actual work. Try to steal my spotlight again, and you’ll find out just how ‘professional’ I can get.”

He looked down at her finger, then back up, eyes glittering with something that might have been amusement — or challenge. “Noted.”

She pushed past him, shoulders squared. Behind her, she heard him chuckle — soft, dark, and promising trouble.

Mira didn’t know how, or when, but she promised herself this: she would win. And if it meant crushing Rohan Malhotra on her way to the top? So be it.

---

By Monday morning, Mira had calmed herself down — at least outwardly. Inside, she still replayed every second of that meeting, her mind running through imaginary scenarios where she’d stood her ground, slammed the clicker in his smug face, or delivered a comeback so sharp he’d have no choice but to sit down and shut up.

But real life was never that neat.

She sipped her too-strong coffee at her desk, eyes fixed on her laptop as she tweaked her presentation. She’d spent her entire weekend rewriting the pitch, making it bigger, bolder — more ruthless than ever. If Rohan Malhotra wanted to play games, she’d show him she could play better.

Her phone buzzed. Team Meeting. Conference Room. 10 AM. — Mr. Khanna

She cursed under her breath. Great. Another chance to watch Rohan demolish her work in front of everyone. Mira grabbed her notebook and marched down the corridor.

Inside the conference room, half the team was already there — Anya shot Mira a sympathetic smile, Sameer gave her a discreet thumbs-up. Rohan sat near Mr. Khanna, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flipping through a folder like he was too busy to acknowledge her existence.

Mira dropped into a chair across from him, ignoring the way he raised an eyebrow at her barely concealed scowl.

Mr. Khanna cleared his throat once the last few stragglers came in. “Good. Everyone’s here. Let’s get to it. We’ve secured preliminary approval from the client. They loved both your directions — so much so that they want us to merge them.”

Mira stiffened. Merge? That was corporate speak for Mira, do twice the work and share the credit.

Mr. Khanna continued, oblivious to her brewing rage. “Given the scale of the campaign, I’m pairing Mira and Rohan as co-leads.”

Sameer let out a low whistle. Anya’s eyes darted between Mira and Rohan like she was watching two tigers forced into the same cage.

Mira sat forward. “Sir, with all due respect—”

“Mira.” Mr. Khanna raised a hand. “This is non-negotiable. We need both of you — your energy, your ideas, your track record — and Rohan’s… big-picture vision.”

Mira wanted to gag at big-picture vision. She could practically feel Rohan’s smugness radiating across the table.

Mr. Khanna looked between them like a nervous parent. “I know you two have… strong personalities. But the client is worth millions. So put your egos aside and make this work. Understood?”

Mira swallowed her pride — for now. She forced a tight smile. “Of course, sir.”

“Perfect.” Mr. Khanna stood. “You’ll share the presentation in three days. I expect synergy.”

The moment he left, the room buzzed with whispers. Mira grabbed her notebook and stood, ready to storm out — but Rohan’s voice stopped her.

“Mira,” he said, his tone maddeningly polite. “Can we talk?”

She turned slowly. “Talk? Or do you want to hijack another one of my ideas first?”

He ignored the barb. “You know as well as I do we don’t have time for petty fights.”

She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “You should’ve thought of that before you decided to play genius in front of the client.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re good, Mira. One of the best I’ve seen. But you play it safe.”

Her jaw dropped. “Safe? I work twice as hard as anyone in this office! You think you can waltz in here and—”

“I know you do,” he cut in, suddenly serious. “But you’re afraid to risk too much. This brand needs bold. Risky. Uncomfortable. And whether you like it or not, you need me for that.”

She hated that he might be right. She hated even more that a tiny part of her admired it.

She glanced at Anya, who was pretending to type an email nearby but was very obviously eavesdropping. Mira blew out a sharp breath. “Fine. Three days. We do this my way first — then yours. Deal?”

Rohan gave a small, infuriating smile. “Deal.”

She pushed past him, muttering under her breath. “God, give me strength.”

As she walked away, she felt it — the strange, electric tension humming between them. The same tension that had her pulse racing and her mind already plotting ways to beat him at his own game.

One thing was clear: if this was going to work, they’d have to fight. Together.

Or against each other.

Or both.

---

By the second night, Mira wondered if it would have been easier to wrestle a lion than share a project with Rohan Malhotra.

The conference room was dark except for the glow of her laptop and the harsh, flickering light above the whiteboard. Her once-perfect storyboard now looked like a battlefield — sketches, sticky notes, coffee stains, half-erased taglines bleeding into each other.

She checked her phone: 11:43 PM. Her eyes burned from staring at the screen. Across the table, Rohan sat sprawled in his chair, sleeves pushed up, tapping his pen rhythmically against the table. His expression was infuriatingly calm, like he could do this all night — and probably would.

She couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “If you’re going to sit there looking smug, at least make yourself useful,” she snapped, not bothering to look up.

He didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m waiting for you to finish rewriting your safe version for the fifth time tonight.”

She shot him a glare. “It’s called refining, not rewriting. Maybe if you didn’t bulldoze every idea I have—”

“—we wouldn’t be here at midnight?” he finished for her, dryly. He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “Look, Mira. We both want the same thing: a pitch that works. We can’t do that if you keep dragging this back to the safe zone every time I push the envelope.”

She threw her pen down. “And what if the client hates your precious ‘envelope’? What then?”

Rohan smirked. “Then at least we’ll know we didn’t play it small. That’s how you win the big ones.”

She hated that his voice was calm. Controlled. Unshakable. It made her feel reckless — like a match striking too close to gasoline.

“God, you’re impossible,” she muttered.

“You’re stubborn,” he shot back, but there was a glint of something warm behind it. Almost amused.

They sat there in the uneasy hush that always followed their arguments — Mira scribbling corrections on paper she’d probably throw away, Rohan tapping his pen, watching her like he could see straight through the armor she’d spent years building.

Minutes ticked by. The air conditioner hummed overhead. The city outside was a distant, muffled pulse.

She caught him staring and narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, looking away too late. “Just… you work like you’re trying to outrun something.”

She bristled. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Rohan. I work because I’m good at it.”

He tilted his head slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

Mira shut her laptop with more force than necessary. “You think you know everything. You don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” he said, so quietly she almost missed it.

Her breath caught in her throat — just for a second. She stood quickly, shoving her chair back. “I’m getting coffee. You want any?”

He smiled faintly, the kind that made her want to slap him and kiss him all at once — which was infuriating in itself. “Black. No sugar.”

“Figures,” she muttered as she stalked out.

In the pantry, Mira leaned against the counter, palms pressed to the cold steel. She hated him — she did. Or she was supposed to. But he saw too much. Got too close. And she couldn’t decide if that scared her more than the possibility that he might actually be right — about the pitch, about her, about all of it.

When she came back, two paper cups in hand, he looked up at her with that same calm, infuriating confidence. She set his cup down harder than necessary.

He took a sip, winced at the bitterness, and looked at her. “So. Truce for tonight?”

She sank back into her chair, sighing. “Fine. Temporary truce.”

They bent over the table again, their heads nearly touching as they pieced ideas together under the harsh fluorescent light. Outside, the city slept. Inside, two rivals sat shoulder to shoulder — not friends, not enemies, something messy and electric in between.

And neither of them, though they’d never admit it, wanted the night to end.

---