Against All Odds

Chapter 1: A Twist of Fate

The sun blazed over Jaipur like a mischievous child set loose with a giant magnifying glass. The city streets bustled with traffic, hawkers shouted out their deals, and somewhere amidst it all, a man in a crisp white kurta-pajama and aviator sunglasses sat grumpily in the back seat of a bulletproof black SUV.

“Sir, please reconsider. The route ahead is crowded. Security can’t be guaranteed.”

Aarav Malhotra, Chief Minister of Rajasthan and heartthrob of every WhatsApp auntie group, rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses.

Aarav Malhotra (Male Lead)

•Age: 35

•Charismatic, witty, sharp, and kind-hearted

•Chief Minister of Rajasthan — known for his clean politics and youth appeal

•Secretly craves a simple, normal life away from politics

“Yaar, Lakhan,” he sighed, addressing his security chief, “for once, let me live like a normal person. No cameras, no Z-plus security, no political drama. I just want one day… one day where nobody recognizes me.”

Lakhan Singh, a giant of a man with a mustache that could rival a broom, looked ready to cry. “But sir—”

“No buts!” Aarav snapped, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Consider it a secret mission. Code name — Freedom.”

And before Lakhan could protest further, Aarav slipped out of the SUV at the next signal and vanished into the crowded street, leaving behind a panicked security team and a trail of confused vendors.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the street, Meera Sharma was busy yelling at a supplier on the phone.

Meera Sharma (Female Lead)

•Age: 26

•Independent, cheerful, honest, and fearless

•Runs a small bookstore-café in Jaipur

•Believes in living life on her own terms

•No interest in politics

“I ordered thirty copies of The Fault in Our Stars, not Fifty Shades of Grey! What will I do with these?” she barked, her face flushed with frustration.

Her tiny bookstore-café, BookNest, was her pride and joy. A cozy little space nestled between a tailor’s shop and a saree showroom, it smelled of old pages, fresh coffee, and sometimes, burnt cookies.

Meera, with her loose braid, cotton kurti, and fierce eyes, was known in the neighborhood as the “Jhansi ki Rani” of the market. Nobody dared mess with her — except maybe her eight-year-old nephew, Chintu, who currently sat at a corner table, building a fort with sugar sachets .

“Bua, can I have one more pastry?” Chintu asked sweetly.

~Chintu — Meera’s 8-year-old nephew, cheeky and adorable~

“You already had two. Your mom will turn me into human chutney if she finds out,” Meera grumbled, but handed him one anyway.

Just then, the bell above the door jingled, and Aarav walked in.

Unshaven, hair slightly messy, sunglasses still on, he looked like someone trying too hard to be incognito.

“Excuse me,” he said, glancing around, “do you have a copy of The Alchemist?”

Meera barely looked up. “Shelf on the left. Third row. Alphabetical order. Like any normal bookstore.”

Aarav chuckled. “You’re a little rude, you know.”

Now she looked at him properly — tall, sharp features, annoyingly perfect teeth. Probably another rich brat pretending to be intellectual.

“Comes free with the job,” she shot back.

Aarav grinned, picked up the book, and walked over to the counter.

“How much?”

“Three hundred.”

He fished out a thousand-rupee note.

“Don’t you have change?”

“No,” Aarav lied, enjoying the rising irritation on her face.

“I swear, you rich types think the world runs on five-star menus and unlimited WiFi. Fine, take the book and leave. Consider it charity.”

Aarav laughed out loud. It had been years since anyone had spoken to him like that — no sir, no protocol, no flattering. Just raw, fiery honesty.

“Thank you… uh?”

“Meera,” she snapped.

“Thank you, Meera.”

As he turned to leave, a sudden commotion broke out outside. A group of protestors waving placards stormed the street. “Down with the government!” they shouted.

Aarav cursed under his breath. “Damn it, not now.”

“What happened?” Meera frowned, stepping out.

“Nothing. I just… I forgot something.” Aarav ducked behind a shelf.

The protestors were getting closer. One of them peered through the glass. Aarav yanked Meera down beside him behind the counter.

“Are you insane? Who are you hiding from?” she hissed.

“Trust me, it’s better you don’t know.”

“Well too late now! Stay put.”

She grabbed a broom from the corner and marched out. “Oi! This is a bookstore, not a protest ground! Go shout slogans somewhere else before I call the police!”

The leader of the group, a wiry man with an unwashed scarf, blinked at her. “Sorry, Didi,” he mumbled, and the group shuffled away.

Aarav peered out, astonished.

“You… you just dispersed a mob with a broom?”

“I disperse my landlord with the same broom every month. You’re lucky it wasn’t a rolling pin.”

Aarav burst into uncontrollable laughter.

In that moment — dusty bookstore, angry girl with a broom, and a Chief Minister hiding behind a counter — something shifted.

A strange warmth settled in his chest.

Maybe it was madness. Or maybe… it was fate.

...****************...

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