The grand ballroom shimmered under the glow of crystal chandeliers, casting an elegant charm over the lavish gathering. Laughter and conversation filled the air, mingling with the soft strains of live music. It was an evening of grandeur, where high society mingled effortlessly—businessmen discussing deals, their wives adorned in dazzling jewels showcasing their affluence, and rising stars seeking to leave an impression.
In the midst of this extravagant affair, Sahir led Drishti through the crowd, ensuring she felt comfortable. She was new to this world, yet he believed in her ability to blend in. As he introduced her to Karan and the others, his tone carried warmth, but the response was lukewarm at best. Among those present was Mehendi, who was introduced as an emerging singer in their upcoming film. However, the revelation barely received a reaction—after all, the company introduced a new singer every year. It was a cycle everyone was used to, making her arrival seem unremarkable.
Except for Karan.
"Miss Mehendi," Karan's deep voice cut through the casual chatter, drawing attention. He extended a charming smile. "How about a drink?"
A waiter arrived at his silent command, standing at the ready. "What do you prefer—wine, vodka, whiskey?"
Mehendi, slightly taken aback by the unexpected attention, smiled politely. "Orange juice, please."
Karan raised an eyebrow, his expression one of amused curiosity. His gaze shifted to Chahat, who had been standing beside Mehendi, observing the interaction. "And you, pretty girl?"
Chahat, unfazed by the flattery, responded coolly, "Juice for me as well."
Karan smirked and nodded. "From what name are you known, meaning what do they call you?"
"Chahat," she replied simply. "My name is Chahat."
Karan tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening. "Hello, Chahat. I'm Karan—Karan Singh."
Chahat chuckled, recognizing the name instantly. "Of course, I know who you are. The Karan Singh. How could I not?"
"So," Karan leaned in slightly, his tone laced with curiosity, "are you also striving to be a singer like your friend?"
Chahat shook her head, her expression unreadable. "No, I'm still a student. I don't have a background in the industry."
And just like that, she too was dismissed. The moment she admitted she had no connections, the interest in her waned. She had seen it before—talent wasn't enough; pedigree and power spoke louder.
The party carried on, vibrant and intoxicating. Crystal glasses clinked as people exchanged pleasantries, their laughter ringing through the air. The elite flaunted their status, women adorned with glittering jewels whispering among themselves while their husbands discussed business ventures with hushed intensity.
Yet, amidst the swirling crowd, one figure stood apart.
Vansh.
He stood in a dimly lit corner, his fingers loosely curled around a drink, lost in thought. The party raged around him, yet he seemed untouched by its energy. His posture was relaxed but distant, his gaze drifting over the crowd without truly seeing them.
Noticing this, his father quietly made his way to him. Without a word, he placed a reassuring hand on Vansh's shoulder, giving it a firm yet comforting squeeze. A silent conversation passed between them—one of understanding, of shared burdens.
That moment, captured in a fleeting glance, spoke volumes. In a room full of extravagance and noise, it was one of the few genuine ones. A father and son, bound not just by blood but by something deeper—an unspoken promise of support.
As the night deepened, the music swelled, and the party grew more animated. But for some, the real stories unfolded not in grand gestures but in the quiet, stolen moments in between.