She pushed the door open, fully ready to crash on the couch like a queen after battle. Her feet hurt, she was tipsy, and honestly? She deserved a fancy drink and five uninterrupted minutes to pout about how her lipstick was doing better than her entire life.

But the universe, as always, had other plans.
Plot twist: instead of peace, she walked into a goddamn mess.

Three men.
Three wildly different, equally ridiculous versions of "what-the-actual-fuck."

The first one was sprawled across the couch like tragedy itself, clutching an ice pack to his forehead, dramatically sighing like the world had personally wronged him.
  Disaster #1: Overgrown toddler with a hangover.

Disaster #2 was... occupied. Very occupied. Somewhere beneath the tangle of limbs and the very enthusiastic woman on his lap, his mouth was doing overtime. Whatever was happening over there was definitely illegal in some countries.

And then there was Disaster #3.

Oh.
Oh, shit.

Her breath hitched.
Because, damn.

Whiskey in one hand. Sharp jawline. Grey eyes that could commit a felony without flinching. He was just sitting there, all calm and serious, watching her like she was his next problem.

Her brain took one look and promptly short-circuited. For a second, she froze.

She should’ve turned around. Left. Pretended she was drunker than she actually was.

But where was the fun in that?

She blinked, planted her feet, and tilted her head. “Wow,” she muttered, gaze sweeping the room. “Look at you all—what a cute little bunch of disasters.”

Ice Pack Guy groaned. “Huh?”

She blinked at the room full of testosterone and confusion, cocked a brow, then pointed vaguely in a queenly sweep of her hand.
“Right. All of you. Out.”

Silence.

Three grown men froze.

Even the half-naked woman on the lap of Disaster #2 seemed confused. Ice Pack Guy’s mouth parted like she’d just announced the apocalypse.

Still nothing.

So, clearly deciding she'd had enough of the world's idiocy for one day, sighed dramatically and dropped onto the couch right beside Disaster #1, nearly knocking the ice pack off his face. He winced like she’d added emotional injury to his physical one.

She didn’t notice.
Didn’t care.

Three pairs of eyes stayed glued to her like she was an animal in a zoo exhibit titled: Beautiful, Belligerent & Slightly Unstable.

Disaster #2 finally shoved the girl off his lap with a grunt and sat up straighter, blinking at her like she’d sprouted a second head.
“You… you do realise this isn’t your VIP room, right?”

She squinted at him, lips pursed, then casually raised her hand—palm out, fingers up—in a universal gesture of shut the hell up.
“Shh. Don’t ruin the drama. I’m still in the moment.”

Ice Pack Guy wheezed.

Disaster #3 hadn’t moved. Still sipping his whiskey. Still watching her like she was a very slow car crash, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

She sat there, trying to recall her life choices—failing—then blinked again. “Okay, maybe this is the wrong room,” she admitted slowly. “But, to be fair, the hallway had, like, ten damn doors. And none of them said ‘Trespassers Will Be Judged by Hot Men Inside.’”

She sighed, then—She stood. Swayed.

Regained balance by holding on to the back of the couch like a very drunk, very dignified disaster.

The door was right there. She could have left. Should have.

But Adeerah Vardhan never exited without making a point.

She turned on her heel, facing all three stunned men like a commander addressing her troops.

“Well, this was lovely,” she declared, pausing, pointing to the man who’d been making out moments ago. “You,” she said with a smirk, “You kiss like you’re trying to win a race. Slow down. It’s a mouth, not a speed bump. Four outta ten.”

Then at Ice Pack Guy. “Get a better therapist. Or vodka. Or both.”

And finally—her gaze snapped to Mr. Silent With the Cheekbones of Doom.

She narrowed her eyes. “You… are creepy. And hot. I don’t like that combo.”

Disaster #3 raised a brow, saying nothing, the faintest twitch of a smirk threatening his mouth.

She turned, blew an exaggerated kiss toward the room, and flounced out with the grace of someone who’d definitely just insulted everyone present but considered it a community service.

The door slammed shut like it had an attitude of its own.

Silence.

Mikhail let out a loud groan and slapped the ice pack harder against his head. “What the actual fuck was that? Was that a fever dream? Did I die?”

“I think I’m in love.” Laurent blinked, genuinely impressed, and laughed—slow and smug. “Fiery little thing, isn’t she?”

Mikhail scoffed, sitting up. “Fiery? That was a full goddamn headache.”

Laurent jabbed a finger toward himself. “And calling my kiss a four out of ten? Rude. I’m at least a solid eight when I’m not bleeding from the brain.”

Laurent fixed his silk cuffs with the elegance of a man who did not just get roasted by a drunk girl in five seconds flat. 

“Shut it.”

Lorcan’s voice hit like a bullet—low, calm, and wrapped in that deep Irish accent that somehow made everything sound more dangerous.

He hadn’t moved. Not even a sip of his drink. Just sitting there, still as stone, eyes locked on the door like he could see her through it. Like he was replaying every word, every smirk, every insult.

Laurent raised an eyebrow, amused. “Ohhh no. Look at that face.” He grinned like a cat who had just saw a mouse tap dance. “She got to you, didn’t she?”

Lorcan didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

But Mikhail caught it—the tiny twitch in his jaw. The slight shift of his fingers around the glass.

“Oh, fuck,” Mikhail muttered under his breath, flopping back against the couch. “We’re all dead.”

Laurent just laughed, like this was his new favourite soap opera. “Well. At least we’ll die entertained.”

AN HOUR AGO…

The bass thumped through the club floor, vibrating under Adeerah’s heels like the universe was hyping her up personally. Neon lights flashed. Drinks flowed. Chaos reigned.

It was Saturday night in Delhi, and the Vardhan cousins were doing what they did best—spending too much money, drinking too much alcohol, and making exactly zero responsible decisions.

Tonight? Celebration mode was on.

Siara raised her glass like a queen about to start drama. “To Ridak, for officially stepping into the lion’s den! May you survive the madness and still have hair by the end of the year.”

Ridak, who looked both proud and like he might puke, groaned. “It’s literally just a normal executive role—”

“Blah, blah, corporate snoozefest,” Adeerah cut in, waving a hand like his words were annoying background noise. She clinked her glass against his. “Congrats, baby boy. You’re officially working under my father now. Aka, the man who eats hope for breakfast.”

Ridak rolled his eyes. “I already regret this.”

“You should,” she said sweetly, then downed her drink like it was water.

The burn didn’t faze her. If she flinched every time alcohol hit her throat, she wouldn’t be a Vardhan.

Adeerah Vardhan was many things—spoiled, sarcastic, and a little bit scary. But she was never boring. Wrapped in black silk, heels that could kill, and red lipstick that screamed “try me,” she looked like trouble… and she was.

The family’s problem child. Dressed in diamonds and disaster.

And tonight? She was drunk, dangerous, and thriving.

“We came here to party,” Saher whined from the other side, already pulling Manhoor and Siara toward the dance floor. “Don't listen to Ridak cry about spreadsheets!”

Adeerah laughed, tossing her hair. The night buzzed under her skin like glitter and adrenaline.

Ridak muttered beside her, “Please don’t get us banned again.”

She clutched her chest dramatically. “Excuse you. That was one time.”

“You set a VIP table on fire.”

“I was trying to light a shot! It was for the aesthetic!”

“You threw champagne at it.”

She blinked. “Liquid kills fire.”

“It was alcohol, dumbass!”

Adeerah grinned wickedly. “Listen, it worked, didn’t it? And we got free drinks that night.”

Ridak sighed heavily, probably regretting every life choice that led him to sharing DNA with her.

The beat changed, the tempo deep and sinful, and Adeerah let herself sink into it, moving without a care.

Tonight wasn’t about responsibilities.
Tonight was about being young, reckless, and completely untouchable.

Adeerah danced like she owned the place. Like the flashing lights, the heavy bass, and the sea of bodies moving to the beat were nothing more than background noise to the hurricane that was her. She had lost track of how many drinks she’d had—two? Three? Maybe five?—but at this point, counting was irrelevant.

Her cousins had long scattered across the club, blending into the neon-lit chaos, but Adeerah was still in the middle of the dance floor, spinning, swaying, reveling in the feel of it all.

And then, inevitably, the buzz became too loud.

Too many bodies pressing in. Too much heat. The world was tilting at an angle that was both thrilling and slightly annoying.

With a dramatic sigh, she shoved her heels into Ridak’s hands as she passed him. “Hold these. I need oxygen and peace. Don’t let them get stolen. They cost more than your soul.”

Ridak barely had time to protest before she disappeared into the crowd, weaving her way toward the private VIP section they’d booked earlier in the night.

See, drunk Adeerah was confident. Too confident. And directional awareness? Not her best skill.

Except… in her delightfully inebriated state, she took a wrong turn. And when she found the hallway that she thought led to their VIP suite, she didn’t hesitate.

Instead…
She found them.