The storm had swallowed Delhi whole. Rain hammered against the glass walls of Malhotra Towers, the city lights melting into blurred golden streaks. On the topmost floor, Arnav Malhotra stood motionless, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes fixed on the storm as though searching for answers in the chaos outside.

At twenty-eight, he had the world at his feet. The youngest billionaire CEO of India, he was a man people admired and feared in equal measure. His empire stretched across continents, his name echoed in every boardroom, his decisions could make or break fortunes. Yet, behind the cold perfection of his face, he carried a truth he could never share.

A single touch—just skin to skin—was enough to unleash waves of unbearable agony. No doctor had been able to explain it, no treatment had ever worked. For years, he had built walls of distance around himself, turning coldness into armor. To the world, he was untouchable in power. To himself, he was untouchable in the most literal way.

"Sir, the Singapore investors are waiting for your confirmation," his cousin Raghav said as he stepped into the office, breaking the silence.

"Cancel it," Arnav replied without looking away from the storm. His voice was smooth, calm, but sharp enough to end the conversation.

Raghav sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You can't keep isolating yourself. People are beginning to notice."

Arnav turned his gaze toward him, expression unreadable. "Let them notice. I don't care."

And that was the end of it. He never explained himself.

Minutes later, he was outside, umbrella in hand, striding into the storm. His driver hurried forward to open the car door, but fate had other plans.

It happened in an instant.

A blur of movement. Someone running across the pavement, arms full of books, dupatta whipping in the wind.

Collision.

The books spilled across the wet ground, pages soaking in the rain. His umbrella slipped from his hand. She stumbled back, breathless, startled eyes widening as she realized whom she had bumped into.

"I—I'm so sorry!" she stammered, kneeling down quickly to gather her drenched books.

Arnav bent down too, almost mechanically, his fingers brushing against hers as they both reached for the same book.

And then—silence.

Arnav froze. He waited for the familiar sting, the fire that always came with touch. But nothing happened. No pain. No burn. Only warmth.

His eyes snapped up, meeting hers. Rain clung to her lashes, her hair plastered to her face, but her eyes—large, brown, filled with innocence—were all he could see.

She looked ordinary. A girl in a faded salwar kameez, clutching wet books to her chest. Yet, to Arnav, in that single second, she was anything but ordinary.

Meera lowered her gaze, still flustered. "My books... they'll be ruined," she muttered softly, fumbling to keep them safe from the rain.

Arnav, silent, picked one up and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed again. Still no pain. His heart thundered, unsteady, in the middle of a storm, he had just discovered the one thing even power and wealth could not buy—

A touch that did not break him.