Aanya’s POV

If there was an Olympic sport for surviving catastrophic Mondays, Aanya Sharma would have won gold, silver, and bronze—all in one day.

The day had started with betrayal. Not by people, but by inanimate objects conspiring against her:

Her alarm clock, which decided it hated her enough to not ring.

Her hairbrush, which snapped mid-comb like a drama queen.

And, of course, the power outage that ensured her carefully prepared breakfast turned into charred disappointment.

She rolled out of bed, only to trip over her brother’s cricket bat left carelessly in the hall. “Seriously, Ishaan ? Cricket is a sport, not a booby trap!” she muttered, hopping on one foot to untangle herself.

Next came the chai disaster. She barely managed a sip before her tongue screamed in agony. Her flailing hands sent half the cup splashing onto her freshly ironed kurta. Perfect. The universe applauded her clumsiness with a smirk.

By 9 a.m., she was already exhausted. But it got worse. Raghav, her manager, had become a volcano—except this volcano had a PhD in shouting at innocent people. He berated her in front of everyone for a report he himself lost.

“And now, look at your attitude!” he roared, ignoring her open-mouthed disbelief.

Her colleagues tried to hide their laughter; Meera mouthed, “Want me to throw a brick?” Aanya almost accepted, but then remembered that bricks don’t improve reputations.

By afternoon, her head ached. By evening, traffic turned into a parking lot. By night, her auto rickshaw gave up in the middle of the road, leaving her stranded. She arrived home smelling like exhaust fumes and self-pity.

She pushed her way into her bedroom, tossed her bag onto a chair, and fell face-first onto her bed.

Her mother called from the hall: “Beta, dinner!”

“NOT HUNGRY!” she shouted, muffled by the pillow.

She needed venting therapy. Not chocolate. Not wine. Not existential podcasts. She needed Meera. Her best friend, her confidante, her chaos partner.

Without thinking, she grabbed her phone and typed furiously into what she thought was Meera’s chat:

“If one more man acts like the world revolves around him, I’ll throw him straight into the Arabian Sea WITH A STONE.”

SEND.

Her chest lightened as if she had just exhaled the whole day.

Then her phone pinged.

…but the name at the top wasn’t Meera.

Unknown +44…

Aanya froze.

“UK number? UNKNOWN? OH GOD.”

Her stomach twisted.

“What… what… WHAT FOREIGN MAN DID I JUST THREATEN TO MURDER?!” she squeaked.

Another ping.

Unknown: Should I be concerned? I can’t swim very well.

Her soul evacuated her body. Her heart considered quitting.

Another ping:

Unknown: I’m fairly certain this wasn’t meant for me. Unless I’ve offended you somehow? If so, I apologize in advance.

A laugh burst out of her—loud, awkward, and uncontrolled.

This stranger… was bantering with her?

Aanya: WRONG MESSAGE! So sorry!! Please ignore!! I swear I’m not a murderer!

SEND.

She buried her face in the blanket, trying to die of embarrassment.

Then—

Unknown: That’s reassuring. I’ll avoid beaches for a while, just to be safe.

She snorted. Then chuckled. Then groaned.

Who WAS this man?

He had confidence, humour, and sarcasm in equal measure. Dangerous combo.

Aanya: Please delete my number now that the crisis is over.

Unknown: And miss the chance to hear who else you plan to throw into large water bodies? Devastating.

She laughed harder.

Aanya: Sarcasm noted.

Unknown: Excellent. You respond quickly. I appreciate that.

Quickly? She blinked. Did he just… compliment her text reflexes?

Then, unexpectedly, a soft ping appeared:

Unknown: Really. I hope tomorrow is kinder to you. Some days take too much from us.

Her breath caught.

It was… accurate. Too accurate.

It felt like he reached through the screen and saw her exhaustion, her frustration, the weight of her invisible battles.

She typed slowly:

Aanya: Thanks. Really. That… helped.

Before hitting send—

1% battery

“NO—DON’T YOU—”

Black.

Dead.

Her phone had abandoned her. Conversation lost. Dignity shattered.

Still, a smile tugged at her lips.

Because this stranger… was trouble.

Good trouble. Dangerous trouble. Heart-flipping trouble.

Adrian’s POV

Miles away, in a palace steeped in centuries of tradition, duty, and cold stone, Adrian Valerian stood by a moonlit window.

A prince. An heir. A secret intelligence operative. A man bound by rules, protocol, and the weight of an entire nation’s expectations.

And yet… he had just laughed.

“Throw him straight into the Arabian Sea WITH A STONE.”

Absurd. Outrageous. Dangerous… and hilarious.

He should have deleted her number immediately. He should have maintained distance. He should have remembered—princes did not talk to strangers. Secret agents did not allow curiosity to flourish.

But he couldn’t.

Her words—honest, sharp, funny—made him feel something he hadn’t in years. Real. Alive. Unfiltered.

The world outside was muted, controlled, silent. People bowed, whispered, and feared.

She… laughed. Threatened. Panicked. Joked. Apologized. Was human.

He found himself waiting. Waiting for her next message.

His thumb hovered.

He shouldn’t.

He knew he shouldn’t.

And yet…

SAVE CONTACT: Her

No name. No identity. Just Her.

He whispered into the empty room:

“Who are you?”

The palace walls stayed silent. But for the first time in months, something warm spread inside him.

Not duty.

Not protocol.

Not expectation.

Something dangerously close to hope.

Aanya slept peacefully.

Unaware that the “wrong number” wasn’t a stranger.

He was:

A prince

A covert intelligence officer

Owner of the multinational company she would one day work for

A man who would fall so deeply for her that duty itself would not restrain him

He would cross oceans.

He would walk into her office as her CEO.

He would pretend not to know her… while his heart screamed that he did.

She—the girl who accidentally texted a prince—would run before she knew his truth.

Their story began with a mistake.

A mistake disguised as fate.

And neither had the faintest idea of what was coming next.