The next day was a Monday, and Aryan had never been more grateful for the existence of Excel sheets.

He needed structure. He needed rows, columns, and formulas that followed logic — not women who said things like "I bite when invited."

So, he buried himself in work. Calls, presentations, budget approvals, and a particularly mind-numbing meeting with the compliance team. His phone buzzed on the desk several times, but he ignored it. The last thing he wanted was another message that made him question every decision he'd ever made, including waking up that morning.

It was nearly 4:00 p.m. when he finally took a breather, leaned back in his chair, and unlocked his phone.

1 New Notification: Diana Mehta has sent you a friend request on Instagram.

Aryan blinked.

Instagram.

He hadn't opened the app in months. His feed was mostly tech memes, a few cricketers, and one food blogger who made oddly satisfying dosa videos. His following list? A grand total of 7 people — three cousins, two college friends, one motivational speaker, and Rahul Dravid.

Diana Mehta would be the only woman on the list. And something about that felt... significant. Terrifying. Like he was letting a hurricane into a carefully controlled weather system.

He stared at the request for a full minute, thumb hovering.

She sent it, he thought. Which means she expects me to accept.

He clicked "Accept."

Within seconds, his screen blinked.

New Follower: Diana Mehta followed you back.

Of course she did. Swift, efficient, like a missile strike.

Out of curiosity — or pure masochism — Aryan tapped her profile.

Her display picture was innocent enough. Just her in sunglasses, sipping from a coconut. But as he scrolled down, Aryan's soul left his body.

The first photo on her grid, the very top one, was her on a beach in Goa — or maybe the Maldives — wearing a bikini so small, Aryan felt like he needed to file a police complaint just for viewing it.

She was sprawled on a beach towel, her body angled toward the camera, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, legs crossed, arms behind her head like she owned the ocean.

Aryan threw his phone onto the desk like it had burned his hand.

"OH my God."

He looked around. His office door was shut. Thank God. He took a deep breath, picked the phone back up with the cautiousness of someone diffusing a bomb, and scrolled further down.

A gym mirror selfie. A photo in a red slip dress at a rooftop bar. One where she was winking at the camera in a leather jacket and fishnets with the caption:
"My vibe is 80% chill, 20% don't test me."

Aryan closed the app and set his phone face down.

This girl was not for him. There was no maybe about it. She was beautiful, yes — stunning, even — but she was also the human equivalent of standing too close to a firecracker box.

He, on the other hand, was a tax-paying citizen who still said "sorry" when someone bumped into him.

His laptop pinged with a Slack message from his junior:
"Aryan sir, just confirming, 5:30 call with Singapore team?"

He replied:
"Yes. Also, please send me last quarter's import duty breakdown."

But his mind was stuck somewhere between the coconut in her display picture and the bikini that had broken his internal RAM.

And then — like she had psychic powers — she texted.

Diana: So... you finally stalked me.

He sat up straight. How does she always know?

He debated ignoring it. But something in him — perhaps the same part that had accepted the rishta in the first place — replied.

Aryan: I didn't stalk. I... observed.

Diana: Observed what? My earrings? The palm trees?

He didn't respond.

Diana: Or did the bikini give you an existential crisis?

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Aryan: A bit of a warning would've been nice.

Diana: Oh please. What, you thought I only wear sarees and sip chai?

Aryan: I didn't think anything.

Diana: Exactly. That's your problem. You never think naughty thoughts.

He almost dropped the phone again.

Was she trying to give him a stroke?

He leaned back in his chair, willing himself to calm down. Inhale. Exhale. You're a grown man, Aryan. She's just... modern. Not illegal.

Still, he couldn't stop the heat crawling up his neck.

He texted:
Aryan: You're really... confident.

Diana: That's one way to say it. Others call me dangerous. Some say intoxicating. My ex once called me a "very expensive bad idea."

Aryan stared at the screen.

Aryan: And what would you call yourself?

Diana: A limited-edition fire hazard with great legs.

Aryan let out a laugh he hadn't expected — short, shocked, and a little impressed.

Diana: So tell me, Mr. Malhotra. You still think I'm too bold?

He paused.

Aryan: Yes.

She took a full two minutes to respond. And when she did, the text hit like a bullet.

Diana: Good. Because the last thing I want is someone who's trying to shrink me. Either keep up, or stay out of the way.

For a moment, Aryan didn't know whether to be offended or... turned on.

This wasn't flirting. It was a challenge.

And he had never — not once in his life — been challenged like this.

Aryan: So I assume you liked the rishta meeting?

Diana: I liked watching you squirm. You're cute when you panic.

Aryan: Thanks, I guess.

Diana: Don't worry. I'm not expecting you to match me shot for shot. Just don't ghost me. I hate when men disappear just because I made them blush.

He stared at the screen.

Was he the kind of man who ghosted?

No. He was the type who apologized if his phone died and texted "reached home safely" even when no one asked.

Aryan: I'm not going to ghost you.

Diana: Good. Because I kind of want to see how far I can push you before you combust.

He didn't reply.

Because he didn't know how to.

Because Diana Mehta had entered his life with all the subtlety of a bazooka and now she was camped in his head, refusing to leave.

That Evening

Back at home, Aryan sat in his room, phone face down, trying to read a book. He had re-read the same paragraph five times.

Downstairs, he could hear Arya's voice yelling at the TV — some cricket match was on. His mom was humming in the kitchen.

He scrolled Instagram again, reluctantly.

Diana's story was up.

"Boardroom at 4, bar at 8."
Photo: her legs crossed, black heels, wine glass in hand.

Aryan's heartbeat quickened.
Not out of lust — though God knows that was part of it — but because she felt like a universe he had never known existed.

He thought he was the grown-up, the elder, the sorted one.

Now he wasn't so sure.