Backstage is an absolute chaos- steamers hissing, stylists yelling last-second fixes, assistants sprinting past with garment bags.
But the chaos bends around Sunaina Kapoor, top model of the industry and one of the most beautiful faces in the industry according to many magazines.

Makeup artists hover around her like bees around honey.

"She's glowing tonight her bone structure is insane."
"This outfit was made for her frame."
"She photographs like a dream."

None of this touches her as she sits motionless, long black hair being straightened into a glassy, midnight curtain.

Her reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger she's forced to inhabit.

Her manager appears behind her doing his job by acting as her father's leash disguised as a professional.

"Sunaina," he says sharply, "Kapoor Villa.Tonight nine p.m. sharp. Directors, producers, very important people. No mood swings. No leaving early."

Her hand stiffens.
Barely.
But he sees it.

"And remember tonight isn't about you. Your father expects you to be presentable and extremely beautiful. You must be on your best behaviour, and you will engage with guests attentively and politely."

She swallows her reaction and nods "I understand."

The stylist calls for final adjustments.
Sunaina stands.

And instantly, backstage quiets down.
Sunaina is going to close the show.
The center of gravity.
The face they're all relying on.

Her coat is draped over her shoulders.
Slate gray.
Heavy.
Commanding.

The blazer-dress beneath it sculpts her into a silhouette too sharp to soften.

The stage manager whispers,
"Closing walk.Walk Slow. Lethal. Own them."

Sunaina nods once.
There was nothing more he needed to say- she knew this better than anyone else.

The music shifts - deep bass, cinematic tension.

Her cue hits.

She steps out.

The second she enters the spotlight, the room inhales.

Cameras rise.
The camera flashes hit their peak at the closing of the show and everybody knew who was about to own the runway.
Fashion elites lean forward.

Whispers start immediately-

"That's Sunaina Kapoor?"
"She's the top model everyone keeps talking about."
"I honestly thought she'd be average- nepotism, connections you know, but"
"Are you blind? Look at her. She's killing it."
"She looks unreal tonight."

Her steps are clean and precise as she enters the runway. Her chin stays lifted, shoulders steady, each stride smooth and controlled.
The coat follows her pace, brushing behind her in a quite sweep as she keeps walking forward. Light glints off her hair each time she turns.

The crowd reacts fast- soft gasps, rising whispers, a wall of flashing cameras. She can easily spot VVIPs faces in the front rows. Designers, Fashion Magazine Editors, Editors, critics tracking her every move.

At the end of the ramp, Sunaina pause for the cameras. She holds her pose- one leg forward, chin angled, shoulders squared letting the cameras take the shots they want. Then she turns cleanly and resumes her walk, pace steady, posture untouched. She turns to walk back down the runway. And then she sees him.

A man in a black shirt,sleeves pushed up, a watch catching the light, a notebook in nis hand.
He looks MANLY. Strong shoulders. Rough stubble. Nothing dramatic about his posture, he just sits there quietly.

But his presence,
His presence feels heavy, like someone important. Like a man who doesn't need to prove anything. Like a man used to power, used to doors opening for him without asking.

Her heartbeat jumps so fast it almost hurts.Her chest tightens Butterflies hit her stomach in one quick wave, the kind she hasn't felt in years.
She's seen many attractive men before, far too many. Models, Actors.But him,he's different.

His eyes doesn't move away.He studies her face, slow and focused, as if he's trying to recognise her. As she reminds him of someone. As he's searching for a peice of truth in her features.

Her breath stumbles. Her steps stay straight, but her legs feel warmer, unsteady inside. Her skin tinges like it's remembering a touch that never happened.And the strange part? She has absolutely no idea who he is. Not a clue. But her body reacts like it's been waiting for him.

As she walks past him, she can still feel his gaze on her. The kind of gaze only a man with real influence carries. And all she can think is that he feels someone very important.Someone everyone else probably knows. Someone she should've recognised instantly.

But she doesn't. And that's what makes the butterflies worse.

It travels through the room like a spark catching dry grass.

Fourth seat, front row.
Shivansh Jadeja

People whisper with an urgency bordering on panic-

"Is that-?"
"It is. The Shivansh Jadeja."
"He never visits fashion runways."
"No, like seriously, he doesn't even attend the industry award nights."
"Designer must be very, very close to him to get him here."

That alone would be groundbreaking.But it gets worse.
Because now he's not watching the show.
He's watching her.

A new wave of whispers ripples outward-

"Do they know each other?"
"He hasn't looked away once."
"This isn't normal. He never reacts to models and actresses."
"God help that girl if he's interested - Jadejas never do casual interest."

A woman leans toward her friend, voice hushed but trembling:

"He's just like his father."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't remember? Samarth Jadeja became obsessed with Maanya Oberoi - the top actress back then."

"Oh right and then he married her. Overnight."

"And look at her now - Maanya Jadeja. Untouchable. Worshipped."

Another whisper cuts in-

"I hear he still loves her intensely. Even decades later."

A final murmur, sharp as a warning,

"And Shivansh? He's worse than his father when he fixates."

The entire front row is now watching him watch her.

As she exits, the audience hisses with excitement,

"He didn't blink once."
"Jadeja is obsessed already."
"This is insane."
"If he's interested in her, everything changes."

But Sunaina doesn't hear them.

She only hears her pulse.

The second she steps out of the spotlight, the noise behind her goes dull.

Backstage swarms with movement designers celebrating, assistants reorganizing racks, photographers adjusting lighting for portraits.

But Sunaina walks straight to the corner behind a curtain partition, letting the coat slip from her shoulders for a breath.

Her breath shakes barely.

Just enough to reveal the crack.

Her manager marches up, face pinched.

"What the hell was that?"

She looks up, blank.
"What?"

"That hesitation on the central beat. Don't pretend."

"I fixed it."

"You almost didn't."
Then, sharper-"Your father will notice. Do not create problems for him tonight."

She nods, jaw set.
"I won't."

"You better not."

Before he can continue, a designer rushes over, whispering urgently-"Sunaina - photos, now! The audience is losing their minds. And ooh-god did you see who was staring at you?"

Her manager snaps, "Who?"

"Front row. Fourth seat. The Shivansh Jadeja."

Her manager freezes, expression cracking.

Sunaina doesn't.

She just goes still.
Quiet.
Thinking.

After some time,

Most of the audience is standing.
Lights are dimming.
The show's over.

But Shivansh Jadeja hasn't moved.

He stands exactly where he was, one hand in his pocket, head tilted slightly still looking at the backstage exit she vanished through.

People whisper again-
"He's waiting."
"Ooh God"
"What does he want with her?"
"If he's after her, that girl's life is over or unstoppable."

Shivansh finally turns and walks out steps controlled, expression unreadable.

But the tension he leaves behind is unmistakable.

Sunaina Kapoor has become his unsolved problem.

And Shivansh Jadeja has never walked away from unsolved things.