The emergency room doors burst open.
Chaos followed him.
“Move,” the man ordered, his voice sharp, commanding—like the world was used to obeying him.
Dr. Ananya Verma looked up from her patient, irritated. She hated people who thought money could buy respect.
“Sir, this is a hospital, not your boardroom,” she said calmly, pulling off her gloves. “Lower your voice.”
The man turned.
Tall. Expensive suit. Cold eyes.
For a second, their gazes locked.
“I don’t have time for lectures,” he said. “I collapsed in a meeting. My assistant dragged me here.”
Ananya crossed her arms. “Good. Because if he hadn’t, you’d be dead within a year.”
Silence.
His jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”
“You’re having cardiac arrhythmia symptoms,” she said, unfazed. “Stress, no rest, no care for your body.”
He laughed—cold, humourless. “I run a billion-dollar empire. I don’t have time to be weak.”
She stepped closer, her voice firm.
“Then congratulations, Mr…?”
“Aarav Malhotra.”
Ananya nodded slowly.
“Well, Mr. Malhotra, your heart doesn’t care how powerful you are.”
For the first time that day—
Aarav Malhotra had no comeback.
And somewhere between machines beeping and unspoken tension,
two lives quietly collided.
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