First to Business
The cabin lights were dimmed and the world outside the window was nothing but clouds and darkness. A few passengers were already asleep—slumped over neck pillows or drooling on expensive business-class blankets.
Saira wasn’t one of them.
She sat staring at nothing, her cheek resting against her palm, posture too controlled for someone supposedly resting after a series.
Her debut international tournament.
A big one.
One she had waited years for.
The stats weren’t kind:
0
0
58 (team collapsed anyway)
66(same story)
and tonight:
35 not out*, match won, but just barely.
Not headline glory.
Not disaster either.
Just… inconclusive.
A maybe.
She exhaled once through her nose.
Not disappointment.
More like processing.
The seat beside her was empty.
Unfortunately, peace didn’t last long.
Footsteps approached—slow, confident, unhurried.
She didn’t look.
She didn’t need to.
There weren’t many people whose presence made the air feel heavier.
And only one whose presence she preferred to pretend didn’t exist.
Raihan Veer Adyar stopped next to her row like he owned the plane.
Which, knowing him, wouldn’t be surprising.
He just sat on the empty seat.
He didn’t ask.
He just stood there.
“Not bad.”
She didn’t react.
He continued anyway.
“That last inning,” he added, tone casual, “thirty-five not out. Team needed it.”
Still silence.
He scoffed quietly.
“But don’t let it get to your head.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
His voice dropped—not softer, just colder.
“You got here because of noise, Saira. Domestic hype. Street cricket fans who think grit equals talent.”
Her jaw stayed still.
He hated that.
“For years I said girls like you don’t play for India.”
His mouth curved—not quite a smile.
“I was almost right.”
Still nothing.
Her breathing didn’t even change.
His frustration sharpened.
“You’re not built for this level,” he muttered. “Not mentally. Not technically. Not consistently.”
A pause.
“Today wasn’t proof you belong here,” he added. “It was your one lucky break.”
She blinked once, slow. That was the only sign she heard him.
And somehow that blink triggered him more than shouting would have.
“You know what the difference is between players and survivors?” he asked quietly.
Still no reply.
He answered himself.
“Players wait for chances. Survivors don’t need them.”
Another beat of silence.
“I’ll handle the rest,from here” he said finally. “I always do.”
A flight attendant appeared then, acting to be coy.
“Sir? Anything I can bring you?”
His nose flared up seeing her flirty smile.
He tilted his head just slightly, eyes dropping to her name badge.
“No, I’m good,” he said smoothly. “But you won't be,if you don't get lost at the very moment.”
That shook her and the girl practically ran away.
He didn’t look at Saira again.
He walked away.
Not slowly.
Not angrily.
Just controlled—like someone trying not to show they were bothered.
Only when the distance was safe and his shoes disappeared behind the curtain separating Business from First, did Saira let her jaw unclench.
She stared at the aisle he disappeared down, expression unreadable, and quietly whispered:
“You came here just for this?”
A scoff slipped out of her—barely there.
“BCCI president’s son. Empire heir. Shadow policymaker.”
Her voice dropped lower—dry, unimpressed:
“And you’re here… on this plane… just to get to me?”
Not a question.
A reality she wasn’t sure she wanted to acknowledge.
Her breathing steadied.
Her eyes finally closed.
Sleep tugged at her—slow, heavy, needed.
And just before her thoughts dissolved into haze, one last question escaped:
“What are you, Raihan?”
---
Raihan – Same Flight, 14 Rows Ahead
He sat in his first–class cabin, jaw tight, finger tapping impatiently against the armrest.
This was ridiculous.
He knew it.
Why the hell am I still here?
He could’ve left after the second match.
Hell—his father’s plane was waiting, the night the series ended.
He could’ve flown out alone.
He usually did.
Instead?
He stayed.
Every match.
Every day.
Every press call.
Every damn inning.
And now—this flight.
With the women’s team.
With her.
He shut his eyes briefly, annoyed.
It’s just a series. Just a debut. Just women’s cricket. Stop acting like it matters.
He hated how silent thoughts sounded honest.
So he argued with himself:
I stayed because it’s my job.
I stayed because roster strategy matters.
I stayed because I needed to evaluate new players.
But the truth punched through anyway:
No. I stayed because she was there.
He ran a hand down his face and muttered under his breath:
“Why the hell did I walk to business class?”
His answer came immediately—and it made him angrier:
Because he wanted her to look at him.
To react.
To glare.
To snap.
To do anything other than sit there like his presence meant nothing.
But she didn’t.
And that silence?
That damn silence felt like teeth sinking into pride.
He sat back, shoulders tense.
“You’re watching her, Raihan,” his mind mocked.
“Not the game. Not the league. Her.”
He clicked his tongue, annoyed at himself.
“Ridiculous.”
But when he closed his eyes, he didn’t see the match footage.
He saw her walking away from him years ago without a glance.
And oddly—this felt exactly the same.
---
Before the cameras.
Before franchises.
Before rivalry.
Back to where it started—
One courtyard.
One cricket ball.
One silent girl who refused to treat him like royalty.
FLASHBACK BEGINS
