Three years earlier:
Armaan stood leaning over the bar taking his sixth vodka shot. Manners be damned, he thought sourly. It was his second last day in London, and he had mixed feelings about returning to his homeland. He could not wait to see his mother and sister, but he was the least elated about inheriting an empire he had no idea of. He took another shot, swearing under his breath. He had not planned for his evening to like this, but for some reason he wasn't in his usual self. The swaying bodies and flirtatious invitations were presenting no allure to him, as if he had been frozen in an ice compound.
"Shilps," he turned around annoyed at the disturbingly loud voice, only to follow the gaze of the woman beside him. He stared for a moment, his eyes searing through the woman descending the stairs. She was clad in a satin green gown, falling into flares as it went down her hips. His gaze took in the shape of her body clad behind the gown that stuck to her body like second skin.
. His eyes moved over the bare skin that was revealed in her sleeveless gown. The dress was . Her gleaming milk white skin glowed in the illuminating light of the chandeliers. He could trace every single bone etched over her collar, and the hollow dents in her neck. She had a voluptuous body catching the attention of every single man in the room. His eyes traced every single curve until it disappeared behind veil of promising fantasy, the honey brown curls that fell across her face descending all the way down across her chest, the curvy delicious mouth, the sway of her hips, sensually enticing as she came down the stairs. He wanted to tear off the mask from her face and stare closely at her.
