The first time Dr. Meher Rao saw Arjun Khanna, he was smiling like he already knew how the evening would end.
She hated that.
It was a panel discussion at the Bangalore Literature & Ideas Festival—one of those curated intellectual events where people wore linen and opinions with equal confidence. The topic displayed on the enormous LED screen behind them read:
"Is Love a Biological Illusion?"
Meher adjusted the mic clipped to her collar and glanced at the crowd. Two hundred seats. Full house. A soft hum of anticipation.
She thrived in rooms like this.
Controlled variables. Clear arguments. Logical structure.
What she did not thrive in was the man sitting to her right, leaning back in his chair like he was about to enjoy a movie instead of a professional debate.
Arjun Khanna.
Divorce lawyer. Media favorite. Known for dismantling high-profile marriages with surgical calmness.
He caught her looking.
His smile widened.
Infuriating.
The moderator beamed. "Dr. Rao, you argue that love is primarily neurochemical conditioning. Mr. Khanna, you claim love is a conscious commitment beyond biology. Let's begin."
Meher leaned forward.
"When we talk about love," she began, voice steady, measured, "we are really talking about dopamine spikes, oxytocin bonding, and evolutionary survival patterns. The feeling of destiny? Manufactured. The intensity? Temporary. The attachment? Predictable."
The audience murmured appreciatively.
Arjun didn't interrupt.
He just watched her.
That irritated her more than disagreement would have.
She continued, "Romantic love activates the same neural pathways as addiction. We are not falling in love. We are becoming chemically dependent."
She leaned back.
Satisfied.
The moderator turned. "Mr. Khanna?"
Arjun adjusted his cufflinks slowly. Unhurried.
"Dr. Rao," he began, voice calm and dangerously warm, "has explained why people feel love. I'm here to explain why they stay."
A few people laughed softly.
Meher's jaw tightened.
He continued, "If love were purely chemical, it would fade as predictably as caffeine. Yet I see couples fight through illness, betrayal, bankruptcy. That's not dopamine. That's choice."
He looked at her directly now.
"And choice," he added gently, "is inconvenient. Which is why it's easier to reduce love to molecules."
The audience went silent.
Oh.
He was good.
Meher crossed one leg over the other. "Choice doesn't negate biology. It operates within it."
"And biology doesn't negate courage," he replied smoothly.
She smiled.
Professional. Sharp. Thin.
"This is precisely the problem with romantic idealism," she said. "You're selling permanence in a system designed for impermanence."
Arjun tilted his head. "And you're selling detachment in a species wired for connection."
The air shifted.
Something electric slipped between them.
The moderator cleared her throat, visibly delighted. "Fascinating tension here."
Tension?
Meher resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"This isn't tension," she said coolly. "It's clarification."
Arjun chuckled softly. "It feels like tension."
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience.
Meher felt heat crawl up her neck.
Not embarrassment.
Annoyance.
"Mr. Khanna," she said evenly, "you make a living untangling failed marriages. Statistically, you are surrounded by evidence that love collapses."
"On the contrary," he replied. "I'm surrounded by evidence that people don't know how to handle it."
She blinked.
He leaned forward now.
"Love doesn't fail because it's chemical," he continued. "It fails because people avoid vulnerability. They treat connection like a transaction."
His gaze didn't waver.
"And some people," he added softly, "study it instead of risking it."
That landed.
The audience felt it too.
Meher's pulse ticked up—annoyingly measurable.
She straightened.
"I study it because understanding something reduces its power over you."
Arjun's smile faded just slightly.
"Or," he said, "because you don't want it to have power at all."
Silence.
For half a second, she forgot there was a crowd.
He wasn't debating her theory.
He was observing her.
That was new.
And deeply unwelcome.
The moderator jumped in before the quiet stretched too long. "Perhaps we'll take an audience question?"
A hand shot up immediately.
A young woman stood. "If love is just chemicals, Dr. Rao, have you ever been in love?"
The room collectively leaned forward.
Meher didn't hesitate.
"No."
There was a soft reaction—surprise, curiosity.
Arjun didn't look surprised.
He looked… thoughtful.
"And you?" the same woman asked him.
Arjun smiled faintly.
"Yes."
A subtle shift in the room.
Meher folded her hands. "And how did that work out?"
A flicker passed through his expression. Gone quickly.
"It ended," he said simply. "That doesn't make it unreal."
The moderator wrapped the session shortly after, sensing the emotional temperature had reached ideal levels for social media.
Applause filled the hall.
Meher stood.
Professional handshake.
She extended her hand.
He took it.
His grip was warm. Firm. Not dominating.
Annoyingly grounding.
"You argue beautifully," he said quietly.
"You deflect elegantly," she replied.
He smiled. "We should do this again."
"We absolutely should not."
His eyes gleamed. "That sounded like fear."
"That was certainty."
They held eye contact half a beat too long.
A photographer snapped a picture.
Flash.
Moment captured.
He released her hand.
As she gathered her notes, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Notifications flooding in.
The debate clip had already started circulating.
Trending locally.
She inhaled slowly.
Good exposure.
Good publicity.
Controlled outcome.
Across the stage, Arjun checked his own phone.
Their eyes met again.
Same realization.
This wasn't over.
As she walked off stage, she told herself something simple and reassuring:
He was just a man with a counterargument.
Not a variable.
Not a risk.
Not a disruption.
Behind her, Arjun watched her leave.
And thought something equally dangerous:
She didn't believe in love.
Which meant she had never chosen it.
Which meant she might.
And that…
That was interesting.