DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction and fan-created fantasy. All characters, settings, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional context for the purpose of fan enjoyment. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
The set was buzzing under white-hot lights. High fashion, high stakes. Jhanvi Kapoor had just slipped into the final look of the shoot—a crimson power suit, tailored to perfection, heels clicking against the marble floor like punctuation marks.
She stood tall under the spotlight, owning the camera, when she heard it.
A voice. Loud enough to cut through the music. Sharp enough to leave a mark.
“Why is she even trying to look fierce? She’s just another pretty face with designer clothes. No real grit. Just fluff.”
It came from one of the stylists’ assistants—Karan, a man who had made backhanded comments all morning. He chuckled, thinking he was being clever. The crew tensed. They’d heard enough too. But no one said a word.
Except Jhanvi.
She turned, eyes locked on him. Calm. Controlled.
“Excuse me?” she asked, walking toward him—not with fury, but with a cool composure that was more chilling.
Karan smirked. “Relax. Just saying what everyone’s thinking. You actresses just pout and pose. No substance.”
The room froze.
Jhanvi stepped closer. “You want to see substance?” she said softly.
Before he could respond, she grabbed the prop boxing gloves from the side table—the ones meant for the next edgy concept shot—and slipped them on.
She tossed a pair at him. “Put them on. Let’s see if your words can stand up to real strength.”
He laughed nervously. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious.”
The crew, sensing what was happening, cleared a space. Phones started recording—not for gossip, but to witness something inevitable.
Karan hesitated but put the gloves on. “Fine. Just a joke. Let’s end it quick.”
Jhanvi nodded. “Let’s.”
The bell (a makeup compact lid slapped by the assistant) rang.
Within seconds, Karan lunged. Sloppy. Untrained. She dodged with ease, footwork crisp—thank you, years of dance and stunt training.
She jabbed—once, twice—light but sharp. His guard dropped.
Then came the punch. Not out of rage, but out of principle. A clean cross that sent him stumbling backward onto a beanbag chair.
Silence.
She stepped over him, leaned down, and said, “Next time you open your mouth, make sure it’s not to belittle a woman who’s earned her place.”
She took off the gloves, handed them to the photographer, and walked back to the set.
“Shall we shoot?”
The camera clicked. And in that moment, Jhanvi Kapoor wasn’t just a star.
She was a force.
