To save his family's empire, stoic billionaire Aryan Raichand needs a 'perfect' fiancée, and fast. Enter Meera Sharma, a vibrant, accident-prone artist buried under a mountain of debt, who unknowingly signs a year-long contract to play the part. Wha... To save his family's empire, stoic billionaire Aryan Raichand needs a 'perfect' fiancée, and fast. Enter Meera Sharma, a vibrant, accident-prone artist buried under a mountain of debt, who unknowingly signs a year-long contract to play the part. What begins as a hilariously mismatched charade within the opulent Raichand mansion soon becomes a battlefield of witty banter, clashing wills, and simmering, unexpected attraction. As they navigate nosy relatives (especially Aryan's formidable Dadi), cunning rivals, and the ever-present risk of their secret being exposed, Aryan's icy resolve begins to melt under Meera's chaotic warmth. Beneath the pretense and constant mishaps, genuine feelings blossom. But can a love born from a business deal survive the pressures of their worlds? Or is their 'Ishq by Agreement' destined to end when the contract expires, leaving only heartbreak in its wake?
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Chapter 1
The city skyline, a mosaic of glass and steel, stretched endlessly beneath Aryan Raichand's gaze. From his penthouse office on the 50th floor of Raichand Tower, the bustling metropolis seemed to shrink, reduced to a mere chessboard where he was the undisputed king. The air, conditioned to a precise 22 degrees Celsius, carried the faint, expensive scent of polished wood and success. Today, however, that familiar scent was tainted with the acrid tang of impending disaster.
Aryan, impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored charcoal suit, strode away from the floor-to-ceiling windows, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His dark hair, usually meticulously styled, was slightly ruffled from a subconscious habit of running his fingers through it during moments of extreme stress. And stress, at this very moment, was a relentless, clawing beast. The multi-billion dollar international merger with the powerful Chen Corporation of Singapore – a deal that would catapult Raichand Industries into a new global league – was hanging by a single, fragile thread. The deadline was tomorrow. The final terms were being hammered out as he spoke, but a crucial face-to-face meeting with Mr. Chen, a man known for his rigid adherence to tradition and "family values," was scheduled for this very morning. And Aryan, the brilliant, ruthless business titan, needed to appear… stable. Settled. Like a man with a promising future, personally, not just professionally.
"Any word on Mr. Chen's arrival time, Rohan?" Aryan's voice, usually a calm baritone, held an edge of controlled impatience as he addressed his best friend and Chief Operating Officer, Rohan Kapoor. Rohan, leaning casually against the doorframe, a tablet in his hand, seemed to possess a preternatural calm that Aryan often envied.
Rohan glanced at the tablet. "He just landed at the private terminal. Should be here in twenty. He wants to meet you personally, brief chat, before the main negotiation. Says it’s about 'getting a feel for the man behind the empire.' Your Dadi probably put that bug in his ear." Rohan quirked an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He knew all too well the true source of Aryan’s current existential dread.
Aryan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dadi," he muttered, the name a curse and a prayer on his lips. Mrs. Savitri Raichand, his formidable grandmother, the matriarch who held the purse strings and the emotional strings of the entire Raichand clan, had made it her life's mission to see him married and producing heirs. Her recent calls had been less requests, more ultimatums. "A man of your stature needs a wife, Aryan! A stable home! How will Mr. Chen trust you with his legacy if you can't even secure your own?" Her words echoed in his mind, amplified by her recent threat to "take matters into her own hands" if he didn't find a suitable bride by the end of the month. The merger, already precarious due to previous scandals (a brief, ill-advised engagement to a woman who turned out to be a corporate spy), needed absolute, unquestionable legitimacy. Dadi’s meddling was a problem he couldn't simply buy off or outmaneuver.
"The PR team has already prepped the media releases, emphasizing your 'commitment to family and legacy'," Rohan continued, a wry smile playing on his lips. "All very subtle, of course. Just need a warm body to put next to you in photos and to reassure Dadi."
Aryan scoffed, striding towards his desk, arranging a stack of documents with unnecessary force. "A warm body isn't going to convince Dadi I've found 'the one.' She wants a daughter-in-law who can produce an heir by next Diwali." He paused, looking out at the city again, a city he controlled, yet felt utterly powerless against the two forces demanding his immediate attention: Dadi and Mr. Chen. "Just… make sure everything is perfect for Chen. Not a single deviation. Especially the coffee setup. He’s very particular about his single-origin Colombian brew."
"Will do, boss," Rohan replied, exiting the office. Aryan took a deep, fortifying breath, smoothed his suit, and prepared to descend, ready to conquer the day. He needed a latte. A strong one.
***
Meanwhile, miles away, in a vibrant, albeit slightly chaotic, apartment crammed into a narrow lane in Bandra, Meera Sharma was engaged in a battle of her own. Her canvas, splattered with a riot of colors, leaned precariously against a stack of art books that threatened to topple at any moment. Tubes of paint lay strewn across a rickety table, mingling with discarded coffee cups and dried brushes. The air was thick with the scent of turpentine and desperation.
Meera, her face smudged with cerulean blue and crimson, stared at the latest rejection email glowing on her laptop screen. "We appreciate your unique vision, Ms. Sharma, but your work doesn't quite align with our gallery's aesthetic at this time." It was the fifth such email this week. Each one chipped away a little more at her already fragile optimism.
"Another one?" Priya, Meera's best friend and perpetually optimistic roommate, asked from the tiny kitchen nook, where she was attempting to coax a decent coffee out of their ancient percolator. Priya, a bubbly graphic designer, had a knack for finding the silver lining, even when it was buried under a mountain of Meera's debt.
Meera groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Fifth one. I swear, the universe is conspiring against my artistic genius. Or maybe it just hates genius in general." She threw her hands up dramatically, narrowly missing a half-finished sculpture of a very grumpy cat.
"The universe doesn't hate you, Meri," Priya said, placing a lukewarm mug of coffee in front of her. "It just wants you to find a job that actually pays, you know, money. For rent. And food. And maybe a new set of brushes that aren't shedding bristles like a molting parrot."
Meera sighed, picking at a loose thread on her paint-stained t-shirt. "I know, I know. I sent out another twenty applications last night. Everything from 'floral assistant' to 'junior curator' to 'professional dog walker with artistic flair'." The last one was a stretch, but desperation was a powerful motivator. Her father's failed business, a well-intentioned but ultimately disastrous venture into organic farming, had left their family buried under a mountain of debt. Her parents, bless their hearts, were trying their best, but the interest alone was crippling. Meera felt the weight of it every single day, a constant hum beneath her artistic dreams. It was why she couldn't afford to be a starving artist anymore. She needed to be a *paid* artist, or at least, a *paid something*.
"There was one really weird ad," Meera mused, scrolling through her sent emails. "It was super vague. Something about an 'artistic companion' for a 'reclusive client.' Said it paid ridiculously well. I applied at 3 AM. Didn't even read the full thing, just saw the salary figure and hit send."
Priya scoffed. "Sounds sketchy. Probably someone who wants you to paint their nude portrait every day for a year."
"At this point, I'd consider it if it paid off the bank loan," Meera muttered, pushing her hair back. "Speaking of paying, I need to drop off this commission for Mrs. Kapoor before 10 AM. She's particular about punctuality, and I need that cash yesterday." She gestured to a large, carefully wrapped canvas leaning by the door. It was a still life of fruit, meticulously rendered, utterly unlike her usual vibrant, abstract style. It was a compromise, a sacrifice of her artistic soul for the sake of a grocery bill.
"Better hurry then, it’s already 9:15," Priya said, glancing at her watch. "And wear something nice! You don't want to show up looking like you wrestled a rainbow."
Meera glanced at her reflection in the smudged mirror. Her dark, wavy hair was a tangled mess, her eyes, usually bright with creative fire, were shadowed with fatigue. She grabbed a relatively clean denim jacket to cover her paint-splattered tee, stuffed her bare feet into worn sneakers, and hoisted the canvas, ignoring Priya's exasperated sigh. "Wish me luck! I need this money, badly."
***
The Raichand Tower lobby was a symphony of cool marble, hushed whispers, and the soft chime of high-speed elevators. Executives in sharp suits moved with purpose, their faces grim with the weight of corporate responsibility. Meera, clutching the large, awkward canvas, felt instantly out of place. Her worn sneakers squeaked faintly on the polished floor, and her denim jacket felt embarrassingly casual amidst the designer labels.
She navigated the labyrinthine corridors, following the precise instructions from Mrs. Kapoor's secretary. "The CEO's office, third floor, then ask for Mrs. Kapoor's private gallery entrance." Meera, accustomed to the gritty charm of art studios and local cafes, found the sheer opulence intimidating. Every surface gleamed, every plant was perfectly manicured, every person seemed to carry an aura of untouchable importance.
She found the third floor and the reception area. The stern-faced receptionist barely looked up. "Mrs. Kapoor? Is she expecting you?"
"Yes, for the delivery of her painting," Meera said, trying to sound confident. "I'm Meera Sharma."
"Hold on." The receptionist picked up the phone. As she spoke in hushed tones, Meera felt an urgent need for caffeine. Her percolator coffee had been lukewarm and weak, and the stress of the day was already building. Her eyes scanned the elegant, minimalist space, finally landing on a small, discreet coffee bar tucked away in a corner, manned by a barista in a crisp white shirt. Salvation.
"Just a moment, please, Ms. Sharma," the receptionist said, then turned back to her call.
Meera seized the opportunity. "I'll just grab a coffee while I wait," she murmured, already heading towards the bar. She had a few precious rupees left in her wallet, just enough for a small latte. A latte, she thought, would be her reward for surviving another day in this corporate jungle.
She reached the counter, the smell of roasted beans a welcome balm. "One small latte, please, extra hot," she requested, fishing for her crumpled notes. She leaned against the counter, still cradling the large canvas, trying to appear nonchalant amidst the high-powered executives who were also queuing, murmuring into their Bluetooth headsets.
At the exact same moment, Aryan Raichand, feeling a sudden surge of pre-merger jitters and a profound need for caffeine before facing Mr. Chen, was making his way to the very same coffee bar. He had just finished a frantic call with his legal team, clarifying a minor clause that had suddenly become a major sticking point. His mind was racing, already five steps ahead, strategizing, anticipating every possible hurdle. He was running slightly late for Mr. Chen, a cardinal sin in his book. He needed his coffee, and he needed it *now*.
He spotted the bar, a beacon of liquid alertness. He strode towards it, his movements precise, authoritative. He saw a young woman leaning against the counter, an obscenely large, wrapped canvas obscuring part of the path, her back mostly to him. She seemed oblivious to the high-stakes environment around her.
"Excuse me," Aryan said, his voice clipped, his mind already calculating the quickest way to get his coffee and get back to his floor. He didn't wait for a response, simply moved to maneuver around her and the canvas.
Meera, meanwhile, had just received her latte. The barista, with a flourish, had handed her the steaming cup. It was perfectly made, a beautiful rosetta latte art adorning the top. She smiled, grateful for this small luxury. She instinctively took a step back, still admiring the artwork, completely absorbed in her momentary reprieve.
It was a fraction of a second. Aryan, focused solely on the coffee bar and the time, moved forward. Meera, distracted by her perfect latte, moved backward.
The collision was inevitable.
A sickening *thwack* as the edge of Meera's oversized canvas slammed into Aryan's shoulder. His briefcase, clutched in his left hand, swung wildly. Meera gasped, her eyes widening in horror as her perfect latte, extra hot, tipped.
A wave of scalding liquid, thick with milky foam, cascaded down. It hit Aryan's chest, spreading rapidly across his impeccably tailored charcoal suit. The exquisite fabric, designed for boardrooms and international deals, instantly became a canvas for a messy, brown abstract expression. The frothy white rosetta, once a symbol of peace, now clung to his tie like a sarcastic boutonnière.
Time seemed to slow. The hushed whispers of the lobby died, replaced by a collective intake of breath.
Aryan stood frozen, a statue of pure, unadulterated fury. The heat of the coffee was secondary to the white-hot rage that ignited within him. His eyes, usually cool and calculating, blazed with an intensity that could melt steel. His perfect suit. The crucial merger. Mr. Chen arriving in minutes. And now this.
Meera, coffee cup still tilted in her hand, stared at the disaster she had wrought. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Oh. My. God.
"You incompetent imbecile!" Aryan's voice, low and dangerous, cut through the silence like a scalpel. He wasn't yelling, but the sheer force of his suppressed anger made it infinitely more terrifying. His eyes, narrowed to slits, pierced her, making her feel like a microscopic organism under a powerful lens. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?!"
Meera, mortified, stammered, "Oh my God! I am so, so sorry! It was an accident! I didn't see you!" Her voice was a terrified squeak. She started fumbling for a tissue, anything, to wipe the spreading stain.
"An accident?" Aryan barked, his voice rising slightly, startling several nearby executives. "This suit cost more than your entire wardrobe! And I have a critical meeting in five minutes, which you have just single-handedly jeopardized!" He gestured wildly at his chest, the coffee stain a stark accusation.
Meera, in a sudden burst of panicked defensiveness, retorted, "Well, *you* should have looked where you were going! You just barged in! And for your information, my entire wardrobe is actually quite eclectic and artistically curated!" The words tumbled out before she could stop them, fueled by embarrassment and indignation. Her eyes flashed. "And what makes you think your suit is so special anyway? It just looks like... boring grey!"
Aryan stared at her, utterly flabbergasted. "Boring grey?" He looked down at his ruined suit, then back at her disheveled appearance. "You think this is 'boring grey'?" He pointed at the designer label on his lapel, barely visible beneath the brown foam. "This is a Kiton, you utter menace! And who are you, anyway? One of the delivery staff? What are you even doing here with that oversized… thing?" He gestured dismissively at her canvas.
Meera's face flushed crimson. The insult about her art, her very reason for being, stung more than the fury about the suit. "I am *not* delivery staff! I'm an artist! And this 'oversized thing' is a commissioned painting that took me days to create, which I was delivering to Mrs. Kapoor, until *you* decided to play human bowling ball!" In her outrage, she failed to notice the raised eyebrows of the receptionist and other onlookers, who clearly recognized Aryan Raichand, the scion of the Raichand empire.
"An artist?" Aryan scoffed, looking her up and down. "You look like you just escaped from a paint factory explosion. And you expect me to believe you have business here, other than ruining my day?"
"I expect you to believe I'm an artist because that's what I am!" Meera shot back, her voice trembling slightly, but her spirit refusing to yield. "And I'm *certainly* not a valet, which is what I initially thought *you* were! You looked like you were just standing there, waiting to park someone's car!"
The accusation hung in the air, audacious and utterly insulting. Aryan Raichand, the man whose personal fortune could buy several small countries, mistaken for a valet. His jaw dropped, his eyes blazing with a mixture of disbelief and utter outrage. The surrounding silence was deafening. Even the usually unflappable barista looked like he wanted to vanish into thin air.
Before Aryan could unleash the full force of his aristocratic fury, Rohan Kapoor appeared, a worried frown on his face. He took in Aryan's coffee-soaked suit, Meera's defiant stance, and the stunned onlookers. "Aryan? What in God's name happened?"
"This… *woman*," Aryan seethed, pointing a trembling finger at Meera, "just assaulted me with a latte and then insulted my suit and my profession! Get her out of here, Rohan. And make sure she pays for the dry cleaning. No, a new suit. This one's unsalvageable."
Meera, realizing the true gravity of the situation, the identity of the man she had just publicly humiliated, felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. A Kiton suit. This was Aryan Raichand. The billionaire. The man who owned this entire tower. Oh, *crap*.
"Wait!" she cried, but Aryan was already turning, pulling Rohan away, muttering darkly about needing a new suit *immediately* and how this had just ruined everything.
Rohan cast a sympathetic, yet amused, glance at Meera as he ushered Aryan away. "I'll handle it," he mouthed to her, before disappearing into a nearby elevator.
Meera was left standing alone, coffee cup still in hand, the center of a silent, judging audience. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole. The smell of coffee, once comforting, now filled her with profound despair. She had just spilled latte on a billionaire. A very, very angry billionaire. The money she was expecting from Mrs. Kapoor suddenly felt woefully inadequate.
She scurried back to the receptionist, who was now eyeing her with disdain. "Is Mrs. Kapoor...?"
"She's been informed," the receptionist cut her off, her voice frosty. "And your painting delivery is no longer required. You may leave."
Meera's heart sank. No money. No delivery. Just public humiliation and the looming threat of a very expensive lawsuit. She was worse off than before. She retreated, her head down, past the staring eyes, feeling the weight of the city pressing down on her. Her artistic dreams felt like a cruel joke. The crushing debt, already a suffocating blanket, now felt like a lead shroud. This was it. The absolute rock bottom.
***
Aryan, meanwhile, had stormed back to his private changing room on the 50th floor, tearing off the ruined suit with furious efficiency. Rohan, miraculously, had already procured a fresh, identical one.
"Honestly, Aryan, you make a mountain out of a molehill," Rohan said, trying to suppress a chuckle. "It's just coffee. We can have the suit cleaned."
"Just coffee?" Aryan roared, shoving the soggy suit into Rohan's arms. "That 'just coffee' landed on me five minutes before the most crucial meeting of my career! And that woman! That utterly infuriating, clumsy, insolent woman! Calling me a valet! A valet, Rohan! Can you believe the audacity?"
Rohan just shook his head, biting his lip. "Well, you *were* standing there, kind of in the way, I suppose," he mused, earning him a death glare.
"That's not the point! The point is, I cannot have this kind of chaotic interference in my life right now! The merger is fragile enough, Mr. Chen is a traditionalist, and Dadi is breathing down my neck like a dragon guarding gold!" Aryan paced the room, his new suit already feeling too restrictive. He thought of Dadi's recent calls, her ominous pronouncements.
Just as he finished buttoning his fresh jacket, his phone rang. It was Dadi. Her name flashed on the screen, a shimmering, golden threat. Aryan groaned.
"Savitri Raichand speaking. What's the latest report, Aryan? Have you found her yet? The girl who will bring stability to your life and fill this empty mansion with the laughter of children?" Dadi's voice, though warm, was laced with an unyielding determination.
Aryan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Dadi, please. I'm literally about to go into the most important meeting of my professional life. Can we not discuss my marital status right now?"
"Nonsense!" Dadi declared. "A man's professional life is nothing without a stable personal life! Mr. Chen is a family man, Aryan. He sees through all this corporate bluster. He wants to know you have roots, a legacy, someone to come home to. You think I don't know these things? I've been managing this family for fifty years!" Her voice dropped, becoming even more potent. "Listen to me, beta. I spoke to Mr. Chen's aunt at a temple ceremony last week. They are very particular. If you do not present a suitable prospect, a nice, traditional girl, one who understands the value of family and commitment, by the end of this month, I will find one for you. And trust me, you will *not* like my choices. I have my eye on the Ambani girl's cousin, lovely girl, very religious, but a bit… robust. Or perhaps the Mathur family's youngest. Very quiet. Doesn't speak much. Perfect for a busy man like you."
Aryan paled. The Ambani girl's cousin? The quiet Mathur? Dadi was a master of emotional blackmail, and her "choices" were always designed to be insufferable. He could almost hear the rustle of her silk saree as she laid down her non-negotiable terms.
"Dadi, please, don't interfere," he pleaded, his voice tight.
"Interfere?" Dadi chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down his spine. "I am merely ensuring the future of my family, Aryan. And the merger, if you care so much about it, will be a direct casualty if you don't heed my words. Mr. Chen respects family. Show him you have one, or you'll have nothing."
The line went dead. Aryan stood there, speechless. Dadi knew how to hit where it hurt. He needed the merger. He could not afford her to sabotage it. And he certainly couldn't afford a 'suitable girl' of Dadi's choosing. His past betrayal still smarted, leaving a deep scar that made him wary of any emotional entanglement. He needed someone, *anyone*, who could play the part, pacify Dadi, and then disappear. Someone discreet. Someone he could control. Someone who would not, under any circumstances, remind him of the chaotic, latte-spilling menace he had just encountered.
"Rohan," Aryan said, his voice flat, looking at his friend with a dangerous glint in his eye. "Start digging. Find someone. Someone who will agree to a… temporary arrangement. Completely discreet. No emotional attachments. And utterly, utterly pliable. I need a contract girlfriend. For a year. Dadi needs to be convinced, the Chen merger needs to be secured, and my life needs to return to its perfectly ordered state. And for God's sake, make sure she's not a clumsy artist who throws coffee at people."
Rohan, sensing the gravity of the situation, nodded slowly. "Understood, Aryan. I'll get the legal team on it immediately. Parameters: desperate, discreet, and ideally, not a coffee-throwing artist." He suppressed a smile. This was going to be interesting.
***
Meera trudged back to her apartment, the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her face, still burning from the public humiliation, was hot with shame. She had messed up, spectacularly. Not only had she lost the commission money, but she now had the wrath of Aryan Raichand hanging over her head like a guillotine.
She burst through the door, throwing her canvas onto the floor with a frustrated thud. Priya, who was browsing job boards on her laptop, looked up, startled.
"What happened? You're back early!" Priya exclaimed, taking in Meera's disheveled appearance and crestfallen expression.
"I just ruined my life, Priya," Meera announced dramatically, collapsing onto her paint-splattered couch. "I spilled an entire latte, a *hot* latte, all over Aryan Raichand. The Aryan Raichand! The billionaire! The one who owns the whole bloody city!" She buried her face in a cushion, letting out a muffled scream.
Priya's eyes widened. "The Aryan Raichand?! Oh, Meri! How did you even…?"
"I don't know! He just appeared! And he called me an 'incompetent imbecile' and said my outfit was 'boring grey' and then I called him a valet! A *valet*! And he threatened to sue me! And Mrs. Kapoor canceled the commission!" Meera wailed, pulling the cushion off her face, her eyes brimming with unshed tears of frustration.
Priya winced. "Okay, that's… not ideal." She came over and sat beside Meera, rubbing her back. "Look, don't panic. He's a billionaire, he probably has a hundred suits. And he probably has more important things to worry about than a clumsy artist. Besides, you won't get sued for a coffee stain. Maybe a dry cleaning bill, at worst."
"A dry cleaning bill I can't afford!" Meera sobbed, pulling a crumpled bill from her pocket. It was a final notice from the bank, a stark reminder of the looming debt. Her father's medical bills, the remaining loan from his failed business… it all piled up, a monstrous, insurmountable sum. "I can't even pay this, Priya. This is it. We're going to lose the house. My parents…"
Priya looked at the bill, her usual optimism fading. This was serious. "Okay, okay. Deep breaths, Meri. We'll figure something out. We always do. We'll find you a job. Anything."
Meera stared at the ceiling, her artistic dreams feeling like a distant, cruel mirage. She needed money. A lot of money. And she needed it fast. The idea of painting, of expressing herself, felt like an unaffordable luxury. She just needed a way out of this financial black hole.
"Anything," Meera whispered, her voice barely audible. Her eyes fell on her laptop, still open to the job search page. The tab for the "Artistic Companion/Assistant for Reclusive Client" job was still open. It had seemed so vague, so slightly off, so potentially sketchy. But the salary. The astronomical, unbelievable salary. It flashed in her mind like a siren call.
*A reclusive client.* *Artistic companion.* *High pay.*
What if it wasn't a joke? What if it was real? What if it was her only hope?
She reached for the laptop, her fingers hovering over the application form. She barely remembered what she had written, just a desperate plea for work, for a chance. She didn't bother to scroll down and read the fine print, the terms and conditions, the detailed clauses that lay hidden beneath the enticing salary figure. Her mind was a whirlwind of panic, humiliation, and the desperate need to save her family.
Anything. She would do anything.
"Priya," Meera said, her voice hollow, her eyes fixed on the screen, "Do you think 'artistic companion' could mean… anything besides painting?"
Priya, still trying to console her, shrugged. "I don't know, Meri. Maybe it's like a live-in art tutor? Or a personal shopper for art? Why?"
Meera didn't answer. She was already mentally calculating the bank's deadline, the amount needed, the terrifying chasm of her debt. The vague job offer was a lifeline, however flimsy.
As the evening bled into night, Meera, haunted by the image of Aryan Raichand's furious face and the weight of her family's crushing debt, sat hunched over her laptop, rereading the ad that promised so much. A reclusive client. An artistic companion. A year-long commitment. And a salary that could, for the first time in years, make her breath easier. She had applied, out of sheer, unadulterated desperation, barely glancing at the attached contract, a lengthy PDF titled "TERMS OF ENGAGEMENT: CONFIDENTIAL." The digital signature portal blinked, awaiting her final consent. She took a shuddering breath, her vision blurred by exhaustion and unshed tears. This had to be it. This *had* to be the answer.
She clicked "Sign."
Unbeknownst to her, Rohan Kapoor's legal team, after sifting through hundreds of applications for a discreet "live-in companion" for their CEO, had just flagged one particular resume. It was chaotic, brightly colored, spoke of abstract art and a passion for vibrant expression, and utterly lacked any conventional corporate experience. Yet, nestled within the whimsical prose, was a desperate plea for immediate employment due to "unforeseen family circumstances." And oddly, Rohan had found himself smiling wryly as he forwarded it to Aryan for final approval, remembering the earlier incident.
"Sir, we have a candidate," Rohan had informed Aryan that evening. "Meets all the parameters: desperate, seems discreet, willing to sign an iron-clad NDA and a year-long live-in clause. And quite clearly not a corporate type at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Her resume alone is… colorful."
Aryan, still simmering from his coffee encounter, had barely glanced at the digital file. "Just get it done, Rohan. Draw up the contract. Make sure the penalty for breach is astronomical. I don't want any surprises. Just someone who will play the part, keep Dadi happy, and ensure this merger goes through without a hitch. Someone who will bring stability, not chaos."
The digital contract, now legally binding, was the last thing Meera saw before collapsing into a restless sleep, dreams of paint, bills, and furious billionaires swirling in her mind. She had just signed away a year of her life, thinking she had found a high-paying art assistant job. She had no idea the "reclusive client" was the very man she had drenched in a latte that morning. And he had no idea the "pliable, discreet" companion he had approved was the source of his day's greatest chaos. The stage was set for a contractual chaos of epic proportions, and neither of them saw it coming.
**Cliffhanger:** Meera has signed the contract, desperate for money, completely unaware of who her "reclusive client" actually is. Aryan has approved the candidate, equally unaware that he has just hired the one person who embodies everything he wants to avoid: chaos, unpredictability, and the very memory of his disastrous morning. The next chapter will open with Meera arriving at the Raichand mansion, the opulent setting ready to clash with her free spirit, and the shocking reveal of her employer's identity, sealing their shared, contractual fate.
Chapter 2
The acrid smell of turpentine still clung to Meera’s clothes, a faint ghost of her earlier humiliation. The crumpled bank notice lay accusingly on her worn wooden desk, its red ink screaming 'FINAL NOTICE'. Three days had passed since the Great Latte Catastrophe, and the memory of Aryan Raichand’s blazing eyes and disgusted sneer still made her stomach clench. The world felt like it had spun off its axis, tilting precariously towards total financial ruin.
“Another one, Meri?” Priya asked softly, emerging from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. Her voice was laced with concern.
Meera didn’t even look up from her laptop. “Seven. Seven rejections since yesterday morning. I’m starting to think my resume is printed in invisible ink, or maybe it just says ‘Professional Disaster Artist’.” She ran a hand through her already tangled hair, tugging at the ends. The “Artistic Companion” job, the one she had signed away her life for in a moment of utter despair, was still so nebulous, so… unreal. They’d sent her an email confirmation, a welcome packet detailing payment schedules and confidentiality clauses, but no actual instructions, no start date, no address. Just a cryptic note about “pending client review” and an advance payment that had, mercifully, covered the most immediate, terrifying debt. But her father’s health, the outstanding loan interest – it was a bottomless pit.
The advance, though substantial for her, was a drop in the ocean of her family’s financial woes. Her mother’s voice, tight with worry, had echoed in her ears just last night during their strained video call. “Meera, beta, the hospital is asking for the next installment for your father’s treatment. And the loan interest… they’re threatening legal action. Is this new job truly going to pay enough? Are you sure it’s safe?” Meera had feigned confidence, painting a rosy picture of a high-paying, remote artistic consultancy, omitting the crucial details and her gnawing uncertainty. She needed more than just the advance; she needed consistent, reliable income. And she needed to know this mysterious “Artistic Companion” role wasn’t just a scam.
So, despite the signed contract, the frantic job hunt continued. Each email she sent, each online form she filled, was a silent prayer. She’d applied for everything remotely connected to her skills: graphic design, content writing, art tutoring, even “creative intern for a floral arrangement company.” The irony of applying for a job that dealt with delicate flowers after her recent, monumental blunder with a coffee cup wasn't lost on her. But pride was a luxury she couldn't afford.
“Look, I saw an ad for a junior designer at ‘Innovate Brands’,” Priya said, her fingers flying across her own keyboard. “It’s a reputable firm. Your portfolio is strong. Maybe try that?”
Meera sighed, scrolling listlessly. “Tried them last month. ‘Doesn’t align with our current vision.’ Everyone wants a corporate drone, Priya. Someone neat, orderly, predictable. Not… me.” She glanced around their tiny, vibrant apartment, a testament to her chaotic, artistic soul. Every surface was adorned with sketches, half-finished sculptures, paint splatters, and a general air of creative disarray. It was her sanctuary, her honest reflection. But it was not, she knew, what the corporate world looked for.
She thought of Aryan Raichand, the personification of neat, orderly, and predictable. He was a perfect, unblemished, expensive suit of a man, and she was the chaotic latte stain on his pristine existence. The memory of his fury, the cold, calculating anger in his eyes, sent a fresh shiver down her spine. The humiliation was still so raw. She truly hoped she never, ever saw him again. The universe had a strange sense of humor, though, and her life seemed to be a cosmic joke in progress.
***
Miles away, in the hushed, almost sterile confines of Raichand Tower, the universe was indeed playing a twisted game. Rohan Kapoor sat in his expansive office, two days into his covert mission to find Aryan Raichand a “contract girlfriend.” His desk, usually a picture of corporate efficiency, was buried under a pile of résumés and digital applications. He’d created a dummy company, a shell corporation for “talent acquisition,” to handle the online job postings and maintain discretion.
“Another one, Rohan?” Aryan’s voice cut through the intercom, sounding impatient. “Have you found anyone yet? Mr. Chen’s team is already talking about setting up follow-up meetings. And Dadi… she sent me a picture of a potential match. She’s a professional classical dancer. Says she has ‘grace and tradition.’ I don’t need grace, Rohan, I need a warm body and a quiet disposition.”
Rohan leaned back in his chair, a wry grin playing on his lips. “Working on it, boss. The criteria are quite… specific. ‘Desperate but discreet, pliable, no emotional attachments, and for God’s sake, not a coffee-throwing artist.’ It’s a niche market.” He chuckled softly, but Aryan clearly didn’t find it amusing.
“Just find someone who won’t ruin my life further,” Aryan snapped, the line going dead.
Rohan sighed, reaching for another stack of applications. Most were from aspiring models, struggling actresses, or young women seeking a lavish lifestyle. They were all too polished, too eager, too likely to cause drama. He needed someone truly desperate, who understood the transactional nature of the arrangement. Someone who wouldn’t be a liability.
He clicked through a few more profiles, each one blending into the next. “Socialite seeking new experiences,” “Aspiring influencer looking for opportunities,” “Professional companion for elite clientele.” Rohan shook his head. Too much baggage, too much potential for exposure.
Then, he clicked on a resume that looked… different. It was a riot of colors, splashes of digital paint framing the text. The font was whimsical, almost childish. The photo attached wasn't a posed glamour shot but a candid, slightly blurry selfie of a woman with vibrant, expressive eyes and a smudge of paint on her cheek.
**Meera Sharma**
*Artist. Dreamer. Survivor. Currently seeking a temporary diversion from the harsh realities of adulting and crippling debt.*
Rohan’s eyebrows shot up. *Crippling debt*. That certainly fit the ‘desperate’ criteria.
He scrolled down. Her ‘Experience’ section wasn't a list of corporate internships but a catalogue of various art projects, street art initiatives, and a brief, hilarious stint as a “creative consultant for a particularly stubborn school play dragon.” Her ‘Skills’ included “can paint anything from a miniature portrait to a full-scale mural,” “excellent at making coffee (mostly without spilling),” and “unwavering optimism (mostly).”
Rohan paused at the coffee line. *Mostly without spilling*. A sudden image flashed in his mind: Aryan’s enraged face, drenched in latte, and the defiant glint in that clumsy girl’s eyes. A slow, mischievous smile spread across Rohan’s face. Could it be? It was too perfect. Or perfectly disastrous, depending on your perspective.
He cross-referenced the name with his mental database of recent corporate incidents. *Meera Sharma*. The girl who had spilled coffee on Aryan. The girl who had called Aryan Raichand a valet. This was beyond ‘niche market’; this was a cosmic joke.
Rohan leaned back, letting out a laugh that was dangerously close to a cackle. “Oh, Aryan, you’re not going to believe this.”
He pulled up the digital contract template for the "Artistic Companion/Assistant" role. The terms were exhaustive:
* **Duration:** One (1) year from the commencement date.
* **Duties:** To act as a live-in companion to the Client, providing emotional support, social engagement, and maintaining a positive public image for the Client as per the Client’s direction.
* **Confidentiality:** Strict non-disclosure agreement regarding the nature of the relationship and the Client’s personal life.
* **Public Appearances:** Required to attend social functions, family gatherings, and business events as the Client’s partner.
* **Compensation:** Generous monthly stipend, inclusive of living expenses, with an initial advance payment upon signing.
* **Breach Clause:** Failure to adhere to any terms will result in a penalty equivalent to fifty (50) times the monthly stipend, or the entire remaining loan amount of the undersigned party, whichever is greater.
Rohan knew the ‘Artistic Companion/Assistant’ title was just a sugar-coating, a legally palatable phrase for a job that was essentially ‘contractual partner.’ The job description they’d posted online had been intentionally vague, designed to attract someone who wouldn't ask too many questions, someone whose desperation would override their skepticism. And Meera Sharma, with her chaotic resume and her mention of crippling debt, fit the bill perfectly.
He checked the system. Meera Sharma’s application had indeed been received and, in a strange twist of automated fate, flagged due to an internal keyword match – ‘artistic,’ ‘creative,’ ‘open to new experiences.’ It had even gone through the initial automated screening for background checks (which, for Meera, revealed nothing but a clean record and a worrying amount of outstanding student loan debt).
A grin stretched across Rohan's face. This was either going to be a brilliant solution or an epic train wreck. And frankly, after years of Aryan’s rigid, predictable life, Rohan was ready for a show.
He attached Meera’s colorful resume to an internal memo. “Initial review completed. Candidate profile attached. Requesting immediate video interview.” He sent it to the automated interview system, which would connect her to a masked representative – another layer of discretion. He knew Aryan wouldn’t even look at the profile beyond a cursory glance at the name and a confirmation that the contract was ironclad.
***
Back in her apartment, Meera jumped as her laptop pinged with an incoming call. It was a video call request, from a generic ID: “Client Engagement Interview.” Her heart hammered. This was it.
She frantically tried to tame her hair, splashed some water on her face, and pulled her cleanest (least paint-splattered) t-shirt over her head. Priya, sensing the tension, gave her a thumbs-up.
“Good luck, Meri! Just be yourself, but… a slightly less chaotic version of yourself,” Priya whispered encouragingly.
Meera nodded, took a deep breath, and clicked ‘Accept.’
The screen loaded to show a figure shrouded in shadow, the voice distorted and mechanical. “Ms. Sharma, thank you for accepting this interview. As per the advertisement, this role requires a unique individual. We seek an ‘Artistic Companion’ for a highly private client. Discretion is paramount. The role is live-in for a period of one year, with a substantial compensation package. Do you understand the terms outlined in the contract you digitally signed?”
Meera swallowed, her mind racing. The ‘live-in’ part was new, a small detail she must have skimmed past in her rush to find the salary figure. But the money… oh, the money. It was enough to wipe out everything. “Yes, yes, I understand,” she stammered, trying to sound professional and not like a drowning woman. “Confidentiality, positive public image, social events, live-in… yes. I’m very adaptable. And I’m very good at keeping secrets.” *Especially the one about me spilling coffee on a billionaire,* she thought wryly.
The distorted voice continued, asking a series of impersonal questions about her availability, her willingness to travel, her comfort with an unconventional living arrangement. Meera answered them all with practiced ease, painting herself as flexible, dedicated, and eager for a new challenge. She felt a glimmer of hope. This was it. This was the answer.
“Excellent, Ms. Sharma. Your profile has been approved by the client. We will send you the final details for your commencement. You are to report to the designated address within two days. Transportation will be arranged. We look forward to your valuable contribution.”
The call ended as abruptly as it began. Meera stared at the blank screen, a mixture of relief and disbelief washing over her. She got the job. The weird, vague, high-paying job.
“I got it!” she shrieked, jumping up and hugging Priya, who looked a mix of thrilled and bewildered.
“That was fast! And so… impersonal,” Priya mused. “Are you sure it’s not some weird cult? Or a very exclusive, well-funded art commune?”
Meera laughed, a giddy, slightly hysterical sound. “I don’t care if it’s a cult, Priya! It pays! It pays enough to sort out everything! My dad’s bills, the loan… everything!” For the first time in months, the suffocating weight on her chest seemed to lift, replaced by a ballooning sense of fragile hope. She didn't have time to scrutinize the details, to wonder why a "reclusive client" needed a "live-in artistic companion" for a year, or why the interview was so faceless. All she saw was a lifeline.
The next morning, an email arrived with the subject line: “COMMENCEMENT DETAILS: MEERA SHARMA – CONFIDENTIAL.” Meera clicked it open, her heart thrumming with excitement.
**Address:** Raichand Tower, Penthouse Residence.
**Reporting Time:** 10:00 AM, tomorrow.
**Client Name:** Mr. Aryan Raichand.
Meera’s eyes skimmed over the words, then snapped back, rereading the last line. *Mr. Aryan Raichand.*
The name hit her like a physical blow. The air rushed out of her lungs. Her giddy excitement evaporated, replaced by a cold, numbing horror.
No. No, no, no. It couldn’t be. Not *him*. Not the furious, suit-wearing, latte-drenched billionaire who thought she was an “incompetent imbecile” and a “valet.” The one she had publicly insulted. The one she prayed to never see again.
Her eyes frantically scanned the contract, searching for an escape. Her gaze fell upon the dreaded ‘Breach Clause.’
*Failure to adhere to any terms will result in a penalty equivalent to fifty (50) times the monthly stipend, or the entire remaining loan amount of the undersigned party, whichever is greater.*
Fifty times the monthly stipend. Or her entire family’s debt. Which was an astronomical sum. She had already received the advance. She was trapped. Utterly, irrevocably trapped.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number: “A car will pick you up at 9:30 AM tomorrow. Do not be late. – A.R.”
Meera stared at the text, then at the Raichand Tower address, then at her own reflection in the darkened laptop screen. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with dawning horror. She had walked blindly into the lion’s den, and the lion was already expecting her.
She had signed the contract. She had taken the money. She was bound. And she was about to face the man she had infuriated, the man who was now her “reclusive client,” her “employer,” and, according to the contract’s true fine print, her “live-in companion” for the next year.
Her artistic dreams, her desperate search for a way out of debt, had just led her straight into a contractual nightmare. The thought of living under the same roof as Aryan Raichand, of having to pretend to be his “companion,” made her want to scream. This was not the lifeline she had envisioned. This was a prison built of gold and simmering resentment.
She swallowed hard, a dry, bitter taste in her mouth. Tomorrow morning. The Raichand Tower. And the man who hated her on sight.
*Oh, my God,* she thought, the words a silent scream in her head. *What have I done?*
The stage was set. The contract was signed. The trap was sprung. And Meera Sharma, the free-spirited artist, was about to enter the perfectly ordered, intensely frustrating, and utterly bewildering world of Aryan Raichand.
**Cliffhanger:** Meera has just discovered the true identity of her employer: Aryan Raichand, the very man she publicly humiliated. She realizes she’s trapped by the astronomical penalty clause in the contract. The next chapter will open with her arrival at the opulent Raichand mansion, the immediate, explosive confrontation as she comes face-to-face with Aryan, and their mutual horror at being stuck with each other.
Chapter 3
The morning light, usually a cheerful harbinger of a new day, felt like a cruel spotlight on Meera’s growing dread. The email, with its stark, damning revelation – “Client Name: Mr. Aryan Raichand” – had effectively sucked all the air out of her lungs. It felt like a cosmic joke, a sadistic twist of fate designed to make her already chaotic life utterly unmanageable.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Meri?” Priya asked, her voice laced with concern as she watched Meera haphazardly shove clothes into a worn duffel bag. “It just feels… wrong. ‘Artistic Companion’ for a billionaire? And it’s *him*? The latte guy?” Priya still couldn’t quite wrap her head around the absurdity of it all.
Meera let out a humourless laugh. “Want to? No. Need to? Absolutely.” She gestured vaguely at the crumpled bank notice still sitting on her desk, a silent, menacing testament to her family’s crippling debt. “I signed the contract, Priya. I took the advance. The penalty clause… it’s our entire loan amount. I can’t back out. Not unless I want my parents to lose everything. So, yes, I’m doing this. Whether I want to or not.”
A sleek black luxury sedan, so shiny it seemed to absorb the morning light, glided to a silent stop outside their modest building. Its polished exterior starkly contrasted with the peeling paint of the surrounding facades. It was an unmistakable symbol of the world Meera was about to enter. Priya whistled. “Wow. They’re certainly not skimping on the ride.”
Meera stared at the car, a lump forming in her throat. This was it. The point of no return. She slung her duffel bag over her shoulder, grabbed her battered art supplies box – a small piece of her true self she refused to leave behind – and took a deep, shaky breath. “Wish me luck,” she whispered to Priya, trying to muster a brave face.
“Good luck, Meri. Try not to spill anything on him this time,” Priya joked, though her eyes were serious.
Meera managed a weak smile. “I’ll try.”
The drive was surreal. Meera, usually prone to chatter, sat in stunned silence, pressing her face against the cool window. The city transformed around them. The familiar, bustling streets of Bandra gave way to wide, tree-lined avenues of South Mumbai, where sprawling colonial bungalows gave way to towering glass structures that glittered like jewels. Each block seemed to increase in affluence, the air growing cleaner, the noise receding. The car, cushioned and silent, was a cocoon separating her from the real world, carrying her inevitably towards a reality she could barely comprehend.
She thought of Aryan Raichand. His sharp features, his cold, piercing eyes, the way he carried himself with an aura of absolute authority. The image of his coffee-soaked suit, the pure, unadulterated rage on his face, flashed in her mind. How was she going to live with that man? For a year? It felt like a year-long sentence in a high-security, gold-plated prison.
The car finally turned into a long, winding driveway, flanked by meticulously manicured lawns and towering ancient trees. A wrought-iron gate, a masterpiece of intricate craftsmanship, silently swung open, revealing a sight that stole Meera’s breath.
The Raichand Mansion was not merely a house; it was an estate. A majestic, sprawling edifice of white marble and dark wood, blending traditional Indian architectural elements with contemporary grandeur. It looked less like a home and more like a private museum, or perhaps a wing of a very exclusive five-star hotel. Fountains sculpted into mythical creatures gurgled gently in the perfectly symmetrical gardens. It was beautiful, undeniably. And utterly, terrifyingly, impersonal.
The car pulled up to a grand portico, where a liveried chauffeur opened the door. Meera stepped out, feeling utterly minuscule and out of place. Her worn sneakers and paint-stained jeans felt like an affront to the mansion’s pristine elegance.
A man in a crisp white uniform, with an air of dignified formality, stepped forward. His hair was slicked back, his posture ramrod straight. He looked like something out of a classic British drama. “Welcome, Ms. Sharma. I am Mr. Khanna, the head butler. We were expecting you.” His voice was calm, utterly devoid of judgment, yet Meera still felt an instinctive need to apologize for her existence.
“Uh, hello, Mr. Khanna. Thank you.” She clutched her duffel bag tighter, her art supplies box tucked under her arm.
“If you’ll follow me, please. Your quarters have been prepared.” Mr. Khanna gestured towards the massive, ornate front doors that seemed to open on their own accord.
Meera stepped inside, and her jaw, already slack, dropped further. The entrance hall was a cavernous space, crowned by a glittering crystal chandelier that must have cost more than her entire family’s debt combined. Marble floors, polished to a mirror sheen, reflected the soaring ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes. Expensive artwork adorned the walls, each piece undoubtedly a priceless masterpiece. The air was cool, scented faintly with lilies and something else she couldn’t place – perhaps the smell of old money and unyielding power.
She followed Mr. Khanna, her head swiveling, taking it all in. A sweeping staircase, grander than anything she had ever seen outside of a movie, dominated the space. Corridors stretched endlessly, lined with closed doors, hinting at countless hidden rooms. A maid, passing by, gave her a polite, almost imperceptible nod. Everyone moved with a quiet efficiency, as if afraid to disturb the opulent stillness.
Mr. Khanna led her down a wide, silent corridor, past several closed doors, towards what felt like the quieter wing of the mansion. “Mr. Raichand is currently in a meeting, but he will join you shortly. He asked that you make yourself comfortable.”
He opened a door to a spacious room bathed in soft, natural light. It was decorated in muted tones of cream and gold, impeccably furnished with plush carpets, a king-sized bed, and elegant, antique-looking furniture. A large window overlooked a sprawling garden, a perfect, serene landscape. It was beautiful. Sterile. Completely impersonal.
“Your attached bathroom is through here,” Mr. Khanna indicated a door. “And if you require anything at all, please do not hesitate to use the intercom. A member of the staff will be at your service.”
“Oh. Right. Thank you, Mr. Khanna,” Meera mumbled, feeling a sudden surge of acute self-consciousness. This was not a job. This was an entirely new, baffling existence. This was certainly not an “art assistant” role. There wasn't a single easel in sight, no smell of paint, no creative chaos.
Mr. Khanna bowed slightly and closed the door, leaving Meera alone in the vast, silent room. The silence was deafening after the constant hum of city life and the familiar chaos of her own apartment. She dropped her duffel bag and art box onto the plush carpet, feeling utterly overwhelmed.
She walked to the window, gazing out at the manicured garden, a sense of profound unease settling over her. This was Aryan Raichand’s world. A world of control, order, and immense wealth. How was she, a clumsy, free-spirited artist, supposed to fit into this? How was she supposed to pretend to be his “companion” when the very thought of him made her break out in a cold sweat?
She noticed a small, framed photo on the bedside table. Curious, she picked it up. It was a picture of a younger Aryan, perhaps in his early twenties, smiling widely, an arm slung casually around a beautiful, elegant woman. She had dark hair, a confident smile, and an air of sophistication. *His ex? A past girlfriend?* The thought flickered, bringing a strange pang she couldn’t quite place. She quickly put the photo back, feeling like an intruder.
A soft chime startled her. It was the intercom. “Ms. Sharma? Mr. Raichand is now available to see you in his study. If you would kindly follow the path through the main hall to the far right, you will find it.” It was Mr. Khanna’s voice, calm and polite as ever.
Meera’s heart began to thrum. This was it. The face-to-face. The moment of truth. She ran a hand over her hair, tried to smooth out the creases in her jacket, took a deep breath, and walked out of the room, her footsteps unnervingly loud on the silent marble floor.
She followed the directions, her nerves a jangling mess. Each step felt heavier than the last. She passed more imposing doors, more priceless art. The sheer scale of the wealth was oppressive. Finally, she reached a grand, solid wood door. It was slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of light and the murmur of voices. She hesitated, then pushed it open gently.
The study was exactly what she would expect from Aryan Raichand. Walls lined with leather-bound books, a massive mahogany desk dominating the center, and a large window overlooking the city, even higher than his office. The air was filled with the scent of old paper and new money.
Aryan Raichand stood by the window, his back to her, talking on the phone. He was, predictably, in another impeccably tailored suit, this one a dark navy. His voice, crisp and authoritative, echoed faintly in the large room. “—no, Rohan, I need that report before the end of the day. And ensure all new candidates for the, ah, *position* are vetted thoroughly. No more surprises.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, a familiar gesture of subtle frustration.
Meera felt a cold wave of dread wash over her. *No more surprises.* He was talking about *her*. He didn’t know it was her yet.
She took another shaky breath. “Mr. Raichand?” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
Aryan stiffened. He slowly turned, his phone still pressed to his ear. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over her, taking in her paint-stained jeans, her slightly rumpled jacket, her wide, anxious eyes. His brow furrowed in a slight frown, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Clearly, he was already unimpressed.
And then, it happened. The flicker of irritation deepened into a sharp, disbelieving shock. His eyes widened, a muscle in his jaw twitched. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking ashen. His hand, still holding the phone to his ear, slowly dropped, the call forgotten.
His gaze locked onto hers, a gaze of pure, unadulterated horror.
“You,” he hissed, the single word loaded with a lifetime of exasperation and disbelief.
Meera felt the floor tilt beneath her. She hadn't thought it possible, but Aryan Raichand looked even more enraged than he had when she'd drenched him in coffee. His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed into slits of pure fury.
“You!” he repeated, his voice rising, a low, dangerous growl. “What in the name of God are *you* doing here?”
Meera, despite her terror, found a spark of her usual defiance. “I’m here because I was told to be here!” she shot back, her voice trembling but gaining strength. “I’m your new ‘Artistic Companion’! Or so your vague, deceptive job advertisement claimed!”
Aryan strode towards her, his movements stiff with suppressed rage. “My *what*? Are you mad? This is some kind of sick joke, isn’t it? Who sent you? Rohan! I told him no more surprises!” He pulled out his phone, his fingers flying, ready to call Rohan and unleash the full force of his fury.
“Wait, wait!” Meera cried, instinctively putting her hands up. “I’m here because I got an email. It said ‘Raichand Tower, Penthouse Residence, Client: Mr. Aryan Raichand’! And then a car came for me! I thought it was some kind of high-end art consultancy, not… not *this*! What is this, Mr. Raichand? What is this ‘Artistic Companion’ job?”
Aryan stopped, his hand still poised over his phone, his eyes boring into hers. The absolute sincerity in her voice, the genuine confusion and fear on her face, momentarily disarmed his rage. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and the pieces clicked into place. The vague job ad, Rohan’s wry comments about ‘colorful’ resumes, the desperation. It was *her*. It was the coffee-spilling menace. His new ‘contractual partner.’
His face hardened. “You didn’t read the contract, did you?” His voice was dangerously low.
Meera swallowed, her cheeks flushing with shame. “I… I skimmed it. I saw the salary. And the advance. My family… we’re in a lot of debt. I needed the money. Desperately.” The admission was painful, stripped bare of all pride.
Aryan let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Of course, you did. You ‘skimmed’ a legally binding document. Well, let me enlighten you, Ms. Sharma. That ‘Artistic Companion’ job you so carelessly signed up for? It’s not an art assistant. It’s a ‘live-in girlfriend’ contract. For one year.”
Meera’s eyes widened, her jaw dropping open. “What?! A… a girlfriend? Are you out of your mind? I’m supposed to be your… your *girlfriend*?” The words felt alien, absurd, grotesque.
“A ‘contractual partner’ is the official term,” Aryan corrected, his voice clipped and precise, as if clarifying a business proposal. “I need to present a stable, settled image for a crucial international merger. My grandmother, Dadi, is also… insistent that I find a suitable match. You are, apparently, the ‘suitable match’ Rohan’s team found for me. Someone desperate enough to sign a comprehensive contract without reading the details.” He spoke with a cold, almost clinical detachment, as if discussing a defective product.
Meera felt a surge of incandescent fury, hotter than any latte. “You… you tricked me! You posted a vague ad, disguised it as an art job, and then made me sign a contract to be your fake girlfriend? This is… this is insane! This is immoral! This is completely unethical!” She took a step back, her hands clenching into fists. “I can’t do this! I won’t do this! I’m leaving!”
She spun on her heel, ready to bolt from the room, from the mansion, from this nightmare.
“Stop.” Aryan’s voice was a whip-crack, cutting through the air. “You can’t.”
Meera froze. She turned back, her eyes blazing. “Watch me! You think I’m going to stay here and pretend to be your girlfriend after you’ve manipulated me like this? You think I’m going to pretend to like a man who calls me an ‘incompetent imbecile’ and insults my art? Never!”
Aryan walked slowly towards his desk, his expression unreadable. He picked up a thick file, its cover embossed with the Raichand Industries logo. He opened it, revealing several pages of densely packed text. He tapped a finger on a particular paragraph.
“You mentioned your family’s debt, Ms. Sharma,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “The penalty clause. Remember that? Fifty times the monthly stipend. Or the entire remaining loan amount of the undersigned party, whichever is greater.” He looked up, his eyes cold and unwavering. “As per your signed agreement, if you terminate this contract now, you will owe Raichand Industries a sum of… let me see… approximately ten crore rupees. That, I believe, is considerably more than your family’s entire outstanding loan amount. And it would be due immediately.”
Meera stared at him, her breath hitched in her throat. Ten crore rupees. That was… that was an impossible sum. More than her father’s entire life savings. More than she could ever hope to earn in a lifetime. Her legs felt weak. The blood drained from her face.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly. “No, that’s… that’s not fair. You can’t… you can’t hold me to that!”
“It’s a legally binding contract, Ms. Sharma. Your digital signature is on every page. You signed it, you accepted the advance. You are bound.” Aryan’s voice was utterly devoid of sympathy. “I needed a solution, a discreet one. You needed money. We both got what we wanted. It’s a business transaction, pure and simple. And you, it seems, are a part of that transaction.”
Meera felt the world tilt again, this time not from giddiness, but from sheer, utter despair. She felt trapped, suffocated, caught in a web of her own desperation and his ruthless pragmatism. Her dreams of saving her family, of being an artist, felt crushed under the weight of this impossible contract. She had traded one set of chains for another, heavier ones.
Her eyes welled up with frustrated tears. “You’re a monster,” she choked out, her voice cracking. “A heartless, manipulative monster.”
Aryan merely raised an eyebrow, unmoved. “And you, Ms. Sharma, are a naive, impulsive, and incredibly clumsy artist who just signed away a year of her life without reading the fine print. Which, ironically, makes you perfect for this charade.”
He walked past her, towards the door, and opened it. “Mr. Khanna,” he called, his voice resuming its normal, authoritative tone. “Please show Ms. Sharma to her suite. And arrange for a wardrobe consultation immediately. Her… current attire is unsuitable for a Raichand. And arrange for my dry cleaning. Again.” He didn’t even look at her as he spoke, his gaze already distant, his mind clearly back on mergers and money.
Meera stood frozen, tears streaming silently down her face. She was trapped. Trapped in a gilded cage, bound to a man who despised her, forced to play a role she never imagined. The sheer magnitude of her predicament crashed down on her.
Aryan Raichand, still speaking to Mr. Khanna about schedules and upcoming events, finally glanced back at her, his expression a mix of resignation and irritation. “Look, Ms. Sharma. This isn’t ideal for either of us. You’re not exactly what I envisioned. But we’re stuck. For a year. So, for both our sakes, let’s try to make this… tolerable.”
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, a flicker of warning in his cold eyes. “And try not to cause any more chaos than absolutely necessary. My life, and my family’s empire, depends on it. Understood?”
Meera could only stare at him, speechless, overwhelmed by the impossible reality that had just become her life. The man who had been the source of her recent humiliation was now her reluctant captor, her fake boyfriend, and her only hope of saving her family. Her artistic spirit, her fierce independence, felt utterly crushed. How could she possibly survive a year in this mansion, under his cold, calculating gaze, playing a role that felt like a betrayal of everything she was?
**Cliffhanger:** Meera is utterly shattered by the revelation of the contract’s true nature and the astronomical penalty for breach, leaving her no option but to stay. Aryan, equally exasperated but bound by necessity, gives her a final, chilling warning. The chapter ends with Meera trapped in the luxurious prison, facing an impossible year with a man who despises her, leaving the reader to wonder how these two clashing personalities will ever manage to coexist, let alone pretend to be in love.
Chapter 4
The echo of Aryan’s final, chilling words – “My life, and my family’s empire, depends on it. Understood?” – hung heavy in the opulent study, each syllable a fresh lash against Meera’s raw nerves. She could only stare at him, her throat tight with unshed tears, her mind reeling from the impossible reality that had just slammed into her. *Understood?* How could she possibly understand a situation so absurd, so cruel, so utterly devoid of logic? She was trapped, unequivocally, devastatingly trapped.
Aryan, seemingly oblivious to the seismic shift he’d just caused in her universe, turned back to his desk, picking up a pen and a document, already immersed in the world of mergers and corporate strategy. Meera felt herself become invisible, a mere footnote in his grand, meticulously planned existence. It was a stark reminder of her insignificance to him, beyond being a necessary, inconvenient prop in his life’s carefully orchestrated play.
“Mr. Khanna will show you to your quarters,” he stated, not looking up, his voice flat. “A selection of clothes will be sent up. We have a family dinner tonight. Be ready by eight.”
The casual command, the dismissive tone, ignited a flicker of defiance in Meera’s chest, pushing past the despair. He was treating her like an inanimate object, a piece of furniture. She might be trapped, but she wouldn’t be a doormat.
“A family dinner?” she finally managed to choke out, her voice still shaky but laced with an unexpected bite. “And you expect me to sit there, pretending to be your doting girlfriend, after you’ve just… enslaved me? Do I get a script? Or do I just make up a hilariously tragic backstory about how we fell madly in love?” The sarcasm was thick, a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control, however small.
Aryan finally looked up, his gaze cold. “Your script, Ms. Sharma, is to be polite, charming, and utterly convincing. Any deviation, any hint of the truth, and believe me, the consequences for your family will be swift and severe. I don’t make threats lightly.” His eyes held a chilling intensity that made her shiver despite her anger. “As for our ‘love story’… we can discuss the palatable version later. For now, just focus on not spilling anything, breaking anything, or otherwise embarrassing me.”
The door to the study opened, and Mr. Khanna appeared, his presence as silent and unobtrusive as ever. “Ms. Sharma, if you’ll allow me.” He gestured for her to follow.
Meera hesitated for a moment longer, wanting to scream, to lash out, to do anything to shatter Aryan’s infuriating composure. But the image of her ailing father, her worried mother, flashed in her mind. She couldn’t. Not now. Not ever. She was truly, undeniably stuck.
She spun on her heel and stormed out of the study, leaving Aryan to his perfectly ordered world, the silent tears finally escaping and running hot tracks down her cheeks. Mr. Khanna, ever the professional, pretended not to notice, leading her back to the opulent suite. It no longer felt like a haven, but a gilded cage, its bars made of debt and deception.
Once the door clicked shut behind her, the façade crumbled. Meera threw her duffel bag onto the plush bed with a frustrated cry. Her art supplies box, usually a source of comfort, felt heavy and useless. She paced the room, her thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief, anger, and panic.
“A live-in girlfriend?!” she muttered to herself, running a hand through her hair, tugging at the roots. “He thinks I’m going to pretend to love him? Him! The most insufferable, arrogant, cold-hearted man on the planet!” She kicked at the leg of a pristine antique chair, instantly regretting it when a faint scuff appeared on the polished wood. *Great. Already breaking things.*
She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the keypad. She had to call Priya. She had to tell someone the full, insane truth. Her best friend would understand. She’d help her think of a way out.
But then she remembered the contract’s clauses. *Confidentiality. Non-disclosure regarding the nature of the relationship and the Client’s personal life.* And the penalty. What if even a phone call was considered a breach? What if Aryan, with his endless resources and ruthless efficiency, had a way of monitoring her?
Her thumb hovered over Priya’s contact. She couldn’t risk it. Not with her family’s future hanging in the balance. She felt utterly, terrifyingly alone.
A knock on the door startled her. “Ms. Sharma? A stylist has arrived with some selections for your consideration.” It was Mr. Khanna again, his voice as calm as a placid lake.
Meera took a deep, shuddering breath. This was it. The performance had already begun.
***
Meanwhile, in his study, Aryan Raichand was seething. He had just finished a phone call with Rohan, a call that had devolved into a shouting match on Aryan’s end and barely suppressed laughter on Rohan’s.
“You found *her*?!” Aryan had roared, pacing his study like a caged tiger. “The woman who ruined my hundred-thousand-rupee suit? The one who called me a *valet*? Are you completely insane, Rohan? You were supposed to find someone discreet, pliable, utterly unremarkable!”
Rohan’s voice, annoyingly calm, had floated through the phone. “Well, she is desperate, which was high on your list. She is, surprisingly, discreet in a ‘doesn’t seem to know anything’ kind of way. And as for unremarkable… her resume was certainly… colorful. Look, I didn’t know she was the coffee incident girl until after the interview was approved by the system and she’d already signed! The algorithm flagged her for ‘artistic companion’ keywords! And anyway, if you want someone utterly unremarkable, why are you bringing an artist into your home in the first place, Aryan? It’s a year, not a lifetime. Just keep her away from the expensive porcelain, and you’ll be fine.” The last part was punctuated by a snort of laughter.
“She’s going to be a disaster, Rohan! A walking, talking, paint-splattering, truth-telling disaster!” Aryan practically screamed into the phone. “She’s already furious! She wants to leave!”
“Ah, but she can’t, can she?” Rohan’s voice was full of amusement. “That penalty clause is a thing of beauty, isn’t it? My legal team worked tirelessly on that. She’s locked in, boss. Like it or not, she’s your fake girlfriend. And who knows, maybe her chaos will be a refreshing change for Dadi. She’s certainly not one of those socialite clones Dadi keeps trying to set you up with.”
Aryan slammed the phone down, ignoring Rohan’s parting chuckle. He ran a hand over his face, feeling a migraine building behind his eyes. Rohan was right, in his infuriating way. Meera Sharma was the antithesis of everything Aryan usually tolerated. She was chaos personified, a walking accident waiting to happen, loud and expressive and completely unpredictable. And he was stuck with her for a year. A year of public appearances, family dinners, and feigned affection with a woman who probably wanted to set his suit on fire.
He walked to the window, gazing out at the vast expanse of his city. The merger. Mr. Chen and his traditional, family-values-obsessed investors. Dadi’s relentless matchmaking. His legacy. His entire world was built on order, control, and precision. Meera Sharma was a wrecking ball in a china shop.
He had to lay down the law. He had to set boundaries, strict, unbendable rules to contain her chaotic energy. He would turn her into a compliant, manageable asset. He had to. His empire depended on it.
***
Eight o’clock found Meera standing awkwardly in her opulent suite, feeling like a doll dressed up for a stranger’s party. The stylist, a supremely elegant woman named Ms. Kapoor, had been ruthlessly efficient, discarding Meera’s entire wardrobe with a dismissive wave. “Unsuitable,” she’d declared with a sniff. In their place hung an array of designer clothes – elegant dresses, tailored trousers, silk blouses. Clothes that felt utterly foreign, utterly *not* Meera.
She was currently wearing a simple but undeniably expensive black dress, its fabric soft against her skin, clinging in all the right places. Ms. Kapoor had insisted on a subtle makeup look and had even tried to tame her naturally wild hair into a sophisticated bun. Meera felt like an alien in her own skin, a carefully curated version of herself. She knew it was what Aryan wanted, what this 'job' demanded. But it felt like a betrayal of her own identity.
A soft knock on the door. It was Mr. Khanna. “Mr. Raichand is waiting, Ms. Sharma.”
Meera’s stomach clenched. Show time. She took a deep breath, trying to summon every ounce of the dramatic flair she used for her art, and walked out.
Aryan was waiting at the foot of the grand staircase, looking impossibly handsome and impossibly formal in a dark suit. His eyes, usually cold and unreadable, flickered over her as she descended the stairs. A hint of surprise, perhaps even a grudging approval, crossed his face, quickly masked by his usual stoic expression.
“You’re late,” he stated, his voice flat, immediately deflating any fleeting sense of confidence she might have had.
“Apologies, Mr. Raichand,” Meera retorted, forcing a tight, polite smile. “I wasn’t aware that becoming a life-sized doll required such punctuality.”
His jaw tightened. “Let’s get one thing clear, Ms. Sharma. While we are under this arrangement, you will refer to me as Aryan in front of others. And in private, you will address me respectfully. There will be no more sarcastic remarks, no more public outbursts, and no more… *incidents*.” He gestured vaguely, his irritation palpable.
He then pulled out a folded piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket. It was crisp, white, and looked alarmingly official. “I’ve drawn up a list of guidelines for your conduct. Learn them. Adhere to them. This is not a request; it’s a non-negotiable requirement.”
He unfolded the paper and held it out to her. Meera took it, her fingers brushing his. The contact was brief, but a faint spark, a strange awareness, shot up her arm. She quickly pulled her hand away, focusing on the paper.
The list was typed, single-spaced, and alarmingly comprehensive. Meera’s eyes widened as she read the heading: **“GUIDELINES FOR TEMPORARY HOUSEHOLD COMPANION (MS. MEERA SHARMA)”**
1. **Public Demeanor:** Always present as my devoted and loving partner. Physical contact (holding hands, light touches, occasional arm around waist) is mandatory in public, as is maintaining eye contact and a warm smile. Absolutely no public arguments or contradictory statements.
2. **Private Conduct:** You will occupy the designated guest suite. My personal study, office, and private chambers are off-limits without explicit permission. Maintain the decorum and quiet expected in a Raichand residence. No loud music, late-night visitors, or unapproved alterations to the household.
3. **Communication:** All communication regarding our ‘relationship’ story will be coordinated through me. Do not improvise. Any personal questions from family or guests are to be redirected to me or answered with vague, affectionate responses.
4. **Appearance:** You will dress as advised by the household stylist for all public and family engagements. Personal artistic endeavors are confined to your suite and must not disrupt the household.
5. **Household Staff:** Treat all staff with courtesy and respect. No fraternizing or discussing personal matters with them.
6. **Schedule:** Your schedule will be provided daily. Punctuality is paramount. Unexpected events may arise, requiring immediate adaptation.
7. **Personal Opinions:** Keep your opinions on business, politics, or any controversial topics to yourself. Defer to my judgment in all discussions.
8. **Discretion:** The nature of our arrangement is strictly confidential. Any breach will result in immediate termination of the contract and enforcement of the full penalty clause.
9. **No Emotional Attachments:** This is a professional arrangement. There will be no development of genuine romantic feelings on either side. Maintain emotional distance.
Meera’s eyes skimmed through the points, her anger steadily rising. Item after item dictated her entire being. *No personal opinions? No emotional attachments? No unapproved alterations to the household?* It wasn’t a list of guidelines; it was a blueprint for a robot, a set of instructions for erasing who she was. She was being asked to turn off her very essence, to become an empty vessel for his convenience.
She looked up, her gaze meeting his, a new fire burning in her eyes, eclipsing the earlier despair. “This isn’t a contract, Aryan Raichand,” she said, her voice low and steady, dropping the ‘Mr.’ deliberately. “This is a prison manifesto. You want me to be a puppet? A lifeless mannequin? I am an artist. I am a person. I have opinions, I have feelings, and I certainly do not ‘defer to your judgment in all discussions’!”
Aryan’s expression remained unyielding. “You are a person who signed a contract, Ms. Sharma. And a person who is now bound by its terms. You are being paid a considerable sum to perform a service. My expectations are clear. Your compliance is mandatory.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “Now, are we going to stand here arguing all night, or are you going to accompany me to dinner? Dadi abhors tardiness.”
He turned and began to walk towards the dining hall, expecting her to follow. Meera stood rooted to the spot, clutching the list, her heart hammering against her ribs. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest. Every artistic impulse, every free-spirited thought, recoiled from the suffocating rigidity of his rules.
But then, she thought of her family. Her father’s medical bills. The crushing debt. The impossible penalty.
She bit back a furious retort, balled the paper tightly in her hand, and forced herself to take a step forward. Then another. And another. She wouldn't be a puppet. She wouldn't be erased. She would play the part, yes, but she would find her own ways to subvert his rules, to keep a piece of herself intact. She would find cracks in his perfect façade. She had to. Otherwise, she might truly disappear.
As she walked, the rustle of the expensive fabric against her legs felt less like a costume and more like a shroud. She was entering the lion’s den, forced to play the lamb. But deep down, a tiny, defiant spark ignited. She might be trapped, but she was still Meera Sharma. And Aryan Raichand was about to find out that a free spirit, even one in shackles, was impossible to truly contain.
**Cliffhanger:** Meera has been presented with Aryan's strict, dehumanizing list of rules, confirming her fears about the nature of her imprisonment. She feels crushed, but a spark of defiance ignites within her, vowing to find ways to resist his control and maintain her identity. The chapter ends with her reluctantly following him to dinner, the stage set for their first public performance as a "couple," with Meera's internal struggle and simmering rebellion promising immediate conflict and comedy.
Chapter 5
The smooth, polished marble floor seemed to stretch for miles before Meera, each step a reluctant echo in the cavernous hallway. In her hand, Aryan’s ludicrous list of rules, titled “GUIDELINES FOR TEMPORARY HOUSEHOLD COMPANION,” was crumpled into a tight ball, its crisp edges digging into her palm like tiny reproaches. *No personal opinions. No emotional attachments. Compliance is mandatory.* His words, cold and clinical, replayed in her mind, a stark reminder of her gilded imprisonment. The expensive black dress, carefully chosen by the stylist, felt less like a sophisticated garment and more like a uniform, stripping her of her identity piece by painful piece. She was a performer, on the cusp of her first, terrifying act.
Aryan, walking a few paces ahead, was a rigid pillar of composure, his back a wall of tailored dark fabric. He hadn’t looked back, hadn’t offered a word of encouragement, or even a pre-dinner reminder of their fabricated love story. It was as if her existence, beyond her contractual obligation, was irrelevant. The disdain emanating from him was almost palpable, a silent hum in the rarefied air of the mansion.
Meera took a deep, shaky breath, her gaze darting around the hallway. Priceless paintings adorned the walls, each in its own spotlight, silently judging her. She spotted a vibrant, abstract piece, its colors swirling with a raw, untamed energy that resonated with her own artistic soul. A tiny, defiant spark flickered within her. This wasn’t just *his* house; it was a museum of wealth, and she, for better or worse, was now an unwilling exhibit. She wouldn’t just exist within these walls; she would, in her own subtle ways, leave her mark, however small, however accidental.
They reached the grand dining hall. Its heavy, ornately carved double doors stood slightly ajar, emitting a warm, inviting glow and the faint clink of cutlery. Before Aryan could push them open, a sudden, unfamiliar voice, rich and resonant, boomed from within.
“Aryan! There you are, beta! I was just about to send the entire staff to find you. One would think a young man of your age would be eager to introduce his new ‘companion’ to his loving grandmother!”
Meera watched as a jolt went through Aryan’s rigid posture. His shoulders stiffened further, and he let out a barely perceptible sigh, a sound of utter exasperation. The ‘surprise visit’ Mr. Khanna had mentioned suddenly clicked into place. This was Dadi. His formidable, matchmaking-obsessed Dadi. The very reason for this whole insane charade.
He pushed the doors open, revealing a breathtaking scene. The dining hall was vast, an expanse of polished mahogany and gleaming silver. A long table, laden with crystal and exquisite china, stretched across the room, already set for a lavish meal. At the head of the table, seated regally in a high-backed chair, was an elderly woman, her posture upright, her silver hair coiled in a neat bun. She was adorned in a richly embroidered silk sari, jewels glittering at her neck and wrists, exuding an aura of undeniable authority and old-world charm. This was Mrs. Savitri Raichand, the matriarch, the puppet-master.
Dadi’s eyes, surprisingly bright and sharp for her age, immediately fixed on Meera, who was standing a little behind Aryan, feeling like an awkward shadow. A warm smile, tinged with a hint of shrewd curiosity, spread across the matriarch’s face.
“Dadi,” Aryan began, his voice surprisingly strained, though he quickly masked it with a polite smile. “What a… delightful surprise. I wasn’t expecting you until next month.” His eyes flickered to Meera, a silent, desperate plea for her to play along. He then turned to Meera, his hand hovering awkwardly near her elbow, as if unsure whether to touch her. “Meera, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Savitri Raichand. Dadi, this is Meera. My… my girlfriend.”
The word ‘girlfriend’ seemed to stick in his throat, coming out a little too stiffly, a little too forced. Meera felt a blush creep up her neck, acutely aware of the falsity of the declaration. Her mind raced, frantically trying to recall if Aryan had given her *any* script for their first meeting with Dadi. He hadn’t. He’d just said ‘coordinate communication.’ She was completely unprepared.
Dadi’s smile widened, her eyes still twinkling as she assessed Meera from head to toe. “Ah, so this is the girl who has finally managed to tame my workaholic grandson!” she chuckled, her voice warm but with an undercurrent of playful sarcasm directed at Aryan. She gestured towards the seat beside her. “Come, child, come closer. Don’t just stand there like a scared little bird. Let Dadi get a good look at you.”
Meera’s gaze darted to Aryan, who was now subtly glaring at her, a silent command to obey. She took a deep breath, pasted on what she hoped was a charming smile (it probably looked more like a grimace), and walked towards Dadi. As she did, her foot caught on the luxurious, thick carpet, sending her stumbling forward. She let out a small gasp, arms flailing to regain her balance, narrowly avoiding colliding with a priceless antique side table laden with silver serving dishes.
Aryan stiffened, his eyes wide with horror, a silent, frustrated groan escaping his lips. He imagined the headlines: *Billionaire’s Clumsy Girlfriend Destroys Family Heirloom on First Night*. He braced himself for Dadi’s inevitable disapproval, her sharp tongue. This was it. The charade was over before it even began. Meera was too chaotic, too clumsy, too utterly *not* the sophisticated woman Dadi expected. He mentally prepared for Dadi’s lecture, for the immediate end of this impossible contract.
But Dadi didn’t scold her. Instead, a genuine, hearty laugh erupted from her, startling everyone in the room. She watched Meera regain her balance, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Oh, my dear child! Are you quite alright?” Dadi asked, her voice brimming with a warmth Meera hadn’t anticipated. “Such a spirited entrance! Don’t worry, these carpets are tricky even for me sometimes.” She patted the seat next to her. “Come, sit, sit. You must be tired after your journey.”
Meera, flustered but relieved, managed a small, embarrassed laugh. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Dadi. I’m just… I’m a little clumsy sometimes. It runs in the family.” The honesty spilled out before she could censor herself, a direct violation of Aryan’s ‘no public outbursts’ rule. She risked a glance at Aryan, expecting to see his face contorted in fury. Instead, he just looked utterly bewildered, his jaw slightly slack.
Dadi’s eyes softened further. “Clumsy, are we? How endearing! It’s a sign of a real person, not one of those stiff, plastic dolls who are afraid to wrinkle their clothes.” She gave Aryan a pointed look, making him shift uncomfortably. “So, tell me, Meera. How did you two lovebirds meet? Aryan is usually so focused on his work, I’m surprised he even noticed a beautiful girl like you.”
Meera froze. The 'how we met' story. Aryan hadn't given her a script, he'd said they'd "discuss the palatable version later." Later was now. She panicked. Her mind raced, desperately searching for a plausible, romantic tale. But nothing came. Her mind was a blank. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
“Well, Dadi, it was… uh… quite a story, actually,” Meera stammered, her gaze darting from Dadi’s expectant face to Aryan’s subtly panicked one. She could practically see the veins throbbing in his temple. “It was… unexpected. Very unexpected. Like… a collision, you could say.” She chuckled nervously, recalling their disastrous first encounter. “A truly… fiery start.”
Aryan cleared his throat, a sharp, warning sound. “Meera means it was a very… energetic meeting, Dadi. Fate, you know. Sometimes it throws two people together in the most surprising ways.” He tried to interject smoothly, hoping to salvage whatever vague, romantic narrative he could. He sent Meera another furious glare, willing her to follow his lead.
But Dadi, ever perceptive, seemed to sense the underlying tension. She just smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Ah, a fiery start, you say? I like that! Better than some carefully arranged, boring introductions. So, tell me, Meera, what do you do? Aryan told me you’re an artist. How wonderful! My house could use a splash of colour. This boy prefers everything muted and serious.” She waved a hand around the elegantly decorated, but somewhat somber, dining room.
Meera’s eyes lit up, genuinely. This was a topic she actually knew something about, something she was passionate about. “Oh, yes, Dadi! I paint. Mostly abstracts, sometimes portraits. I love using bold colours, trying to capture emotion, movement… the chaos of life, you know?” She gesticulated, forgetting her earlier awkwardness, her hands coming alive as she spoke about her art.
“The chaos of life,” Dadi mused, looking thoughtful. “Hmm. My grandson could certainly use a bit more ‘chaos’ in his life, couldn’t he, Aryan? Always so stiff, so serious. Just like his father was, God rest his soul.” She sighed dramatically, then brightened. “You know, I’ve always wanted to try painting. Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two while you’re here, Meera? I tried once, but my hands just aren’t steady enough for those fine details anymore.”
“Oh, absolutely, Dadi!” Meera exclaimed, genuinely excited. “I’d love to! Abstract art is actually wonderful for expressing yourself without worrying about perfection. It’s all about the feeling!”
Aryan watched the exchange unfold, a slow-motion car crash he couldn’t prevent. His grandmother, the woman who had meticulously vetted every potential bride for him, who dismissed socialites with a single raised eyebrow, was completely, utterly charmed by Meera’s art-infused enthusiasm and accidental clumsiness. It defied all logic. He had expected Dadi to grill Meera on her background, her family lineage, her social graces. He had expected her to find Meera loud, unrefined, utterly unsuitable. Instead, she was beaming, looking at Meera as if she had found the missing piece of his life’s puzzle.
He shot Meera a look that was a potent mix of disbelief and sheer exasperation. *What are you doing?* his eyes seemed to scream. *You’re supposed to be failing this test, not winning over my formidable Dadi!*
Meera, catching his eye, just offered a small, apologetic shrug, mixed with a hint of bewildered triumph. She hadn’t tried to charm Dadi. She had just been herself – clumsy, passionate, and unexpectedly honest. And it seemed to be working.
The dinner progressed with a strange, unsettling ease. Dadi continued to ask Meera questions, not about her social standing or her family’s wealth, but about her artistic passions, her dreams, her general outlook on life. Meera, finding an unexpected comfort in Dadi’s genuine interest, responded openly, forgetting the ‘no personal opinions’ rule. She even managed to tell a funny story about a disastrous attempt at painting a mural for a local café, making Dadi laugh heartily.
Aryan sat beside her, silently fuming, occasionally interjecting with a strained remark about business or the merger, trying to steer the conversation back to more ‘appropriate’ topics. But Dadi simply brushed him aside, her attention firmly fixed on Meera. She watched Meera with a knowing smile, her eyes filled with an approval that bewildered Aryan and confused Meera.
“You know, Meera,” Dadi said, after the main course had been cleared and a delicate dessert was served, “I think you’re exactly what this house, and this boy, needs. A touch of life, a breath of fresh air. So simple, so honest, so unlike all these pretentious socialites Aryan keeps running into. You have a good heart, child. I can see it.” She reached across the table and patted Meera’s hand affectionately. “You remind me of my younger self, actually. Headstrong and passionate. We will get along just fine, won’t we?”
Meera’s cheeks flushed, genuinely touched by Dadi’s words. It was the first sincere compliment she had received since entering this bizarre new world. “Thank you, Dadi. I… I hope so too.”
Aryan, listening to this unexpected pronouncement of approval, felt his carefully constructed plan crumble around him. Dadi had instantly, instinctively approved of the one woman he thought she would find utterly unsuitable. The irony was suffocating. His cynical expectation of her disapproval, which he had secretly intended to use as an escape route after the merger, had backfired spectacularly. Now, not only was he stuck with Meera, but Dadi genuinely liked her.
Just as he was trying to process this unprecedented turn of events, Dadi clapped her hands together, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Excellent! That settles it then! I think I’ll extend my stay for a few days. I want to spend more time getting to know Meera. We can have our painting lessons, and you can tell me more of your wonderful stories, child. And Aryan, you can take some time off from that dreadful office of yours and spend it with your lovely girlfriend. You both need to learn how to truly relax and enjoy each other’s company.”
Aryan nearly choked on his dessert. *Extend her stay? Spend more time? Relax?* His carefully controlled world was spinning out of control. He shot a frantic, desperate look at Meera, his eyes wide with a silent plea: *Help me.*
Meera, equally stunned by Dadi’s announcement, could only stare back, a mixture of confusion and growing panic on her face. Her simple, clumsy charm had, inadvertently, just raised the stakes to an impossible level. She was not only trapped, but now she was trapped under the loving, watchful, and highly observant eye of the matriarch herself. The charade had just gotten infinitely harder, and far more intimate, than she could have ever imagined.
**Cliffhanger:** Dadi, unexpectedly charmed by Meera's naturalness and simplicity, decides to extend her stay at the mansion to "get to know" Meera better. This decision throws Aryan into a state of utter shock and despair, as his cynical plan is completely derailed. Meera, initially confused by Dadi's approval, now realizes the immense pressure of maintaining the charade under the matriarch's direct, loving scrutiny, setting the stage for hilariously awkward attempts at feigned affection.
Chapter 6
The dessert, a delicate mango kulfi, tasted like ash in Aryan’s mouth. Dadi’s pronouncement – “I’ll extend my stay for a few days… and Aryan, you can take some time off… to enjoy each other’s company” – hung in the air, a death knell to his carefully constructed peace. He shot a frantic, desperate look at Meera, his eyes wide with a silent plea: *Help me.* But Meera, equally stunned, could only stare back, a mixture of confusion and growing panic on her face. Her simple, clumsy charm had, inadvertently, just raised the stakes to an impossible level. She was not only trapped, but now she was trapped under the loving, watchful, and highly observant eye of the matriarch herself. The charade had just gotten infinitely harder, and far more intimate, than he could have ever imagined.
***
The following morning, Meera woke up to the oppressive silence of her suite, the lingering scent of last night’s opulent dinner still clinging to the air. Her mind, however, was far from peaceful. Dadi’s decision to extend her stay felt like a giant, suffocating blanket had been thrown over the entire mansion, specifically tailored to ensure maximum discomfort for Meera and Aryan. She had played the part of the charming, clumsy artist, and Dadi, to Aryan’s evident horror, had bought it hook, line, and sinker. Now, the real performance began: Operation: Convince Dadi.
She dragged herself out of the impossibly soft bed, feeling more exhausted than when she’d gone to sleep. Last night, Aryan had dismissed her with a curt “Goodnight, Meera,” his face a mask of barely contained fury, leaving her to process the surreal events alone. She’d crumpled onto the bed, the absurdity of her situation – a fake girlfriend, in a fake relationship, in a real mansion, under the benevolent gaze of a woman who genuinely seemed to like her – a heavy weight on her chest. How was she going to pretend to be head-over-heels in love with a man who looked at her as if she were a particularly irritating stain on his bespoke carpet?
A knock at the door startled her from her reverie. “Ms. Sharma? Breakfast is served. Mrs. Raichand is expecting you.” It was Mr. Khanna, ever the punctual harbinger of her new reality.
Meera let out a frustrated sigh. No reprieve, then. The gilded cage beckoned.
She quickly dressed in a simple, elegant day dress that the stylist had approved for casual wear. It was a soft pastel, a stark contrast to her usual bold colours, but she knew it was part of the uniform now. She ran a hand through her hair, which, despite the stylist’s best efforts, still retained a rebellious wave. A small, defiant smile touched her lips. They could dress her up, but they couldn’t completely erase her.
When she entered the breakfast nook – a slightly less formal, but equally grand, dining space – Dadi was already seated, elegantly sipping tea from a delicate china cup. Aryan was there too, rigid in his seat opposite Dadi, meticulously buttering a piece of toast, his jaw set in a line so tight it looked painful. The air around him crackled with a barely suppressed tension. He shot Meera a quick, warning glance as she entered, a silent command for her to perform.
“Ah, Meera, my dear! Good morning!” Dadi’s voice was warm, her smile radiant. “Come, sit, sit! I’ve had them prepare your favorite parathas. Aryan told me you love them.”
Meera blinked, genuinely surprised. “My… my favorite parathas? Oh, Dadi, you’re too kind! How did you know?” She shot a questioning glance at Aryan, who merely continued to stare at his plate, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He hadn't told Dadi anything of the sort. He probably didn't even know her favorite colour, let alone her preferred breakfast. It was a subtle, yet infuriating, lie.
Dadi chuckled, a knowing glint in her eye. “Oh, a grandmother just knows these things, child. Especially when her grandson talks about his love so much.” She gave Aryan a pointed look. “Isn’t that right, Aryan? Always raving about Meera’s love for a good paratha.”
Aryan finally looked up, his eyes meeting Meera’s for a fraction of a second, a silent scream of *play along* passing between them. He forced a strained smile. “Absolutely, Dadi. Meera… Meera has a very discerning palate. Especially for traditional Indian fare.” He managed to inject just enough fake warmth into his voice to make it sound plausible, yet to Meera, it was pure agony.
Meera, internally cringing at his performance, forced herself to smile back, a picture of adoring affection. “He’s always trying to surprise me, Dadi,” she chirped, laying it on thick. “He knows how much I appreciate the small, thoughtful gestures.” She took a bite of the paratha. It was delicious, perfectly flaky. The irony was not lost on her.
Dadi beamed. “See, Aryan? That’s what I’ve been telling you! It’s the little things. You spoil her, my boy. You truly spoil her.”
Aryan grunted in response, taking a large, almost violent, sip of his tea. Meera felt a flicker of mischievous triumph. She had managed to twist his lie, to make him squirm. It was a small victory, but in this oppressive environment, she’d take what she could get.
The rest of breakfast continued in a similar vein, a delicate dance of forced affection and internal exasperation. Dadi, ever the enthusiastic matchmaker, kept suggesting activities for them to do together. “Aryan, why don’t you take Meera to the family gallery today? She’s an artist, she’ll appreciate the collection. Or perhaps you could go for a walk in the gardens? A romantic stroll, like young lovers do.”
Aryan’s eyes widened slightly each time Dadi proposed a new bonding activity. He had anticipated formal dinners and public appearances, but not intimate "couple time" under Dadi's watchful eye. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. Meera, however, found herself strangely enjoying his discomfort. A tiny, rebellious part of her wanted to lean into the chaos.
***
After breakfast, Dadi insisted on a “tour” of the mansion, with Meera and Aryan as her reluctant guides. This was Dadi’s subtle way of observing their interaction, assessing their chemistry. Aryan, adhering to rule number one of his own absurd list, kept a hand subtly placed on Meera’s lower back, or occasionally (and very awkwardly) draped an arm over her shoulder. Meera would lean into the touch just enough to make it look natural, then immediately recoil internally. Each touch, however fleeting, sent a strange current through her, a confusing mix of discomfort and a curious awareness of his presence.
They moved through grand living rooms, opulent reception areas, and formal ballrooms, each space more magnificent than the last. Meera found herself admiring the intricate details, the craftsmanship, the sheer historical weight of the place. But it also felt sterile, almost like a museum. A grand, empty museum.
“And this, Meera, is my personal collection of ancient artifacts,” Dadi announced proudly, leading them into a vast gallery filled with exquisitely lit pedestals, each holding a priceless object – jade carvings, bronze sculptures, delicate porcelain vases from centuries past. The room was hushed, reverent, the air thick with history and immense value.
Aryan, typically aloof in such settings, straightened, his tone shifting to one of almost paternal protection. “Be careful, Meera,” he warned, his voice low. “These pieces are extremely fragile. And irreplaceable.” The unspoken message: *Don’t even breathe on them the wrong way.*
Meera scoffed internally. As if she needed a reminder of her clumisness. She nodded, keeping her hands clasped tightly behind her back, acutely aware of the potential for disaster. She tried to focus on the beauty of the artifacts, on the stories they held, rather than the astronomical price tags that must be attached to each one.
Dadi stopped in front of a particularly exquisite Ming Dynasty vase, its blue and white patterns intricate and breathtaking. It stood tall and slender on a narrow pedestal, seemingly defying gravity with its delicate balance.
“This, Meera, is one of my favourites,” Dadi said, her eyes gleaming with affection. “It’s over five hundred years old. Such craftsmanship, isn’t it? Aryan, do tell Meera the story of how your grandfather acquired it.”
Aryan cleared his throat, launching into a dry, academic recitation of the vase’s history, its provenance, and its significance to the Raichand family legacy. Meera listened, nodding politely, but her gaze kept drifting to the vase itself. It was beautiful, undeniably. But it also looked incredibly precarious, balanced on its pedestal like a dare.
As Aryan droned on about ancient trade routes, Dadi leaned in, a conspiratorial whisper. “He sounds like he’s giving a business presentation, doesn’t he, child?” she murmured, a playful eye-roll. “No romance in that man, I swear. You’ll have to teach him to loosen up, Meera.” She patted Meera’s arm, then playfully nudged her towards Aryan. “Go on, give him a little nudge! Make him smile for once!”
Meera, caught off guard by the sudden nudge, stumbled. Her arm, in an instinctive reflex to regain balance, shot out. Her hand, instead of finding purchase on Aryan’s arm, smacked squarely into the narrow pedestal holding the Ming vase. A sickening thud echoed through the silent gallery.
Time seemed to slow down. The vase, pristine and ancient, wobbled precariously. For a horrifying moment, it teetered, threatening to fall. Aryan’s eyes, which had been fixed on Meera in exasperation, widened in pure, unadulterated horror. He lunged forward, a strangled cry escaping his lips, his arm outstretched. Meera watched, frozen, as the vase swayed, then miraculously, slowly, began to right itself.
“Oh, thank God!” Aryan gasped, his face pale, his heart pounding like a drum against his ribs. He instinctively reached out and steadied the vase, his fingers trembling slightly. He turned to Meera, his eyes blazing, a silent fury simmering beneath the surface. This was it. She had almost destroyed a piece of history, an irreplaceable family heirloom. The end of the line.
Meera, equally terrified, stood there, her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the heat radiating from Aryan’s furious gaze, the weight of centuries of Raichand history bearing down on her. “Oh my god, I am so, so sorry!” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. “Dadi, I… I didn’t mean to! I just… I’m so clumsy!” Tears pricked at her eyes, a mixture of genuine remorse and abject terror at the consequences.
Dadi, however, did something utterly unexpected. She burst into laughter. A soft, gentle, amused laugh. Not the hearty guffaw from last night, but a genuine, almost affectionate chuckle.
“Oh, you silly girl!” Dadi said, waving a dismissive hand at Aryan, who was still staring at Meera with a mixture of disbelief and barely contained rage. “Don’t look so worried, child! It’s just a vase. It’s stayed upright for five hundred years, it can handle a little nudge from a spirited young woman!” She turned to Aryan, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “See, Aryan? This is what I mean! She brings life into this stuffy old house! You’re always so worried about everything being perfect, unbreakable. But life is meant to be lived, to have a little… risk!”
Aryan stared at Dadi, utterly flummoxed. His grandmother, the guardian of the family’s invaluable treasures, was not only forgiving Meera’s near-destruction of a priceless artifact, but she was *praising* her for it! For her “spirit”? For her “clumsiness”? He rubbed his temples, a headache already forming. This was beyond his comprehension. This was beyond his control.
“She’s not materialistic!” Dadi declared, beaming at Meera as if she had just performed a heroic deed. “She cares more about people than objects, Aryan! A rare quality these days. A truly simple, good heart. I knew it the moment I saw her.” She turned back to Meera, patting her hand again. “Don’t you worry, my dear. No harm done. Now, shall we see the rose garden? I want to see if Aryan has been remembering to water my favourite bushes.” She took Meera’s arm, steering her away from the potentially disastrous vase, leaving Aryan standing alone, dumbfounded, by the pedestal.
He watched them go, Dadi chattering happily, Meera still looking a little pale but managing a relieved smile. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure exasperation. This was not going according to plan. This was not going according to any plan. His entire strategy – find a pliable, unremarkable woman, present her, get Dadi’s blessing, secure the merger, then end the contract – was falling apart faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. Meera Sharma, the human embodiment of chaos, had managed to turn Dadi’s meticulous expectations on their head, simply by being herself. And now, Dadi was not only charmed, but she saw Meera as the ideal match for him. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Later that day, after Dadi had finally retired for her afternoon nap, Aryan cornered Meera in the grand hallway, his face a thundercloud of repressed fury.
“What was that, Meera?!” he hissed, keeping his voice low but laced with venom. “You almost broke a five-hundred-year-old Ming vase! Do you have any idea how much that’s worth? That single piece is probably worth more than your entire family’s debt, twice over!”
Meera bristled, her own temper flaring. She had genuinely felt bad about the vase, but his condescending tone, his reminder of her family’s debt, hit a raw nerve. “I said I was sorry! And it was an accident! Dadi nudged me! What was I supposed to do, teleport?!”
“You were supposed to be careful!” he retorted, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, making it slightly disheveled. “You’re supposed to be demure, elegant, *not* a walking disaster zone! My rules, Meera! Have you even read them? No incidents!”
“Oh, I’ve read them, Aryan!” she snapped back, pulling the crumpled list from her pocket and brandishing it like a weapon. “Every single, dehumanizing word! ‘No personal opinions, no emotional attachments, maintain emotional distance!’ You want a robot, not a girlfriend! And guess what? I’m not a robot! I’m a real person, and real people are clumsy, and they make mistakes, and they have feelings!”
He stared at her, his anger momentarily replaced by a flicker of surprise at her outburst. “Feelings? What feelings? This is a professional arrangement, Meera! Don’t confuse things!”
“I’m not confusing anything!” she shot back, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re the one who expects me to be someone I’m not. And you know what? Dadi liked me being me! She likes my ‘spirit’! She likes my ‘clumsiness’! She thinks I’m ‘not materialistic’!” She jabbed the crumpled paper at him, her eyes burning with defiance. “Maybe your rules are the problem, not me!”
Aryan snatched the paper from her, his gaze falling on the crumpled state of his meticulously typed ‘guidelines.’ A vein pulsed in his temple. “This is unacceptable, Meera. Utterly, completely unacceptable. You will adhere to every single one of these rules, starting now. Or the consequences will be… unpleasant.” He emphasized the last word, his voice low and menacing.
Meera stood her ground, though her heart was pounding. “Unpleasant for whom, Aryan? You think I’m enjoying this? I’m doing this because I have no choice! Because you tricked me into signing a contract that has me by the throat!” She took a deep, shuddering breath, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. “I hate this. I hate you for putting me in this position. And no amount of rules is going to change that.”
She spun on her heel and walked away, leaving him standing there in the silent hallway, the crumpled list in his hand. Her words hung in the air between them, sharp and stinging. Aryan watched her go, a strange mix of anger, frustration, and a sliver of something akin to guilt churning within him. He had expected her to be a docile puppet, a temporary solution. Instead, he had a firebrand on his hands, a chaotic force determined to challenge his every command, even as she was forced to play the part.
He looked down at the crumpled list, his gaze lingering on rule number 9: *No Emotional Attachments.* He had written that to protect himself, to ensure this was strictly business. But watching Meera’s genuine distress, her raw honesty, had stirred something within him, a flicker of an unfamiliar emotion he quickly tried to suppress. He couldn't afford feelings. Not now. Not ever. He had to regain control. And he knew exactly how he was going to try.
**Cliffhanger:** Despite Meera's accidental clumsiness and open defiance, Dadi remains inexplicably charmed by her, even extending her stay, much to Aryan's horror. Their first day of forced "couple" activities culminates in a blazing argument where Meera tears into Aryan's strict, dehumanizing rules. Aryan, utterly exasperated and feeling his control slip, resolves to make Meera strictly adhere to his extensive list of regulations, setting the stage for a comedic battle of wills where Meera's free spirit inevitably clashes with Aryan's rigid order.
Chapter 7
The crumpled rule list felt like a burning coal in Aryan’s hand, its edges still sharp from Meera’s defiant grip. He stood in the silent, opulent hallway, the lingering scent of her anger hanging in the air, a stark contrast to the sterile perfection of the Raichand mansion. *“I hate this. I hate you for putting me in this position.”* Her words, raw and unvarnished, echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting. He’d expected defiance, yes, but not such unfiltered venom. And certainly not that searing honesty that made him feel a peculiar twinge of… something. Guilt? No. Annoyance. Pure, unadulterated annoyance.
His jaw tightened. She had the audacity to call him dehumanizing, yet she was the one derailing his meticulous plans with her chaotic energy and infuriating lack of decorum. The Ming vase incident alone was enough to give him nightmares. And Dadi, his normally discerning, traditional Dadi, had inexplicably found Meera’s clumsiness “endearing.” It was a nightmare. A beautiful, artistic, accident-prone nightmare that refused to follow the script.
He couldn’t allow this to continue. His control, his very reputation, hinged on this charade. He had to re-establish order, immediately. He couldn't risk Dadi's fickle approval turning to suspicion, or worse, having Meera cause an irreparable social blunder. He would make her understand the gravity of the situation. He would make her adhere to every single clause, every single unspoken expectation of her role. If his initial “guidelines” were too vague, too open to interpretation, then he would leave no room for doubt.
He marched to his study, his footsteps echoing ominously on the marble floor. He threw the crumpled paper onto his gleaming mahogany desk, retrieved his laptop, and began to type, his fingers flying across the keyboard with furious precision. This wouldn’t be a mere list. This would be a *handbook*. A comprehensive, unambiguous, ironclad rulebook for the "Temporary Household Companion."
The next morning, Meera found it on her bedside table, nestled beside a vase of freshly cut orchids. It wasn’t a casual piece of paper. It was a slim, leather-bound booklet, professionally printed, complete with a gilded crest: the Raichand insignia. The title, embossed in elegant silver, read: *The Companion’s Conduct: A Guide to Gracious Living and Harmonious Partnership within the Raichand Residence.*
Meera picked it up, her heart sinking. It felt heavy in her hands, a physical manifestation of her gilded prison. She flipped it open. Inside, on crisp, thick paper, were sections and subsections, bullet points, and even a table of contents. It wasn’t just extensive; it was exhaustive. And utterly, hilariously, tragically absurd.
**Section 1: Personal Comportment**
* **Rule 1.1: Demeanor:** Maintain a serene and agreeable disposition at all times. Outbursts, excessive emoting, or public displays of distress are strictly prohibited.
* **Rule 1.2: Gait:** Walk with grace and purposeful elegance. Avoid hurried movements, shuffling, or any action that might suggest clumsiness or lack of self-awareness.
* **Rule 1.3: Attire:** Adhere strictly to the daily dress code provided by the household stylist. Personal modifications or additions are not permitted without prior approval.
* **Rule 1.4: Dining Etiquette:** Exhibit impeccable table manners. Consumption of food should be discreet and measured. Loud chewing, slurping, or dropping of utensils is strictly forbidden.
Meera’s eye twitched. She flipped to the next page.
**Section 2: Communication and Interaction**
* **Rule 2.1: Public Discourse:** All conversations in public or in the presence of Dadi or other family members should reinforce the narrative of a deep, affectionate bond with Mr. Aryan Raichand. Personal opinions on unrelated matters should be kept to a minimum.
* **Rule 2.2: Private Interaction (with Mr. Raichand):** Maintain respectful and professional communication. Emotional arguments or displays of temper are unproductive and will not be tolerated. All concerns should be articulated calmly and concisely.
* **Rule 2.3: Interaction with Staff:** Be polite but maintain a respectful distance. Avoid familiarity that could undermine household hierarchy.
The list went on, covering everything from the acceptable volume of her voice (“a pleasant, modulated tone”) to her sleep schedule (“early to bed, early to rise, maintaining a fresh and energetic appearance”). There was even a section on “Conduct within the Raichand Residence,” specifically prohibiting “unauthorized redecoration, relocation of valuable artifacts, or introduction of non-approved personal effects into designated public areas.” That last one was clearly a dig at the Ming vase incident. And him buying her art supplies anonymously – how ironic!
She slapped the booklet shut, a frustrated groan escaping her lips. It wasn’t just a job; it was a performance, a twenty-four-hour-a-day charade. He wanted her to erase herself, to become a living, breathing mannequin. But Meera Sharma wasn’t made for quiet conformity.
***
The following days became a test of wills, a silent, comedic battle between Aryan’s meticulous rules and Meera’s inherently chaotic nature. She tried, she really did. She forced herself to walk with slow, deliberate steps, her hands clasped primly behind her back. She ate her breakfast with the dainty precision of a hummingbird, nearly starving herself in the process. She kept her mouth shut during Dadi’s rambling stories, biting her tongue so hard she tasted blood. She even attempted to adopt a “serene and agreeable disposition,” though it often manifested as a strained smile that looked more like a grimace.
Aryan watched her like a hawk, his eyes narrowing at every near-slip, every suppressed sigh. He’d occasionally interject with a terse reminder: “Rule 1.2, Meera. Purposeful elegance.” Or, during a particularly enthusiastic conversation with Dadi, “Rule 2.1, Meera. Maintain narrative.” Each time, Meera would clench her fists, her blood boiling, but she’d force herself to comply, for now. The penalty clause for breaking the contract weighed heavily on her mind.
The mansion, once just oppressive, now felt suffocating. Every room, every corridor, seemed to mock her artistic spirit. The muted colours, the heavy fabrics, the sheer lack of vibrancy felt like a physical weight on her soul. She missed her small, cluttered apartment, the smell of turpentine, the messy splashes of paint on her clothes. She missed the freedom to create, to breathe, to simply *be*.
One afternoon, feeling particularly stifled, Meera wandered through the quieter wings of the mansion, desperate for a corner where she could simply exist without the oppressive weight of the rules. She discovered a neglected reading lounge, an annex to the sprawling main library. It was a small, circular room, rarely used, filled with dark, heavy Victorian armchairs and mahogany bookshelves. The walls were covered in dull, faded tapestries depicting somber historical scenes. It was beautiful in its own way, but utterly devoid of life, a dusty monument to forgotten studies.
Meera traced a finger over the intricate patterns of a tapestry, its colours muted by age. A small spark ignited within her. This room… it was perfect. It was overlooked, tucked away. It was crying out for a touch of vibrancy, a splash of colour. It was a blank canvas, begging to be brought to life.
She retrieved her personal art supplies from her suite – a small, carefully packed kit of vibrant acrylics, a few brushes, and a roll of heavy, unprimed canvas. She had brought them to keep herself sane, to remind herself of who she was, even amidst the opulence. She found a large, bare section of wall behind a towering bookshelf, partially obscured by a heavy curtain. It was a deep, uninspiring beige. Perfect.
She laid out a drop cloth, unrolled a section of her canvas, and secured it to the wall with small, temporary, almost invisible adhesive strips she had brought. Then, she began to paint. At first, hesitant strokes, careful to make sure it was reversible, easily hidden. But as the colours flowed, as the vibrant reds, electric blues, and fiery oranges spilled onto the canvas, her inhibitions dissolved. The art took over. Her spirit, long suppressed by Aryan’s rules, roared to life.
She painted a swirling vortex of colour, a powerful abstract representation of her own inner chaos and vibrant energy, clashing against the rigid lines of her new life. It was raw, emotional, a defiant scream on canvas. She worked for hours, losing herself in the process, forgetting the time, forgetting the rules, forgetting even Aryan. The reading lounge, once a tomb of silence, hummed with her creative energy, the colours on the canvas practically vibrating in the dim light.
***
Aryan, after a particularly draining day of video conferences and Dadi’s subtle matchmaking inquiries, sought refuge in the mansion’s vast library. He needed a specific historical text for a merger proposal – a rare treatise on ancient trade routes – and he knew it would be in the annex, in the reading lounge, a place so infrequently used, it was practically his own private sanctuary of quiet, somber intellectualism.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door to the reading lounge, expecting the familiar scent of old paper and polished wood, the hushed ambiance of scholarly retreat. Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in utter disbelief. The quiet, muted room had been… *assaulted*. A large section of the far wall, previously a bland expanse of beige, was now an explosion of vibrant, unrestrained colour. A massive abstract painting, still glistening with wet paint, dominated the space, its swirling lines and clashing hues screaming defiance. His meticulously ordered world, his very eyes, recoiled in horror.
And there, perched precariously on a velvet armchair, brush in hand, smudges of paint on her cheek and in her wild hair, was Meera. She was humming softly, completely absorbed, her brow furrowed in concentration as she added another streak of electric blue to the canvas. She looked utterly alive, vibrant, undeniably *herself*. And she had completely violated Rule 6.2: “No unauthorized redecoration, relocation of valuable artifacts, or introduction of non-approved personal effects into designated public areas.” This wasn't "non-approved personal effects"; this was a full-blown artistic insurrection.
“MEERA!” Aryan roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings, shattering the peaceful silence of the lounge. He felt a vein throb in his temple, his meticulously maintained composure unraveling like a cheap sweater.
Meera startled, nearly falling off the armchair. Her brush clattered to the floor. She whirled around, her eyes wide with shock and immediate recognition of the fury on his face. The soft hum died on her lips. “Aryan! You… you scared me! What are you doing here?”
He stalked towards the painting, his gaze fixed on the riot of colour. “What am *I* doing here?! What are *you* doing here?! What in the name of all that is sacred have you done to this wall?!” He gestured wildly at the offending canvas. “This is a Raichand residence, Meera! This is not some bohemian art studio! And what about the rules? The *handbook*?!” He practically spat the word, grabbing the neglected booklet from a nearby side table and thrusting it at her.
Meera flinched. Her initial shock gave way to a defensive anger. “It’s art, Aryan! It’s beautiful! And it’s not on the wall, it’s on a canvas that I put up temporarily. I was going to take it down!” She knew it was a flimsy excuse, even to her own ears. The canvas was large, dominant, and glued to the wall.
“Temporary?!” he scoffed, disbelief lacing his voice. He peered closer at the canvas. “Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to maintain the decor of a house like this? This isn’t a college dorm room where you can just slap paint on the walls!” He was about to launch into a full-blown lecture on property value and the sanctity of historical interiors when a familiar, cheerful voice broke through the tension.
“Aryan, my boy! Are you in here? I was looking for that fascinating book on the history of Jaipur architecture. Oh, and I just heard the most delightful music coming from this section… Meera, my dear, are you here too?”
Dadi’s voice. In the doorway. Both Aryan and Meera froze, their argument abruptly cut short. Aryan’s face drained of color. He looked from Dadi to the colossal, glaringly obvious abstract painting, then back to Meera, who was still splattered with paint, looking like a caught artist in the act.
Dadi stepped into the room, her eyes sweeping over the dark, formal space. Her gaze landed on the vibrant mural. Her eyes widened, then a slow smile spread across her face, lighting up the room. “Oh, my goodness gracious! What is *this*?!” she exclaimed, her voice not one of horror, but of pure delight.
Aryan braced himself, preparing for the inevitable scolding, the immediate dismissal of Meera, the end of the impossible charade. He opened his mouth, ready to explain that Meera had gone rogue, that this was an aberration, that she would be punished.
But Dadi didn’t wait for his explanation. She walked closer to the painting, her eyes gleaming with genuine admiration. “Meera, my child! Is this your work? It’s magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!” She turned to Aryan, her eyes sparkling. “See, Aryan? This is what I meant! A splash of colour! This room was so dreary, so… *you*! Now it has life, it has passion!” She ran a hand over a section of the canvas, her expression one of utter contentment. “It’s so… expressive! It feels like… like happiness just burst out onto the wall!”
Aryan stared at his grandmother, utterly speechless. His fury deflated, replaced by a profound, soul-deep exasperation. He had laid down the law, presented a physical embodiment of his rigid rules, and Meera, in her inherent defiance, had broken them all with a literal splash. And Dadi, the very person he was trying to impress, the ultimate arbiter of his world, was not only approving but *celebrating* the transgression. He felt a sharp, almost painful pang of defeat. This was a battle he could not win.
Meera, however, felt a surge of exhilaration. Aryan’s thunderous face, Dadi’s beaming one. It was a bizarre tableau, but for the first time since she’d entered this mansion, she felt a genuine sense of triumph. She had broken his rules, she had expressed herself, and the matriarch of the Raichand empire had not only tolerated it but *loved* it. It was a tiny, defiant spark, but it was enough. She still hated the situation, hated the contract, but she knew now, with a thrilling certainty, that she wouldn’t be completely extinguished by it. She could, in her own chaotic way, still be Meera Sharma, even in Aryan Raichand’s perfectly ordered world. And that realization, in itself, was a small, quiet rebellion.
**Cliffhanger:** Despite Aryan's rigid new "Companion Handbook" and his strict warnings, Meera, stifled by the rules, channels her rebellious spirit into her art, creating a vibrant, defiant mural in a formal, overlooked room of the mansion. Aryan discovers it and is absolutely horrified, ready to unleash his fury, only for Dadi to unexpectedly walk in and, instead of condemning it, declare her utter delight in the "splash of color." Aryan is left completely bewildered and exasperated, his control over the chaotic Meera slipping further, while Meera feels a potent spark of defiance ignite, realizing she might just be able to carve out her own space in this gilded cage.
Chapter 8
The lingering scent of oil paints and floral disinfectant warred for dominance in Aryan’s study. He stared at the gilded leather-bound rulebook, still lying open on his desk, its pages a mocking testament to Meera’s absolute disregard for order. “A splash of colour,” Dadi had cooed, her eyes gleaming with genuine delight at the monstrosity that was Meera’s impromptu mural. “It brings life into this stuffy old house!” *Stuffy?* Aryan had wanted to retort. *It’s dignified! It’s elegant! It’s centuries of meticulously curated taste!* But Dadi, lost in her inexplicable adoration for Meera’s “spirit,” had simply taken Meera’s arm and glided off, leaving him alone in the assaulted reading lounge, a solitary figure of refined outrage.
He closed the handbook with a frustrated snap. The art incident was one thing – a contained, albeit aesthetically offensive, breach. But tonight was different. Tonight was the annual Raichand Charity Gala, the social event of the season, a crucial networking opportunity where key investors and influential figures would be present. His father had often said that half of Raichand Industries’ deals were sealed not in boardrooms, but on the dance floor of their own galas. Tonight, his image, his family’s reputation, and by extension, the critical international merger, hung in the balance. There could be *no* accidents. No gaffes. No Ming vases. He needed Meera to be a seamless, elegant accessory, not a walking, talking, paint-splattered disaster zone.
He found her in the main living room, sitting cross-legged on a plush velvet sofa – another subtle violation of Rule 1.1, which implicitly discouraged such informal posture – sketching furiously in a small notebook she always carried. She looked up as he entered, her expression wary, her artistic energy still humming around her like an invisible force field.
“We need to talk,” Aryan stated, his voice devoid of emotion, a deliberate contrast to his earlier outburst.
Meera merely raised an eyebrow, not bothering to put her sketchbook down. “About what? My inherent inability to be a dull, silent, perfectly poised robot? Or the fact that your Dadi thinks my chaos is endearing?” Her tone was sharp, defiant.
He ignored the sarcasm. “Tonight is the Raichand Charity Gala. It’s not just a social event, Meera. It’s a highly strategic business gathering. Every interaction, every impression, matters.” He walked towards her, stopping directly in front of her, forcing her to look up at him. “There will be no ‘splashes of colour,’ no ‘spirited nudges,’ and absolutely no ‘accidental competence.’ You will be poised, charming, and perfectly under control. Is that clear?”
Meera’s hand tightened around her pencil. “And what happens if I’m not? You’ll fine me? Add another paragraph to your sacred handbook?”
“The consequences will be far more significant than a fine,” he warned, his voice low. “You will jeopardize not just my merger, but my family’s legacy. Dadi’s trust. And believe me, Meera, you do not want to be on the wrong side of the Raichands, especially not when Dadi’s hopes are involved.” He watched her carefully. Her bravado faltered slightly at the mention of Dadi. He knew that was her weak spot. Meera, despite her fiery spirit, had a genuinely kind heart and wouldn’t want to genuinely hurt someone, especially someone as warm as Dadi.
A sigh escaped Meera’s lips, her shoulders slumping. “Fine. I get it. No more accidental vases. No more accidental art. Just… the perfect, fake girlfriend. Got it.” She snapped her sketchbook shut, the finality of the sound echoing in the cavernous room. “But I’m warning you, Aryan. This isn’t me. And the longer I pretend, the more I feel like I’m suffocating.”
He felt a faint, fleeting flicker of something – pity? Empathy? He immediately suppressed it. This wasn’t about her feelings; it was about his survival. “Suck it up, Meera,” he said, his voice cold. “It’s for a year. You’ll survive.”
She glared at him, a silent promise of defiance in her eyes, even as she rose to her feet. “We’ll see about that, Raichand.”
***
Later that evening, the mansion buzzed with an unfamiliar energy. The stylists, hair and makeup artists, and wardrobe consultants descended upon Meera’s suite like a well-oiled glam squad. Meera sat stiffly in a plush armchair, feeling like a mannequin. They sculpted her hair into an elegant chignon, applied layers of flawless makeup that made her skin glow, and adorned her with diamond earrings that felt heavier than her entire body.
“This is… a lot,” Meera murmured, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She hardly recognized herself. The vibrant, often messy artist was gone, replaced by a sophisticated, almost ethereal woman.
“Perfect, Ms. Sharma,” the head stylist beamed. “Simply exquisite. Mr. Raichand will be very pleased.”
The dress was a masterpiece of haute couture. A midnight blue gown, shimmering with subtle sequins, designed to flow like liquid around her figure, accentuating her curves without revealing too much. It was elegant, tasteful, and undoubtedly cost more than her entire family’s house. She felt beautiful, yes, but also incredibly uncomfortable, like an imposter in someone else’s skin. Every movement felt constrained, every breath shallow.
A knock at the door. “Ms. Sharma? Mr. Raichand is waiting for you downstairs.” Mr. Khanna, ever the sentinel of propriety.
Meera took a deep breath, steeling herself. Show time.
She descended the grand staircase, her hand gliding along the polished banister. The soft rustle of the silk lining of her dress was the only sound in the otherwise hushed hallway. As she reached the final step, she saw him.
Aryan stood at the foot of the staircase, impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw sharp, his eyes a piercing gaze. He looked like the epitome of power and sophistication. He was talking to Mr. Khanna, his back to her. As she took the last step, he turned, and his gaze landed on her.
His eyes, usually so guarded and cold, widened infinitesimally. For a fleeting moment, his perfectly composed features softened, a flicker of genuine surprise and something akin to admiration crossing his face. He quickly masked it, but Meera caught it. It was a minuscule crack in his carefully constructed facade, but it was there. He swallowed, his gaze sweeping over her, from her intricately styled hair to the hem of her shimmering gown.
“Meera,” he said, his voice a fraction deeper than usual. He cleared his throat. “You look… presentable.”
It was the highest compliment he could manage, Meera knew. And coming from him, it felt almost like praise. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Raichand,” she retorted, a small, defiant smile touching her lips. “Trying to outshine the gala, are we?”
He merely grunted, offering her his arm. “Let’s go. And remember your handbook, Meera. Tonight, you are the picture of grace and affection.”
As her hand rested on his arm, she felt the warmth of his skin, the tautness of his muscles beneath the fine fabric of his tuxedo. A strange shiver ran through her, an unsettling awareness of his presence. She was playing a role, but the contact felt real, sparking a confusing current between them.
***
The Raichand ballroom was a dazzling spectacle. Chandeliers dripped with crystals, casting a warm, golden glow over the elegantly dressed crowd. Waiters circulated with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, and the air hummed with the murmur of polite conversation, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. Meera felt a surge of nervous excitement, immediately followed by a wave of crushing inadequacy. These were not her people. This was not her world.
Aryan led her through the throng, his hand resting lightly on her back, guiding her with a subtle, proprietary touch. He introduced her to various dignitaries, business partners, and family friends, each introduction delivered with a practiced smile and a carefully chosen anecdote about their “whirlwind romance.” Meera, for her part, offered polite smiles, nodded at appropriate moments, and murmured vague compliments about the decor or the weather. It was exhausting.
“And this, Meera, is Mr. and Mrs. Kapoor, major stakeholders in our upcoming merger,” Aryan said, his voice shifting to a more formal, deferential tone. “Mr. Kapoor, Mrs. Kapoor, may I introduce Meera Sharma, my… fiancée.”
Meera’s eyes widened, a small gasp escaping her lips. *Fiancée?* He had just upped the ante without warning! She stiffened, forcing herself to maintain a polite smile as she extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
Mr. Kapoor, a portly man with shrewd eyes, beamed. “Fiancée! My dear Aryan, congratulations! Savitri Dadi spoke to me the other day, she was just gushing about you two. A true love story, she said.”
Mrs. Kapoor, a regal woman adorned with an array of diamonds, leaned in conspiratorially. “We were so surprised, Aryan. So sudden! But then, true love often strikes like lightning, doesn’t it, dear?” She winked at Meera. “Tell us, how did you two lovebirds meet? We simply must know all the details!”
Meera’s mind went blank. She remembered Dadi asking, and her hilariously convoluted, romantic tale. She opened her mouth, ready to regurgitate the fantastical story of a chance encounter in an art gallery, a mistaken identity, and a shared passion for abstract expressionism.
Before she could utter a single word, Aryan smoothly interjected, a charming smile on his face. “Oh, Mrs. Kapoor, it was quite the whirlwind! A truly private, serendipitous affair. Meera’s art is so captivating, and her spirit even more so. I simply couldn’t resist. It was love at first sight, wouldn’t you agree, my love?” He squeezed her hand subtly, a warning.
Meera felt her cheeks flush. He had not only saved her from having to repeat her absurd lie, but he had also managed to sound genuinely smitten. It was a masterful performance. “Absolutely, darling,” she simpered, playing along. “He’s always been so protective of our personal moments.” She batted her eyelashes, a dramatic gesture that felt utterly foreign to her. Mrs. Kapoor giggled, clearly charmed.
Aryan’s grip on her hand tightened almost imperceptibly. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Rule 2.1, Meera. Narrative reinforcement. But less… theatrical. You’re not in a street play.”
Meera suppressed a giggle. He was right. She had gone overboard. But it was hard not to, when he himself was such a convincing actor.
Just then, a voice, smooth as silk and dripping with a subtle, predatory sweetness, cut through the din. “Aryan, darling! You made it. And with a new accessory, I see.”
Meera turned. Standing before them was a woman who exuded effortless glamour and razor-sharp intelligence. Natasha Oberoi. She was stunning – a cascade of perfectly styled dark hair, eyes that glittered with ambition, and a form-fitting emerald green gown that seemed to shimmer with its own light. She was everything Meera was not: polished, poised, dangerously sophisticated. And she was radiating a palpable aura of suspicion.
Natasha’s gaze swept over Meera, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. “And who is this charming creature? You’ve certainly kept her under wraps, Aryan. Last I heard, you were far too busy building your empire to indulge in such… domestic pursuits.” Her tone was honeyed, but her eyes were cold, assessing.
Aryan’s composure stiffened. “Natasha. Always a pleasure. This is Meera Sharma, my fiancée.” He emphasized the word, a subtle challenge in his voice. “Meera, this is Natasha Oberoi, CEO of Oberoi Industries. We… have a history.” The last part was delivered with a calculated flatness that hinted at a deeper, unresolved past.
Meera felt an immediate prickle of unease. The way Natasha looked at Aryan, the implied intimacy in her tone, the knowing glint in her eyes – it spoke volumes. This wasn’t just a business rival. This was the “ex” Aryan had been betrayed by. The girl in the photo. The source of his emotional scars.
Meera offered Natasha a polite, albeit wary, smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Oberoi. I’ve heard so much about you.” She decided to go for the simple truth, rather than the flowery nonsense she normally spouted.
Natasha’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “Have you, dear? I wonder what exactly you’ve heard.” Her gaze drilled into Meera. “You seem… quite different from the type Aryan usually gravitates towards. He’s always been rather… particular about his company. Extremely discerning. A certain… pedigree, one might say.” She let the insinuation hang in the air, a subtle poison. She was clearly trying to intimidate Meera, to make her feel out of place, to hint that she didn't belong in Aryan’s world, or among *their* kind.
Meera felt a familiar prickle of annoyance. *Pedigree?* What was she, a show dog? She forced herself to smile. “Oh, I suppose Aryan just needed a change. You know, something a little less… predictable.” The words slipped out before she could censor them, a flash of her inherent defiance.
Aryan stiffened beside her. Natasha’s smile tightened, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly. She leaned in conspiratorially. “A ‘change,’ indeed. Tell me, Meera, what is it you *do*? I understand Aryan has quite a passion for the arts, but I confess, I don’t recall seeing your name in any of the major galleries.” Her tone was dismissive, subtly challenging Meera’s artistic credentials, implying she wasn't good enough for Aryan's sophisticated world.
Meera felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks. She was a struggling artist. Her name *wasn’t* in major galleries. She was used to honest critique, but this was condescension, designed to belittle her. “I’m a contemporary artist,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “My work is a bit… unconventional. It doesn’t always fit neatly into traditional spaces.” It was a valiant attempt at self-defense, but it sounded flimsy even to her own ears.
Natasha’s smile widened, a hint of triumph in her eyes. “Ah, unconventional. How… refreshing. I suppose that explains the sudden, rather dramatic shift in Aryan’s personal life.” Her gaze flickered to Aryan, a silent question in her eyes. *Is this what you’ve resorted to? A naive, struggling artist to serve as your convenient fiancée?*
Aryan, sensing the rising tension, squeezed Meera’s arm, a subtle warning. “Natasha, Meera’s talent speaks for itself. And our relationship is hardly a ‘shift,’ it’s simply… destiny.” He pulled Meera closer, a possessive gesture that was entirely for Natasha’s benefit.
Natasha’s gaze lingered on Meera for another moment, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes – suspicion, perhaps a touch of jealousy. She gave a small, airy laugh. “Destiny, of course. Well, do enjoy the evening, you two. I’m sure we’ll be seeing much more of each other.” With a final, enigmatic smile, she drifted away, melting back into the crowd like a sleek, dangerous predator.
Meera let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “She’s… intimidating,” she whispered, her arm still linked with Aryan’s.
“She’s a viper,” Aryan corrected, his voice terse. “And she’s already suspicious. You need to be more careful, Meera. Much more careful.” His grip on her arm was tight, a mixture of warning and control.
They continued to circulate, Aryan meticulously introducing Meera to the most important guests. Meera focused on keeping her expression pleasant, her answers brief and unrevealing. She felt like a puppet, her strings pulled by Aryan’s subtle nudges and Dadi’s distant, hopeful gaze.
Then, it happened. A renowned art critic, an elderly, imposing woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, approached them. Aryan introduced Meera with a practiced ease, highlighting her artistic background. The critic, Mrs. Khanna (no relation to the butler), eyed Meera with a skeptical expression.
“Ah, a contemporary artist, you say?” Mrs. Khanna peered at Meera’s dress, her expression a mix of curiosity and disdain. “And what precisely is your chosen medium, dear? Are you one of those performance artists who paints with… bodily fluids?” Her tone was dry, laced with a barely concealed sneer.
Meera, flustered by the bluntness and the sheer absurdity of the question, felt her composure crack. She was used to direct questions about her art, but this was deliberately provocative. She opened her mouth, ready to retort with something equally sarcastic, perhaps explaining her preferred use of vibrant acrylics and oils.
But then she remembered Aryan’s warnings. *Poised, charming, under control.* She took a breath, attempting to calm herself. She saw Aryan subtly tense beside her, a silent plea in his eyes: *Don’t screw this up.*
“Oh, no, Mrs. Khanna!” Meera chirped, forcing a wide, almost manic smile. “My art is much more… tangible. I use… well, mostly paints! And sometimes, I incorporate… *found objects*! Like, you know, interesting bits of metal or discarded… *recyclables*!” She was trying to sound sophisticated, but the words came out sounding like a desperate babble. She was picturing a particularly striking piece she’d once made from old car parts and scrap fabric. In her head, it was profound. In the opulent ballroom, it sounded utterly ridiculous.
Mrs. Khanna’s expression froze, a look of profound disgust spreading across her face. “Recyclables?” she repeated, her voice dripping with incredulity. She looked at Aryan, her eyebrows raised. “My dear Aryan, I do hope you’re not considering investing in… junk art.”
Aryan’s face, a moment before a mask of concern, now hardened into barely concealed fury. He knew this was a gaffe, a major one. He gave Meera a look that promised a slow, agonizing demise.
But he was quick. “Mrs. Khanna, Meera is simply being modest,” he smoothly interjected, forcing a light laugh. “Her work is truly groundbreaking, though perhaps a little too avant-garde for traditional tastes. She’s experimenting with new, sustainable materials, pushing the boundaries of what art can be.” He squeezed Meera’s hand, a warning. “Isn’t that right, my love? Always exploring the cutting edge.”
Meera, mortified, nodded frantically. “Yes! Exactly! Sustainable! Cutting edge!”
Mrs. Khanna still looked skeptical, but Aryan’s confident, well-practiced deflection had diffused the immediate awkwardness. She merely hummed, a noncommittal sound, and drifted away, clearly unimpressed.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Aryan turned to Meera, his eyes blazing. “Found objects? Recyclables, Meera?! What was that?! Do you have any idea how that sounds in *this* crowd? She’s one of the most influential patrons of traditional art in the city! You just made us sound like we’re running a glorified junkyard!” He kept his voice low, but it vibrated with raw anger.
Meera felt her temper flare. “Well, what was I supposed to say?! She asked me if I painted with *bodily fluids*! What kind of question is that?! And you told me to ‘maintain narrative’! My art *is* about using found objects! It’s honest!”
“Honest is not what we’re going for, Meera!” he snapped back, his jaw tight. “We are going for *credible*! Sophisticated! You are not here to launch your career, you are here to be my fiancée! My *acceptable* fiancée! You almost single-handedly torpedoed my image with a single, idiotic phrase!” He pulled his hand away from hers, his eyes narrowed into slits of cold fury. “Next time, just smile and say nothing. Let me do the talking. Or perhaps,” he added, his voice laced with venom, “you could try actually reading that handbook I gave you.”
He turned abruptly, leaving Meera standing alone in the glittering ballroom, feeling like a raw, exposed nerve. The glamour, the pretense, the constant fear of slipping up – it was all suffocating. She watched him walk away, his back ramrod straight, and a chilling realization settled over her. Tonight wasn't just about playing a role; it was about surviving a battlefield. And Natasha Oberoi, watching them from across the room, a subtle, knowing smile on her face, had seen the cracks. She knew something was amiss. And Meera knew, with a sinking feeling, that Natasha wouldn't rest until she uncovered the truth.
**Cliffhanger:** Meera’s disastrous first public appearance at the Raichand Charity Gala is a series of near-misses and social gaffes, culminating in an embarrassing encounter with a formidable art critic. Aryan, though furious, manages to cover for her, but his exasperation is palpable. Meanwhile, Natasha Oberoi, Aryan’s cunning ex, makes a dramatic appearance, immediately sensing the artificiality of Meera and Aryan’s relationship. Her probing questions and subtle barbs leave Meera unnerved, convinced that Natasha is already on the path to discovering the truth about the contract. The gala ends with Aryan and Meera at odds, and Natasha’s suspicion solidified, setting the stage for her to begin her relentless investigation.
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
The silence in the opulent Rolls-Royce on the way back from the gala was heavier than the diamonds glittering on Meera’s borrowed neck. Aryan sat stiffly beside her, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the passing city lights as if they held the answers to the universe’s most infuriating riddles. Meera, still reeling from the evening’s humiliations and Aryan’s biting words, stared straight ahead, a knot of resentment tightening in her stomach. The shimmering gown felt like a straitjacket, the elegant chignon a tight noose around her scalp. She was an imposter, and everyone at that party, especially Natasha, had seen right through her flimsy disguise.
They stepped out of the car into the cool night air, the mansion’s façade gleaming under the moon. Without a word, Aryan stalked towards his study, the rich fabric of his tuxedo rustling softly. Meera watched him go, a fresh wave of hurt washing over her. He hadn’t even bothered with a perfunctory “goodnight,” or a grudging acknowledgement of her efforts. He was just… done with her for the night, relegated her to the list of problems he needed to solve.
She walked slowly up the grand staircase, her expensive heels clicking hollowly on the marble. The silence of the mansion, usually so grand, now felt cold and vast. She was adrift in this gilded cage, surrounded by unimaginable wealth, yet utterly alone. She felt a familiar ache of loneliness, a longing for Priya, for her messy apartment, for the freedom to be her awkward, honest self.
The next morning, the socialites were already buzzing. Phones hummed, social media feeds crackled, and the city’s elite WhatsApp groups lit up with gossip, fueled by Natasha Oberoi’s subtle, yet potent, insinuations. Natasha, a master of social manipulation, didn't need concrete facts to sow doubt. A raised eyebrow, a well-placed whisper, a perfectly timed question – that was enough.
"Did you *see* Aryan's new girl?" Mrs. Kapoor, still basking in the glow of Aryan's "fiancée" revelation, dialled her best friend, Mrs. Shah. "So… *different*! Savitri Dadi seems smitten, but honestly, dear, 'found objects'? What in heaven's name does that even mean?"
"And that dress! Looked like it was wearing *her*, not the other way around," Mrs. Shah retorted, her voice dripping with disdain. "And Natasha Oberoi, darling, she looked absolutely *regal*. And you know Natasha. She never misses a beat. She was watching that girl like a hawk. You can bet your bottom dollar she's digging."
Indeed, Natasha was. From her sleek, minimalist office high above the city, she made a series of discreet calls. To her private investigator. To her network of social journalists. To her contacts in the art world, subtly asking about "a certain new, unconventional artist who has caught Aryan Raichand's eye." She wanted details. Background. Anything that didn't add up. Aryan wasn't one for sudden, whirlwind romances, especially not with an "unconventional artist" who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. There was a story here, and Natasha intended to uncover it.
Meanwhile, Meera was painfully aware of the whispers. She tried to go about her day, following Aryan’s increasingly complex rules, but the mansion’s staff, usually so discreet, seemed to be observing her with a newfound curiosity. The loyal head butler, Mr. Khanna, maintained his impeccable professionalism, but the housemaids, especially the younger, more gossipy ones, would exchange hushed whispers and knowing glances when Meera walked by.
One afternoon, as Meera wandered through a rarely used conservatory, seeking a moment of quiet solitude, she overheard two junior maids dusting near an open window.
"Did you hear what Mrs. Sharma said about her 'art'?" one whispered, giggling. "Recyclables! As if Mr. Aryan would ever fall for someone who collects rubbish!"
"Exactly!" the other scoffed. "She's clearly an opportunist. Came out of nowhere, didn't she? No family name, no connections. Just suddenly 'engaged' to Aryan Raichand. Must be for the money, no?"
The words, though whispered, struck Meera like physical blows. Her cheeks burned. *Opportunist. Money.* They didn’t know. They couldn't possibly know. She wasn’t here for money, not truly. She was here because of desperation, trapped by a contract she barely understood. But their words, fueled by half-truths and assumptions, cut deep. She felt a profound wave of inadequacy, a painful confirmation of her deepest fears. She was a fraud in this world, and everyone knew it. She turned away quickly, before they could see her, her eyes stinging.
Later that day, Dadi, oblivious to the undercurrents of gossip, decided to host an impromptu afternoon tea for a few close family friends. The guest list included Mrs. Kapoor and Mrs. Shah, as well as a few other matriarchs of old-money families. Meera, dressed in a meticulously chosen, demure floral dress, felt like she was walking into a lion’s den.
Aryan was present, as was his cousin, Rajeev Raichand. Rajeev, sleek and perpetually smirking, seemed to relish the unfolding drama. He sat across from Meera, observing her with an unnerving intensity, his eyes missing nothing. He hadn’t forgotten Aryan’s sudden pronouncement of a fiancée, especially not one so conspicuously "unknown." Rajeev saw opportunity in every crack in Aryan’s carefully constructed façade.
The conversation, initially innocuous, soon veered towards the topic of Meera. Mrs. Shah, unable to resist, turned to Dadi with a syrupy sweet smile. “Savitriji, darling, your Aryan has always been so discerning. We were all quite surprised by his sudden engagement. Tell us, dear Meera, what is your family background? Your lineage?” The question was innocent enough on the surface, but the underlying implication was clear: *prove you’re worthy of the Raichand name.*
Meera’s heart thumped against her ribs. She glanced at Aryan, who was meticulously stirring his tea, seemingly oblivious, though she knew he was listening. She thought of her sweet, worried mother, her quirky younger brother. They weren't from a lineage of wealth or power. They were honest, middle-class people, struggling with debt. How could she explain that without making herself sound like the "opportunist" everyone already believed her to be?
“My family… we’re a simple, humble family,” Meera began, her voice a little shaky. “My father was a… he had a small business. My mother is a homemaker. We’re not from the world of… big industry, or old money.” She tried to sound proud, but it came out sounding apologetic.
Mrs. Shah’s smile tightened. “Ah, I see. So, you’re not connected to any of the established families? No significant assets?” Her tone was subtly dismissive, her eyes darting to Aryan.
Rajeev leaned forward, a glint in his eye. “Indeed. Rather unusual for Aryan, isn’t it, to choose someone so… unburdened by social obligations?” He paused, then added, "It takes a certain kind of person to thrive in this world, doesn't it? One who understands our ways." The implication was clear: Meera didn't. She was an outsider, a liability.
Meera felt a flush of humiliation spread across her face. The air grew thick with unspoken judgment. She felt small, exposed, utterly out of place. Her throat tightened, and she couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze.
Just as she was about to stammer out another inadequate response, Aryan set his teacup down with a faint, precise click that cut through the polite murmurs. His gaze, sharp and commanding, swept over the table, landing first on Mrs. Shah, then on Rajeev, then on his grandmother, before finally resting on Meera. His expression was cool, almost chilling.
“With all due respect, Mrs. Shah, Rajeev,” Aryan said, his voice low and firm, carrying an undeniable authority that silenced the room. “Meera’s ‘lineage’ is precisely what makes her so remarkable. She isn’t ‘unburdened by social obligations’; she is simply free of the baggage that often comes with them. She is authentic, talented, and fiercely independent.”
He paused, his eyes briefly meeting Meera’s, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher – a warning? A challenge? Then, his gaze returned to the assembled matriarchs, his voice gaining a steely edge. “Frankly, the Raichand name needs no further embellishment from any ‘established family.’ What it needs is fresh perspective, genuine talent, and a partner who isn’t afraid to be herself. Meera is all of those things. Her worth is not measured by her balance sheet or her ancestors, but by her character. And that, I assure you, is beyond reproach.”
The words hung in the air, a definitive, almost aggressive defense. The room fell silent. Mrs. Shah looked abashed, her polite smile wilting. Rajeev’s smirk vanished, replaced by a scowl of frustration. Dadi, however, beamed, her eyes sparkling with pride at Aryan’s unexpected show of devotion. Meera stared at Aryan, stunned. His words, sharp and direct, had silenced her critics and, for a moment, made her feel truly seen, truly defended. He had stood up for her, curtly, yes, but undeniably. It was an unexpected act of protection that sent a strange warmth spreading through her chest, baffling her completely.
The tea ended shortly after, the tension having broken the polite façade. Meera managed to murmur a quiet “thank you” to Aryan before he retreated to his study, once again distant and preoccupied. But the impact of his words lingered, a confusing mix of relief and a strange, unfamiliar flutter in her heart. He was still her jailer, her tormentor, but he had also, inexplicably, been her shield.
Across the city, Natasha Oberoi received the first batch of reports from her private investigator. Nothing concrete, nothing about a contract. But the findings were intriguing. Meera Sharma: struggling artist, significant family debt, no discernible wealthy connections, no prior history in high society. Her sudden appearance in Aryan’s life, a complete anomaly. The reports solidified Natasha’s suspicion. This wasn’t a love match. This was something else entirely. And whatever it was, Natasha was determined to expose it, to reclaim her place, and to ensure Aryan Raichand paid the price for his deception.
**Cliffhanger:** Despite Aryan's previous anger, he unexpectedly and sharply defends Meera against probing questions and snide remarks from socialites (and Rajeev) about her humble background, surprising both Meera and himself with his protective instincts. Meera is left reeling, a strange warmth battling with her resentment for him. Meanwhile, Natasha Oberoi receives initial, ambiguous reports on Meera's background that confirm her suspicions that something is amiss, fueling her determination to dig deeper and uncover the truth behind Aryan's mysterious "fiancée."
Chapter 10
The silence of the Raichand mansion, a vast, echoing cavern of wealth, pressed in on Meera as the clock on the bedside table glowed 2:17 AM. Sleep was a distant, mocking promise. Her elegant gown, shed hours ago, lay draped over a velvet chaise lounge, a shimmering reminder of the evening’s ordeal. She tossed restlessly in the oversized bed, the crisp, expensive sheets feeling less like comfort and more like a silken trap.
Her mind replayed the day’s events: the forced smiles at the gala, the sharp glint in Natasha Oberoi’s eyes, the condescending questions from the socialites, and then, most jarringly, Aryan’s unexpected defense. His voice, cutting through the polite venom of Mrs. Shah and Rajeev, had been a surprising balm to her wounded pride. *“Her worth is not measured by her balance sheet or her ancestors, but by her character.”* The words echoed in her mind, a stark contrast to his earlier fury about her “recyclable art.” He was infuriatingly inconsistent, a paradox wrapped in an expensive suit. One moment, he was her tyrannical employer, laying down rules and spitting venom; the next, he was her reluctant protector, his words slicing through her critics like a blade. The duality of his character was bewildering, a puzzle she found herself, much to her annoyance, increasingly intrigued by.
The air in the room felt thick, heavy with unspoken expectations and the weight of her predicament. She needed air, a change of scenery, anything to break the suffocating silence. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on a soft cotton nightshirt and a pair of loose track pants. Her bare feet padded softly on the cool marble floor as she ventured out of her luxurious suite and into the dimly lit corridor. The mansion at night was a different beast altogether – vast, quiet, almost ghostly. Shadows danced in the corners, and the moonlight filtering through the tall arched windows cast ethereal patterns on the polished floors.
She wandered aimlessly, past art-filled galleries, an imposing library, and rooms she hadn't even had a chance to explore. Her instincts, more than any conscious decision, led her towards the back of the house, towards the familiar, comforting hum of the kitchen. It was the one place in the mansion that felt remotely real, less like a museum and more like a functional space.
As she pushed open the heavy oak door leading into the cavernous kitchen, a faint light spilled from under the door of the adjoining, smaller utility kitchen. A low murmur of voices, then a distinct clinking sound. Meera paused, her hand still on the door. Was it the night staff? Unlikely, at this hour. Curiosity, a driving force in her chaotic life, pulled her forward.
She gently pushed open the utility kitchen door, and froze. It wasn’t a staff member. It was Aryan.
He was standing by the gleaming stainless steel counter, dressed in a loose white t-shirt and dark track pants, a stark departure from his usual impeccably tailored attire. His dark hair was slightly dishevelled, falling casually across his forehead, and there was a faint stubble darkening his jaw. He looked… human. And incredibly, utterly exhausted. He was holding a mug of what looked like steaming coffee, and beside him, on a plate, lay a piece of toast, charred beyond recognition. He frowned at it, a tiny furrow between his brows, as if the burnt bread had personally offended him.
Meera, momentarily stunned by this unexpected sight, let out a tiny gasp. Aryan’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw her. For a split second, they just stared at each other, caught in the unexpected intimacy of the late hour. The air hummed with unspoken questions.
“Meera?” he finally managed, his voice rough with sleep and surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I couldn’t sleep,” she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. She gestured vaguely. “I just needed to… wander. I heard a noise. What are *you* doing here? Don’t you have people for this?” She gestured to the burnt toast, a slight smirk playing on her lips.
Aryan’s gaze flickered to the offending toast, then back to her, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. “I needed… coffee. And something to eat. I was working late.” He gestured to a stack of files on a small breakfast nook table, illuminated by a single lamp. The papers were covered in complex diagrams and dense text, looking utterly impenetrable. “And apparently, my culinary skills are… lacking.”
Meera walked closer, unable to resist peering at the toast. “Lacking? Raichand, this isn’t lacking. This is a carbonized relic. You could probably use it as a charcoal sketch pad.”
A muscle twitched in Aryan’s jaw. He scowled at her. “It was supposed to be a simple piece of toast. How difficult can it be?”
Meera bit her lip to suppress a laugh. “Apparently, for a billionaire used to a full staff, quite difficult. Here, let me. I can actually operate a toaster without causing a national crisis.”
She moved past him, grabbing a fresh slice of bread from the bread bin. He watched her, a mixture of annoyance and weary curiosity in his eyes. He didn’t stop her. She slotted the bread into the toaster, adjusted the setting to a medium-gold, and pushed the lever down with a definitive click.
“You know, for someone who commands an empire, you seem surprisingly inept at basic survival skills,” Meera remarked, turning to face him, leaning against the counter.
He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes dark with fatigue. “And for someone who claims to be an artist, you seem to have a surprising aptitude for domestic drudgery.”
“Hey! Cooking isn’t drudgery. It’s an art form!” she retorted, a playful challenge in her voice. “You take raw ingredients, apply heat and technique, and transform them into something delicious. It’s creation, Raichand. Something you, with your mergers and acquisitions, probably wouldn’t understand.”
He actually scoffed. “I create value, Meera. I build. I expand. I connect. That’s creation on a grand scale, far beyond a mere meal.”
“But can you eat a merger when you’re hungry at 2 AM?” she countered, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Can it comfort you when you’ve had a bad day? Or can it tell you it loves you?”
He paused, taking another sip of his coffee. His gaze was distant, thoughtful. “No,” he admitted, almost to himself. “It cannot.” He looked up at her, and for the first time, the sharp edges of his usual persona seemed softened by exhaustion. “What does it feel like, Meera? To create something with your own hands? Something… tangible, that truly belongs to you?”
The question was unexpected, stripped of his usual cynicism. Meera considered it. “It’s… liberating,” she said softly, her voice losing its usual playful bite. “It’s like putting a piece of your soul out into the world. It’s scary, because it’s so vulnerable, but it’s also the most honest thing you can do. Unlike… well, unlike some other things.” Her gaze flickered meaningfully to him, hinting at the contract.
He didn't flinch. Instead, he looked at the burnt toast again, then back at her. “And what about you, Meera? Does it feel liberating, living in this house? Pretending to be… my fiancée?”
The toaster popped up with a gentle click. Perfectly golden brown. Meera removed the toast, buttered it, and held it out to him. “Here. Try this. It’s far more authentic.”
He took the toast, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He took a bite, chewed slowly, and then, to Meera’s utter astonishment, a genuine, unforced sound of pleasure escaped him. “This is… surprisingly good.”
Meera grinned, a wave of satisfaction washing over her. “See? The simple things. They often provide the most satisfaction.” She took a seat opposite him at the breakfast nook, pulling a mug towards her. “Do you want me to make you some fresh coffee too? That one looks like it’s been brooding for hours, much like its owner.”
He actually chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that startled her. It was the first real, unforced laugh she’d ever heard from him. It changed his face, softened the sharp lines around his mouth, and brought a surprising warmth to his eyes. “Please. And make it less… broody. Like you say, the simple things.”
Meera made him a fresh cup, the aroma filling the quiet kitchen. As she poured, she noticed the deep shadows under his eyes, the subtle tremor in his hand as he reached for the mug. “You work too much, Aryan,” she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “No wonder you look like you’re on the verge of collapsing.”
He sighed, leaning back in his chair, taking a slow sip of the fresh coffee. “It’s the merger. And Dadi. The pressure… it’s immense. Every day feels like walking a tightrope with a dozen hungry lions below.” He looked at her, his guard momentarily down. “And now, with Natasha sniffing around, trying to expose… well, everything.”
Meera felt a pang of unexpected sympathy. She knew what it was like to feel immense pressure, to carry the weight of a family’s financial woes. “She’s dangerous, isn’t she?”
Aryan nodded, his expression hardening slightly. “She’s cunning. And she has a history of… well, she was the reason I became so guarded, so cynical about relationships. She betrayed my trust, professionally and personally. She’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants.” He paused, then looked at Meera, his gaze direct. “And right now, what she wants is to see me fail, and for you to be caught in the crossfire.”
A chill ran down Meera’s spine. The implication was clear: Natasha wasn’t just a social rival, she was a genuine threat. And Meera was right in the middle of it. “She thinks I’m an opportunist,” Meera murmured, recalling the maids’ whispers, Mrs. Shah’s disdain.
“She thinks you’re a weakness,” Aryan corrected, his voice low. “A vulnerability she can exploit. Because you came from… outside. You’re not part of the established order she understands.” He took another bite of toast. “But you’re not. And you proved that today, standing up to Mrs. Shah, even if you did almost get us disowned by an art critic.” A faint, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile touched his lips.
Meera felt a surge of warmth at his grudging praise. He had noticed. He had seen her struggle, and her small victory. The unexpected compliment softened the edges of her anger, leaving only a lingering confusion. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the soft clinking of their mugs and the distant hum of the mansion’s systems. The tension between them, usually a tangible wall, had momentarily dissipated, replaced by a strange, fragile truce born of shared exhaustion and an unlikely midnight snack.
Finally, Aryan pushed back his chair. “I should… get back to work. Thank you for the toast, Meera. And the coffee.” His voice was back to its usual composed tone, but there was a subtle softening around the edges.
Meera rose as well. “Anytime, Raichand. Just try not to set the kitchen on fire next time.”
He actually cracked another small smile. “I’ll try. Good night, Meera.”
“Good night, Aryan.”
He walked out, leaving Meera alone in the quiet kitchen. She stood there for a moment, the aroma of coffee and toast still lingering in the air. A feeling she couldn't quite name settled over her – a blend of surprise, a faint sense of connection, and a deeper confusion. She had seen a glimpse of the man behind the billionaire, a tired, vulnerable human who struggled with toasters and carried immense burdens. And he had, in turn, offered her a rare, almost tender moment of understanding.
As she made her way back to her room, the vastness of the mansion no longer felt quite so cold. The gilded cage still held her, but for a few fleeting moments, the bars had seemed a little wider, the air a little easier to breathe. The contract still bound them, Natasha still lurked, and Dadi still expected a love story. But for the first time, Meera wondered if the line between their fake roles and their real selves was beginning to blur in a way neither of them had anticipated, or could control. And that thought, as she finally drifted off to sleep, was far more unsettling than any burnt toast.
**Cliffhanger:** Meera and Aryan share an unexpected moment of vulnerability and connection during a late-night encounter in the kitchen, sparking a fragile truce and a deeper, confusing awareness of each other beyond their contracted roles. This brief, personal interaction leaves Meera questioning the nature of their relationship and the blurring lines between pretense and reality. However, the lurking threat of Natasha Oberoi, who is now actively digging into Meera’s past, ensures that this newfound, fragile understanding will soon be put to the ultimate test.
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
The morning after their accidental late-night rendezvous, a strange atmosphere hung between Meera and Aryan. The usual crisp formality was still present in the Raichand mansion, but now, beneath it, lay a thin layer of unspoken awareness. Their eyes met across the vast breakfast table, a flicker of acknowledgement passing between them before they quickly averted their gazes. The memory of burnt toast and a shared, quiet conversation, the sight of Aryan looking less like a CEO and more like a weary human, lingered in Meera's mind. It was unsettling, this new, almost tender facet to their forced co-existence.
Meera had just finished a somewhat more successful attempt at sketching in the mansion's sunroom – a detailed study of a complex floral arrangement Dadi had insisted on placing there – when a soft knock sounded on the open door. It was Dadi, dressed in a vibrant silk saree, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun. Her eyes, usually sharp with observation, held a particularly knowing glint today.
“Meera, my child, are you busy?” Dadi asked, her voice sweet and gentle, but with an underlying tone that suggested she was on a mission. She walked in, her smile widening as she spotted Meera’s sketchpad. “Ah, always with your art! It truly warms my heart to see such passion. Aryan always says you bring such a unique vision to everything.”
Meera almost choked on air. Aryan said *what*? The man who called her artistic endeavours “recyclable rubbish”? She forced a polite smile. “Thank you, Dadi. It’s… a work in progress.”
Dadi settled into a plush armchair opposite Meera, pouring herself a cup of green tea from a delicate porcelain pot. “So, my dear,” she began, her tone shifting, becoming subtly inquisitive. “Tell me. You and Aryan… you truly are a wonderful pair. I’ve seen him change, you know. He’s always been so serious, so focused on work. But with you, there’s a lightness, a happiness I haven’t seen in him for years.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice slightly. “But tell me, how did it all begin? The spark, the connection… My grandson is a private man, he never speaks of such things. But I am an old woman, with a heart full of curiosity. And a mother’s desire to know the true story of her son’s happiness.”
Meera’s blood ran cold. Dadi was fishing. And she wasn't just fishing, she was trying to reel in a whole whale of a love story. Her mind raced. The contract explicitly forbade telling anyone the truth, especially Dadi. And besides, what would she say? "Oh, we met when I spilt coffee on his expensive suit and then I signed a deceptive contract to pretend to be his girlfriend so he wouldn't lose a merger and his grandmother wouldn't marry him off to someone else?" Not exactly the romantic epic Dadi was hoping for.
Panic sparked a desperate creativity. Meera swallowed, trying to compose herself. “Oh, Dadi,” she began, pulling a dramatic, wistful expression. “It wasn’t just a ‘spark.’ It was… an explosion. A destiny woven by the stars!”
Dadi’s eyes widened, leaning in eagerly. “Tell me, tell me!”
“Well,” Meera started, improvising wildly, “it was a rainy night, Dadi. The kind where the city lights blur into beautiful streaks of colour. I was… on my way to an art gallery opening, carrying my most precious, fragile piece – a glass sculpture, you see, of two intertwined souls.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And then, suddenly, a sleek, black car, like a phantom, swished past, splashing muddy water all over my pristine white dress!”
Dadi gasped. “Oh, the horror!”
“Indeed!” Meera continued, warming to her tale. “I was furious! My sculpture was almost ruined! And just as I was about to unleash a tirade, the car stopped. A man emerged. Tall, dark, handsome… and dripping with remorse. He saw my ruined dress, my trembling hands holding the precious art. He looked at me, Dadi, and it was as if the world stopped. His eyes… they held a universe of unspoken apology and a recognition, a deep, profound recognition, of my artistic soul!”
Meera gestured expressively with her hands, caught up in the narrative. “He offered me his coat, a custom-tailored masterpiece, mind you! And insisted on taking me to a quiet café to dry off and buy me a hot chocolate. And there, over steaming mugs, we talked. For hours. About art, about life, about the hidden beauty in mundane things… He, the stoic businessman, found himself captivated by my free spirit, and I, the struggling artist, found a warmth beneath his formidable exterior. We realized, Dadi, that we were two halves of a whole. He even confessed later that he had purposefully splashed me, just to get my attention!” Meera finished with a flourish, beaming at the utterly fabricated romantic tale.
Dadi was positively misty-eyed. “Oh, my darling! How absolutely *filmy*! My Aryan, purposefully splashing a beautiful girl! I always knew he had a hidden romantic streak!” She dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “A glass sculpture of intertwined souls… how poetic! And to think, he never told me such a beautiful story himself!”
Just as Meera was congratulating herself on a stellar performance, a deep, utterly bewildered voice cut through the air. “He did *what* now?”
Meera’s blood ran cold for the second time that day. Aryan stood at the sunroom entrance, holding a brief-case, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and utter disbelief, clearly having walked in at the tail end of her dramatic confession about the intentional splashing. He was dressed in a sharp business suit, looking as formidable and composed as ever, a stark contrast to his disheveled, vulnerable self from hours ago.
Dadi, still teary-eyed, turned to him with a beaming smile. “Aryan! My boy! Meera was just telling me the most beautiful story of how you two met! The rainy night, the mud splash, the glass sculpture of intertwined souls! And you even purposefully splashed her just to get her attention! Oh, you romantic rogue, you!”
Aryan’s eyes flickered from Dadi’s adoring face to Meera’s wide, terrified ones. The silent message passing between them was clear: *You are so dead.* Then, with a subtle shift, his expression morphed into something less murderous and more… strained. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and walked further into the room, managing to summon a rather unconvincing, yet endearing, sheepish grin.
“Ah, yes. That night,” Aryan said, his voice a little too smooth, a little too forced. He looked at Meera, a vein throbbing in his temple. “Meera has a way of… embellishing details. She’s an artist, after all. Everything is more vibrant, more dramatic with her.”
Dadi tutted playfully. “Embellishing, or just recalling the passion more vividly than your dry business mind, my dear? Now, come, tell me, Aryan, isn’t it true you found her soul so captivating that you couldn’t resist even a little bit of playful mischief to talk to her?”
Aryan winced internally. Playful mischief. He barely tolerated her presence half the time. But Dadi was looking at him with such hopeful, loving eyes. He glanced at Meera again, who was now subtly giving him a pleading look, her eyes silently begging him to play along. He remembered the fragile truce, the shared chuckle over burnt toast. He remembered her face when the socialites had questioned her worth. He was stuck.
He walked over to Meera, reaching out a hand, and, to her utter shock, gently placed it on her shoulder. His touch was warm, firm, and surprisingly comforting. “Well, Dadi,” he began, his gaze softening as he looked at Meera, a strange, almost genuine tenderness entering his eyes, “let’s just say… Meera has a knack for turning ordinary moments into extraordinary ones. And yes,” he added, a hint of something that *might* have been amusement in his voice, “I was certainly… captivated. From the moment I saw her, covered in mud, clutching her art, I knew she was unlike anyone I’d ever met.” He even managed a small, convincing squeeze of her shoulder. “Completely. Unlike. Anyone.”
Meera’s breath hitched. His touch, his words, the way he was playing along so convincingly – it sent a shiver down her spine. The line between performance and something else entirely felt impossibly thin right then. Was he really *that* good an actor? Or was there a flicker of truth in his manufactured sentiment?
Dadi clapped her hands together, a joyous tear escaping her eye and rolling down her cheek. “Oh, Aryan! My son! You do love her! Truly, madly, deeply! This is all I ever wished for!” She beamed at them both, her face radiant with happiness. “My prayers have been answered! I must tell Mrs. Kapoor! And Mrs. Shah! That romantic rogue!”
Aryan forced a smile, a slight tremor in his jaw as Dadi bustled out of the room, leaving them alone once more. The moment the door clicked shut, his hand dropped from Meera’s shoulder as if it had been burned. His face reverted to its usual controlled mask, but his eyes, when they met hers, were blazing with a mix of exasperation, incredulity, and a hint of that familiar, dry amusement. He looked at her, his lips twitching slightly.
“A glass sculpture of intertwined souls, Meera?” he deadpanned, his voice low. “And I *purposefully* splashed you? You’re lucky Dadi’s sense of romance outweighs her common sense. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
Meera felt a bubble of laughter escape her lips. “Well, you had to say *something*! What was I supposed to do, tell her the truth? Your love life is apparently a disaster, and I’m your contracted lie! I had to work with what I had.” She grinned impishly. “Besides, you played along beautifully, Raichand. Perhaps you *do* have a hidden romantic streak, after all.”
He rolled his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching the corner of his mouth. “Don’t push it, Sharma. Just remember this when your next 'artistic inspiration' requires me to admit to being a lovesick fool who likes splashing women in the rain.” He picked up his briefcase, his composure returning, but the exasperated glint in his eyes remained. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go save my family's empire, which, unlike your fantastical love stories, is a very real, very vulnerable entity."
He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway, looking back at her. The amusement faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "But Meera... the part about you being 'unlike anyone I've ever met'? That, at least, was true. For better or worse." He gave her a long, unreadable look, then disappeared, leaving Meera in the sunroom, feeling a strange mix of relief, amusement, and a growing, unsettling curiosity about the man who was both her captor and her protector, and whose true feelings, if any, remained tantalizingly out of reach.
**Cliffhanger:** Dadi’s "detective work" forces Meera to spin a wildly romantic, fictional tale of her first meeting with Aryan, which he is then hilariously compelled to corroborate upon his unexpected arrival. While the scene is filled with comedic absurdity and shared exasperation between them, a quiet, almost tender admission from Aryan at the end – that Meera truly is "unlike anyone" he's met – leaves her wondering about the fragile, confusing line between their fake engagement and the unexpected reality of their developing bond. Meanwhile, the clock ticks on the merger deadline, and Natasha Oberoi's subtle digging threatens to expose the truth.
Chapter 12
The sunroom, usually a sanctuary of quiet creativity for Meera, felt charged with an almost tangible energy the morning after her dramatic, fabricated love story. Aryan’s departing words – "unlike anyone I've ever met," whispered with a surprising lack of his usual cynical edge – echoed in her mind. Had he meant it? Or was it just part of the act, a line delivered for Dadi's benefit that he hadn't quite switched off? The thought was a relentless hum beneath her conscious thoughts, confusing her, irritating her, and, a part of her reluctantly admitted, arousing a strange flicker of curiosity.
Breakfast had been an exercise in awkward avoidance. They sat at opposite ends of the sprawling dining table, the heavy silence punctuated only by the soft clinking of cutlery and the polite, almost too-attentive movements of the staff. Their eyes had met once, for a fleeting, charged second, before both had quickly looked away, the memory of burnt toast and a shared, vulnerable conversation hanging unspoken in the opulent air. It was an uneasy truce, a new, fragile layer added to the already complex strata of their contractual arrangement.
Meera had spent the morning trying to lose herself in her art, but even the canvas seemed to mock her, reflecting the turmoil within. Just as she was contemplating throwing her brush at the wall in frustration, Dadi swept into the sunroom, her silk saree rustling like autumn leaves. Her face was alight with a beatific smile, her eyes sparkling with an almost childlike joy.
“Meera, my darling child!” Dadi exclaimed, her voice melodious and full of warmth. “You simply brightened my entire day yesterday with your beautiful tale! My Aryan, a true romantic hero! I knew it, I always knew it!” She beamed, patting Meera’s hand. “Such a heartwarming story simply *must* be captured, mustn’t it? For posterity! For the family album! For all the world to see the love between my grandson and my dear, sweet Meera!”
Meera’s stomach plummeted. “Captured?” she managed, her voice weak.
Dadi clapped her hands together, oblivious to Meera’s sudden pallor. “Yes! I’ve arranged for the finest photographer in the city, Mr. Rajaram Singh, to come this afternoon! He’s photographed prime ministers and Bollywood stars! He will perfectly capture your radiant love!”
Just then, Aryan strode into the room, impeccably dressed, a brief respite from a morning of back-to-back calls. He took one look at Dadi’s glowing face and Meera’s horrified expression, and a flicker of suspicion crossed his features. “Dadi? What’s all this excitement about?”
“Oh, Aryan, my love!” Dadi beamed, turning to him. “I’ve arranged for a couple’s photoshoot! For your family album! To commemorate this beautiful, destined love story Meera told me about. The rain, the splash, the intertwined souls! It will be divine!”
Aryan’s jaw dropped. He turned to Meera, his eyes wide with disbelief, a low groan escaping him. “A photoshoot? Dadi, I have the merger meeting this week! My schedule is packed!”
Dadi, however, was impervious to his protests. She crossed her arms, her expression firm. “Nonsense, Aryan. A few hours for your family, for your future, for your *love*, will not derail your empire. Besides, it will send a strong message to your investors, seeing a stable, happy relationship. And to those pesky socialites who whisper about your bachelor status. Now, no arguments! Mr. Singh will arrive at three sharp. Meera, my dear, I’ve already sent the stylists to your room. They will help you choose something truly special.” With a triumphant smile, Dadi swept out, leaving behind a stunned Aryan and a dread-filled Meera.
Aryan turned to Meera, his face a mask of utter exasperation. “You and your ‘intertwined souls’!” he hissed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “This is exactly what happens when you let your imagination run wild! Now we’re stuck posing like lovesick teenagers for a family album!”
Meera threw her hands up. “What was I supposed to do? Tell her we signed a contract? She would’ve had a heart attack! And anyway, *you* played along, Mr. ‘Unlike Anyone I’ve Ever Met’!” She saw a faint flush creep up his neck at her mimicry, and a tiny bit of her fear was replaced by a mischievous satisfaction.
“That was for Dadi’s benefit!” he retorted, his voice low and strained. “Now, just… try not to spontaneously combust or turn me into a charcoal sketchpad during the shoot. We need this to look convincing.” With a final, weary sigh, he stalked out, presumably to mentally prepare for the ordeal.
The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity. A phalanx of stylists, makeup artists, and hair professionals descended upon Meera’s suite. They cooed over her “natural beauty,” debated the merits of a traditional lehenga versus a modern gown, and insisted on applying layers of makeup to give her the “radiant glow of a woman in love.” Meera, used to smearing paint on her face, felt like a doll being prepped for display.
“More blush, darling,” chirped a tiny woman with gravity-defying hair, powdering Meera’s cheeks. “You must exude that inner joy! The joy of finding your soulmate!”
Meera forced a smile, her cheeks already aching. “Right. Soulmate joy. Got it.”
Meanwhile, Aryan, being Aryan, was efficient. He emerged from his own dressing room precisely on time, looking impossibly handsome in a tailored ivory kurta-pyjama, followed by a sharp charcoal suit for the modern shots. He merely tolerated the stylists, used to their ministrations, his face a mask of polite indifference. Meera, catching sight of him as she descended the grand staircase, felt a strange jolt. He truly was devastatingly good-looking, even when radiating palpable annoyance. It was an objective observation, of course. Purely objective.
The photoshoot itself was set up in the mansion’s sprawling formal garden, beneath a majestic ancient banyan tree adorned with fairy lights. Mr. Rajaram Singh, a flamboyant man with a perfectly sculpted beard and an artistic temperament, greeted them with an elaborate bow.
“Ah, the beautiful couple!” he boomed, gesturing grandly. “Such passion, such elegance! I hear your love story is truly the stuff of legends!” He cast a knowing glance at Dadi, who was supervising from a comfortable distance, beaming proudly.
The initial shots were excruciating. Mr. Singh wanted them to pose in a variety of “romantic” scenarios.
“Aryan, darling, put your arm around her waist, as if you’re protecting your most precious treasure!”
Aryan awkwardly placed his arm, stiff as a board, his fingers barely touching Meera’s saree. Meera, equally stiff, felt like a mannequin.
“No, no, no!” Mr. Singh groaned, throwing his hands up. “Mr. Raichand, you look like you’re conducting a business deal, not embracing your beloved! More affection! More tender touch!”
Aryan muttered under his breath, “This is ridiculous.”
Meera whispered back, “Just pretend I’m a particularly stubborn merger document.”
“And you, Meera!” Mr. Singh continued, oblivious to their silent communication. “Look at him as if he’s the sunrise after a dark night! The air you breathe!”
Meera tried to conjure a lovesick gaze, but her eyes kept darting to Aryan’s, which were wide with a forced, comical adoration that made her want to burst out laughing.
“No, Meera, you look like you’re trying to read his mind!” Mr. Singh sighed dramatically. “A little more… warmth! A little less… investigation!”
They tried a shot where Aryan was supposed to hold her hand. “Hold it, Mr. Raichand, not like you’re checking her pulse for signs of life! More passion! Like you never want to let her go!”
Aryan squeezed Meera’s hand a little too hard in his exasperation. Meera yelped softly, pulling her hand back.
“Oh, the passion!” Mr. Singh declared, mistaking her discomfort for intensity. “Beautiful! But let’s try something more… candid. More natural. As if you’re just enjoying a quiet moment together.”
He suggested they walk hand-in-hand through a rose arbor, chatting casually. Aryan, still stiff, tried to force a smile. Meera, exhausted by the charade, felt her concentration waver. As they rounded a corner, her foot caught on a loose paving stone. She gasped, stumbling forward.
Instinctively, Aryan’s arm shot out, pulling her close against his chest to steady her. His other hand went to her back, holding her firmly, preventing her fall. Meera found herself pressed against him, her cheek brushing his crisp shirt. His scent – a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely masculine – filled her senses. For a split second, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Their eyes locked. The laughter, the frustration, the pretense – it all vanished. In that brief, intense moment, there was only the unexpected warmth of his body against hers, the steady beat of his heart against her ear, and the startling depth of his gaze. His eyes, usually guarded and unreadable, held a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher – concern, yes, but also a raw, unguarded awareness. Meera felt a powerful jolt, an electric current sparking between them that had nothing to do with the contract or Dadi’s expectations. It was pure, undeniable chemistry, a sudden, searing recognition of something deeper.
Mr. Singh, ever the professional, had seen the moment. His camera clicked rapidly, capturing the genuine surprise, the raw connection, the almost tender hold. He didn’t direct them, he merely froze the unexpected intimacy.
Then, just as swiftly as it had happened, it was over. Aryan, realizing how close they were, how genuine the moment had become, quickly loosened his grip. He cleared his throat, his face flushing a deep red, avoiding her gaze. Meera felt an equally intense blush creep up her neck. She pushed away from him, suddenly acutely aware of the warmth lingering on her skin where he had held her.
“Are you alright, Meera?” Aryan asked, his voice a little rougher than usual.
“F-fine,” she stammered, smoothing her saree, pretending to check a non-existent wrinkle. “Just… tripped.”
Mr. Singh, however, was ecstatic. “Yes! Yes! That was it! That spark! The natural, unscripted moment! Simply divine! You two are naturals, darlings! We have the shot!” He clicked through the images on his camera, his smile widening. “This one… this is the one. Pure love, captured. Even if it was by accident!”
The rest of the photoshoot passed in a haze for Meera. Every instruction from Mr. Singh, every polite touch, every forced smile, felt magnified by the memory of that accidental embrace. She found herself acutely aware of Aryan’s presence, his scent, the way his gaze sometimes drifted to her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She knew he felt it too. The air between them, once filled with exasperated bickering, now crackled with an unspoken tension, a new layer of complexity.
As soon as Mr. Singh declared the session complete, Aryan mumbled something about an urgent conference call and practically sprinted back into the mansion, leaving Meera to field Dadi’s effusive compliments.
“Oh, Meera, my child, you were simply radiant!” Dadi gushed, hugging her. “And Aryan! I haven’t seen him look at anyone like that in years! The way he held you, so protective!”
Meera managed a strained smile. Protective, yes. But also… something else. Something dangerous.
Later that evening, alone in her room, Meera couldn’t shake the feeling. The professional smile, the forced intimacy – it was all part of the act. But that one moment, when she had stumbled, when he had caught her… that had been real. The jolt, the sudden awareness, the spark. It was terrifying. Because if *that* was real, then what did it mean for everything else? For the contract, for her debt, for the carefully constructed lies that governed their lives?
Unbeknownst to them, miles away, Mr. Singh, delighted with his work, was uploading a sneak peek of the photoshoot to his studio’s exclusive online portfolio, tagging Raichand Industries. One particular photo, the one capturing the raw, unscripted moment of Aryan catching Meera, stood out. It was a shot of pure, unadulterated emotion, a perfect narrative of accidental love.
Meanwhile, across the city, Natasha Oberoi, still smarting from her recent encounters with Meera and determined to find a weakness, was scrolling through society pages on her tablet. A notification popped up from Mr. Singh’s studio. She clicked on it, a sneer forming on her lips, expecting to see a stiff, unconvincing display. But as the image of Aryan holding Meera, their eyes locked in that unguarded moment, filled her screen, the sneer slowly vanished. Her eyes narrowed, a cold, calculating glint replacing her usual disdain. This wasn’t just a contract, she realized with a growing sense of alarm. This was something else entirely. And if it was real, it was a far bigger threat than she had anticipated.
**Cliffhanger:** A planned “romantic” photoshoot for Dadi unexpectedly captures a moment of genuine, undeniable chemistry between Aryan and Meera, leaving both flustered and questioning the blurring lines of their contract. Unbeknownst to them, the photographer captures this raw, unguarded intimacy. This specific image, meant for the family album, is seen by Natasha Oberoi, who immediately recognizes the genuine spark and realizes that their fake relationship might be turning into something real, intensifying her determination to expose and sabotage them.
Chapter 13
The lingering scent of Dadi’s expensive jasmine perfume hung in Meera’s room, a sweet, cloying reminder of the photoshoot that had utterly derailed her composure. The memory of Aryan’s arm around her, the fleeting touch that had felt anything but fake, continued to replay in her mind, a GIF of startling intensity. She pressed the cool back of her hand against her flushed cheek, wishing she could erase the entire experience. It was supposed to be a simple, if excruciating, act of pretend. Not… *that*. Not a moment that made her question the very foundations of their chaotic, contractual existence.
She'd tried to sketch, tried to paint, tried to lose herself in the familiar comfort of charcoal on paper, but her hand trembled, her focus fractured. Every line she drew seemed to waver, just like her carefully constructed emotional barriers. She was an artist who specialized in chaotic, vibrant expressions, but this internal chaos was too much, too unsettling.
Her phone, nestled on the bedside table, suddenly buzzed violently, pulling her from her reverie. It was Priya. Her best friend. A wave of dread washed over Meera. She’d been avoiding Priya’s calls and texts for days, ever since she’d moved into the Raichand mansion. How do you explain living in a palace while pretending to be an art assistant for a reclusive, extremely wealthy client, when in reality you’re a contract girlfriend for a brooding billionaire who just accidentally set your soul on fire during a photoshoot? It was… complicated.
Taking a deep breath, Meera answered. "Hey, Pri! So sorry, my phone's been on silent, just caught up with… uh… art stuff!"
“Art stuff?!” Priya’s voice exploded through the phone, sharp and incredulous. “Meera Sharma, I’ve left you twenty-seven voicemails, forty-two texts, and sent three carrier pigeons! You disappear off the face of the Earth, no warning, no goodbye, and then I see you on the society pages looking like a literal princess, draped in diamonds next to… *the* Aryan Raichand! And all you have to say is ‘art stuff’?”
Meera winced. The society pages. Of course. Dadi would have ensured that. “Oh, that! It was… a misunderstanding! Just a charity event. I was… helping out. You know, with the décor. Art installations and things.” Her voice was high-pitched and strained, even to her own ears.
“Decor? Meera, you looked like you were walking the red carpet, not hanging curtains! And the way he was looking at you… that was not ‘helping with décor’ look, Meera! That was a ‘my girlfriend is hotter than the sun and I hate everyone looking at her’ look!” Priya’s tone was a mix of genuine concern and exaggerated dramatics. “You suddenly stop returning my calls, you’re never at the flat, your portion of the rent just miraculously appeared in my account, and then BAM! You’re living in a mansion and papped with the city’s most eligible bachelor! What in the Bollywood rom-com is going on, Meera?”
Meera swallowed hard, her mind racing. There was no escaping this. Priya was a force of nature, a pit bull with a penchant for uncovering secrets. She had always prided herself on being able to read Meera like an open book. “Okay, okay, calm down, Drama Queen. It’s… it’s a really big project, alright? A super exclusive, super secretive art commission. Like, top-secret, government-level art. I had to sign an NDA and everything. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. And it requires me to… be on-site. Live-in, you know? For… artistic immersion.” She hoped her voice sounded more convincing than it felt.
“Artistic immersion in a billionaire’s mansion?” Priya scoffed, clearly unconvinced. “Meera, if you’ve somehow managed to charm Aryan Raichand into letting you paint murals on his walls, then I need to know your magic. Because the last time I checked, you were still using old newspapers for canvases and living on instant noodles.”
“No, no, it’s not *his* mansion,” Meera quickly corrected, then immediately regretted it. “Well, it is, but it’s… part of the commission. He’s a patron. A very generous, very private patron.”
“Aha!” Priya crowed. “So he *is* involved! Meera, I’m coming over. Right now. I don’t care about your NDAs or your ‘artistic immersion.’ You owe me details, and I’m collecting in person. Give me the address. And for God’s sake, make sure you don’t answer the door looking like you’re about to attend a royal wedding. I need to see the real you.”
Meera’s heart pounded. “Priya, no! It’s… it’s really busy here! And private! And… there are very strict rules about visitors!”
“Rules?” Priya’s voice was dangerously low. “Meera, you’re talking to the girl who once broke into a five-star hotel pool at 3 AM just to prove a point. ‘Rules’ are merely suggestions for me. Now, address. Or I’m calling the police and reporting you missing.”
Meera sighed in defeat. There was no winning with Priya. She reluctantly rattled off the Raichand mansion’s address, feeling a cold dread settle in her stomach. “Just… be normal, okay? Don’t… stare. Or touch anything. Or try to find my soulmate.”
Priya giggled. “No promises, bestie. See you in twenty!”
Meera hung up, collapsing onto her bed. “Oh, God, this is going to be a disaster,” she muttered to herself, staring up at the ornate, impossibly high ceiling. Priya would see through her lies in approximately 0.7 seconds. She was too sharp, too perceptive. And then what? Would she tell Dadi? Would she tell the media? Would she try to ‘rescue’ her from her fake, luxurious prison?
She scrambled up, trying to "Priya-proof" her room. She hid the expensive designer bags Dadi had insisted on buying her, shoved a jewel-encrusted hair clip under a pile of scarves, and even tried to strategically place some of her own messy art supplies around the impeccably neat room, making it look more like her old chaotic studio. It was a futile effort. The sheer opulence of the room itself was a dead giveaway. The antique furniture, the silk drapes, the priceless paintings on the walls – none of it screamed ‘struggling artist living for immersion.’
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Meera rushed down the grand staircase, her heart thumping against her ribs. She was greeted by Ramu Kaka, the head butler, a man of infinite patience and an uncanny ability to appear precisely when needed. He held a silver tray with a visiting card.
“Miss Sharma, your guest has arrived,” Ramu Kaka announced with his usual serene formality.
Meera nodded, bracing herself. She walked to the enormous main door, which Ramu Kaka opened with a majestic sweep. Standing on the pristine marble steps, looking utterly out of place with her brightly coloured, slightly mismatched outfit and an oversized, bohemian tote bag slung over her shoulder, was Priya.
Priya’s eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, widened to the size of saucers. She took in the massive wrought-iron gates, the perfectly manicured lawns, the towering façade of the mansion, and then, slowly, let her gaze drift to Meera, dressed in an elegant (though simple by Dadi’s standards) tunic and linen trousers.
“You… live… *here*?” Priya whispered, her jaw hanging open. “Meera, are you secretly a long-lost princess? Or did you win the lottery and forget to tell me?”
Meera forced a tight smile. “It’s… the client’s place. For the commission. Artistic immersion, remember?” She tried to push her towards the more discreet side entrance, but Priya was already taking a step inside, her eyes darting around the grand foyer with its gleaming marble floors, soaring ceilings, and a massive chandelier that glittered like a thousand captured stars.
“Holy moly,” Priya breathed, her voice a reverent whisper. “This isn’t a house, Meera. This is a five-star hotel masquerading as a private residence. Or a museum. Is that… a real Rodin?” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at a bronze sculpture in the corner.
Meera frantically grabbed her hand. “Priya! Remember what I said about not touching things? And yes, probably. Look, let’s go to my… studio. It’s… less overwhelming.”
Meera attempted to steer Priya towards a smaller, less opulent sitting room that she sometimes used for sketching. But Priya was already off, wandering deeper into the foyer, her head swiveling, eyes wide with incredulity. “Less overwhelming? Meera, the air in here smells like money and antique wood polish! What kind of ‘artistic immersion’ requires you to live in a gilded cage?”
“It’s for inspiration!” Meera mumbled, chasing after her. “To understand the patrons, the… aesthetic.”
Priya stopped abruptly in the middle of the grand living room, a vast space adorned with priceless art, silk rugs, and furniture that looked like it belonged in a French palace. She spun around, her eyes narrowing on Meera. “Okay, Meera. No more vague ‘artistic immersion’ nonsense. Look me in the eye and tell me what the hell is going on. Are you a concubine? Are you in a cult? Did you accidentally marry a sheikh?”
Meera threw her hands up in exasperation. “No! Nothing like that! It’s… I told you! A very high-paying art commission! The client is very private. And this is where they keep their collection. I’m essentially their… live-in curator.” She tried to sound professional, but her voice cracked on the last word.
“Live-in curator who gets chauffeured around in luxury cars, wears designer clothes, and gets photographed arm-in-arm with Aryan Raichand?” Priya countered, her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised skeptically. “Meera, your nose is growing longer than Pinocchio’s. Who is this mysterious client? And why do I smell a rat, a really expensive, impeccably dressed rat, named Aryan Raichand?”
Meera’s mind raced, searching for another plausible lie. “He’s… a distant relative of the client. He’s just… supervising the project. He’s very particular about his family’s art collection.”
Priya scoffed, then suddenly gasped. Her eyes had landed on a particularly flamboyant, abstract painting hanging on one of the walls – a painting that, Meera suddenly realized with a jolt of horror, she had “accidentally” redecorated with some of her own chaotic splashes of paint, much to Aryan’s initial disgust, but Dadi’s delight. Priya recognized her distinct style instantly.
“Meera! Is that… your work?” Priya exclaimed, rushing towards the painting, her awe temporarily overriding her suspicion. She traced a finger along a bold, vibrant line that Meera had added. “How did you get them to let you paint *on* their priceless art? Are you a genius, or did you just strong-arm them with your usual ‘artistic vision’ speech?”
Meera managed a weak chuckle. “Artistic vision, mostly. And the client is very… open-minded.”
“Open-minded rich people who let you deface their art and then pay you enough to live in a palace? Meera, this is either the best deal of your life, or you’re in a very elaborate, very dangerous trap,” Priya stated, her tone turning serious. She turned to Meera, her expression softening. “Look, I know you’re trying to keep something from me. And I get it, maybe it’s a big deal. But please, just tell me you’re safe. That you’re not in over your head. You always bite off more than you can chew, remember?”
Meera felt a pang of guilt. Priya was genuinely worried. “I’m safe, Pri. Honestly. It’s… it’s just a job. A really, *really* weird job.”
Just as Priya was about to push for more details, a familiar voice cut through the air, cool and authoritative. “Meera? Ramu Kaka said you had a guest. Is everything alright?”
Aryan stood at the entrance of the living room, a folder in his hand, his expression neutral but his eyes scanning the scene – Priya’s disheveled enthusiasm, Meera’s frantic energy. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking every inch the formidable CEO even in his casual attire.
Priya’s head snapped towards him. Her jaw dropped again. This was the man from the headlines, the Papped-with-Meera-looking-like-a-possessive-boyfriend Raichand. And he was in *this* house. With Meera. And he looked *exactly* like he did in the photos, only more imposing in person.
Meera forced a smile. “Aryan! Yes, this is my friend, Priya. Priya, this is… Aryan Raichand. The… uh… the client’s… associate. He oversees the artistic commissions.” She cursed herself internally. ‘Associate’? How vague and ridiculous did that sound?
Aryan’s gaze swept over Priya, a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of amusement in his eyes as he took in her bohemian chic and wide-eyed wonder. He extended a polite hand. “Pleased to meet you, Priya. Meera speaks highly of you.” He looked at Meera, a subtle challenge in his gaze. *Do you really want to keep up this charade with your sharp-witted friend?*
Priya, still reeling, managed to shake his hand. “Oh! Likewise, Mr. Raichand. Your house is… quite something.” She paused, then, unable to help herself, blurted out, “So you’re the one giving Meera ‘artistic immersion’ in a palatial setting? And making her look like a Vogue cover model?”
Aryan’s lips twitched. He glanced at Meera, who was silently willing the floor to swallow her whole. “We believe in providing the optimal environment for creativity,” he said smoothly, a hint of dry wit in his voice. “And Meera is… a very talented artist. Her work deserves a grand canvas. Sometimes, even the walls themselves.” He gave a subtle nod towards the painting Priya had been admiring, a knowing glint in his eye.
Priya narrowed her eyes, studying Aryan. She was well-versed in the subtle language of the rich and powerful, and something about his guarded yet almost playful demeanor didn't quite add up with Meera's flimsy 'curator' story. He was too relaxed, too at home, too… *intimate* in his interactions with Meera, even in that brief exchange.
Just then, Rohan, Aryan’s best friend and COO, walked in, casually dressed, a tablet in his hand. “Aryan, did you get those reports from the Mumbai office? The projections are – oh.” He stopped mid-sentence, taking in the scene. Meera, looking flustered. Priya, looking utterly bewildered. And Aryan, looking remarkably composed, given the circumstances.
Rohan’s eyes landed on Priya, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Well, hello there. And who might you be, bringing such a splash of colour into our rather… monochromatic existence?”
Priya, caught off guard by his charm and easy banter, actually blushed. “Priya. Meera’s best friend.” She straightened, regaining her composure. “And you are?”
“Rohan. Aryan’s personal babysitter, chief of damage control, and the only sane person in this entire establishment,” Rohan said, bowing slightly with a theatrical flourish. He winked at Meera, who groaned silently.
Priya laughed, a genuine, unforced sound. “Seems like a full-time job. I’m guessing you’ve had your hands full lately?” She shot a pointed look at Meera.
Rohan chuckled. “You have no idea. But some chaos is… more charming than others.” His gaze lingered on Priya, a spark of definite interest in his eyes.
Meera watched the exchange between her best friend and Aryan’s best friend, a bizarre sense of unreality washing over her. They were flirting. While she was caught in a web of lies with Aryan. This was a new level of absurd.
Priya, however, wasn’t completely distracted. She turned back to Aryan. “So, Mr. Raichand,” she said, her tone suddenly more serious, “I just want to be clear. My friend, Meera, she’s… safe here? She’s not being exploited? Because she’s like a sister to me, and if anything happens to her, I assure you, my ‘artistic immersion’ will involve a very large, very angry mob, and a lot of very public scrutiny.”
Aryan’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly. He met Priya’s challenging gaze, his voice calm but firm. “Meera is absolutely safe, Priya. And she is here because she chose to be. Her talent is invaluable to this project. No one is exploiting anyone.” He glanced at Meera, a flicker of something almost protective in his eyes. “In fact, I would say she has brought a great deal of… unexpected color to my life. And not just on the walls.”
Meera felt a strange warmth spread through her chest at his words. Was he actually defending her? And with such a… personal turn of phrase?
Priya studied them both, her gaze lingering on the subtle interplay between Aryan and Meera. She could see the tension, the unspoken communication, the way they seemed to anticipate each other’s reactions. It was far more than a professional relationship. It was intimate, fraught, and undeniably *real* in a way that Meera’s flimsy excuses couldn’t hide.
Finally, Priya sighed, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Alright, Meera. I’m not entirely convinced, but I can see you’re… busy. And Mr. Raichand, Rohan, it was… an experience.” She looked at Rohan, a playful challenge in her eyes. “Maybe next time, your life won’t be quite so monochromatic. I specialize in adding splashes of colour where it’s least expected.”
Rohan’s smile widened. “I look forward to it, Priya. Perhaps we could arrange a… less formal introduction next time?”
Priya winked. “Perhaps.” She turned to Meera and gave her a quick, tight hug. “Just… be careful, okay? And call me. Properly. No more disappearing acts. Or I’ll send a whole flock of carrier pigeons with very embarrassing messages.”
As Ramu Kaka escorted Priya out, Meera turned to Aryan, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion. “That was… a disaster. She knows. She totally knows something’s up.”
Aryan ran a hand through his hair, a deep sigh escaping him. “She’s sharp. I’ll give her that. And she certainly doesn’t mince words.” He looked at Meera, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You’re lucky she’s your friend. She seemed genuinely concerned for you.”
Rohan clapped Aryan on the shoulder, a knowing smirk on his face. “I think you two are lucky she was mostly distracted by the ‘monochromatic’ aspect of my existence. She’s rather captivating, your friend. I might have to ‘oversee’ her next visit personally.”
Meera ignored Rohan, her gaze still fixed on Aryan. Despite the awkwardness, despite the blatant lies, a strange sense of relief had washed over her when he had stepped in, when he had subtly defended her, when he had said those strange, almost tender words. The photoshoot had blurred the lines, and Priya’s visit had only smeared them further. It was becoming terrifyingly clear that the contract was no longer just a piece of paper. It was a living, breathing charade that was consuming them, twisting their forced proximity into something dangerously close to reality. And the most unsettling part? She wasn't entirely sure she wanted it to stop.
**Cliffhanger:** Priya, despite being somewhat distracted by Rohan, leaves the mansion with strong suspicions about Meera’s fabricated job and her relationship with Aryan. She’s unconvinced by Meera’s lies and Aryan’s subtle deflections, vowing to uncover the truth. Meanwhile, the unexpected, almost tender camaraderie forged during the photoshoot and Aryan’s subtle defense of Meera during Priya’s interrogation leaves Meera more confused than ever about her own feelings, just as the possibility of Natasha making her next move looms.
Chapter 14
The lingering echoes of Priya’s incredulous disbelief and Rohan’s easy charm still resonated in the grand, silent halls of the Raichand mansion, long after the heavy oak doors had closed behind Meera’s best friend. Meera had retreated to her sunroom, the vibrant colours of her palette mocking the turbulent grey landscape of her mind. Priya’s visit had been a chaotic whirlwind, exposing the flimsy façade of her "artistic immersion" story, yet, strangely, it had also solidified something else.
Priya, with her characteristic bluntness, had called out the subtle shifts in Aryan’s demeanor, the almost-protective glint in his eyes when he’d faced her questions. And Meera, despite herself, had felt a strange warmth spread through her chest when he’d said she brought “unexpected colour” to his life. It was baffling. Every fibre of her being screamed that this was a contract, a lie, a means to an end. But every accidental touch, every shared glance, every quiet moment of understanding seemed to chip away at that conviction, leaving her adrift in a sea of confusing, unacknowledged emotions. She felt a strange, almost proprietorial ache when Priya had called Aryan “the city’s most eligible bachelor,” even though that’s exactly what he was and she was merely his temporary companion. It was unsettling.
She picked up a charcoal stick, staring at a blank canvas. Usually, the blankness invited, urged, commanded her hand to move. Today, it was intimidating. How could she express the cacophony within her? The frantic dance between practicality and an unwelcome, burgeoning tenderness? The fear of exposure mixed with a nascent desire for… what, exactly? For the charade to become real? The thought was so absurd it made her snort, a disbelieving sound that echoed in the vast room.
Her phone buzzed, startling her. It was Dadi. Meera took a deep breath, steeling herself. After the success of the photoshoot, Dadi was on a roll, determined to present Aryan’s "stable, loving relationship" to every corner of high society.
“Meera, my darling!” Dadi’s voice trilled, brimming with enthusiasm. “Are you free this afternoon? I’m attending the ‘Ladies of Virtue’ charity luncheon at the Oberoi Grand, and I simply *must* have you by my side! It’s important for everyone to see how beautifully you’ve settled into the family. And it will give you a chance to meet some of the city’s most influential women. Perhaps you could even find some patrons for your art!”
Meera suppressed a sigh. Another public appearance. Another minefield of social etiquette and potential blunders. “Oh, Dadi, that’s so kind, but… I have some art commissions. Very pressing deadlines, you know.” She winced as she heard herself echoing Aryan’s own excuses.
Dadi’s laughter tinkled through the phone. “Nonsense, my dear! A true artist finds inspiration in all aspects of life! Besides, these are the women who will *fund* your commissions! And it’s only for a few hours. I’ve sent a car for you at two. Do wear the emerald green saree Aryan picked out for you last week, it truly brings out the spark in your eyes. See you then!”
Before Meera could object further, Dadi hung up. Meera groaned, burying her face in her hands. The emerald green saree. The one Aryan had briefly held up to her, his brow furrowed in concentration, before nodding curtly and declaring, “This one. It suits your… complexion.” The memory of his surprising attentiveness, even for something as trivial as her attire, sent another ripple of confusion through her.
An hour later, transformed by another set of diligent stylists, Meera found herself in the opulent ballroom of the Oberoi Grand, a whirlwind of chatter, clinking cutlery, and dazzling jewellery. Dadi, resplendent in a royal blue silk, proudly introduced Meera to a dizzying array of ladies, each one more impeccably dressed and perfectly coiffed than the last. Meera managed to smile, nod, and offer polite pleasantries, trying her best not to spill anything or accidentally offend a matriarch of industry.
“And this, my dears,” Dadi announced to a trio of formidable-looking women, gesturing to Meera, “is my darling granddaughter-in-law-to-be, Meera. She is Aryan’s fiancée.” Dadi beamed, completely disregarding the 'contractual girlfriend' status and leaping straight to the happily-ever-after.
Meera nearly choked on the canapé she was trying to swallow. *Fiancée?* Dadi’s propensity for exaggeration was legendary, but this was a whole new level. She forced a bright smile, silently correcting Dadi in her head, *‘Contractual girlfriend, for a year, who occasionally gets mistaken for a real person.’*
The women smiled politely, their eyes, however, meticulously dissecting Meera’s attire, her jewellery, her very posture. Meera felt herself wilting under their collective gaze, suddenly acutely aware of her humble origins and the vast gulf between her world and theirs. She knew nothing of their charities, their social circles, their subtle codes of conduct. She was a fish out of water, desperately trying to flap her way back to the comfortable anonymity of her art studio.
Dadi, sensing Meera’s discomfort, squeezed her hand. “Go on, my dear, mingle a little! Fetch yourself some tea. I’ll just have a quick word with Mrs. Kapoor about the new orphanage project.”
Grateful for the reprieve, Meera nodded and made her escape, weaving through the chattering crowds towards the refreshment table. She longed for a simple cup of masala chai, a stark contrast to the delicate herbal infusions on offer. She reached for a porcelain teacup, her hand trembling slightly from the social anxiety, when a voice, smooth as silk and dripping with a barely concealed condescension, stopped her.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the artist with the Midas touch.”
Meera turned, her heart doing an uncomfortable flip. Standing next to her, looking effortlessly stunning in a tailored crimson gown that hugged her slender figure, was Natasha Oberoi. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek, sophisticated chignon, and her makeup was flawless. She exuded an aura of cool, calculated power. Meera instantly felt underdressed, awkward, and suddenly very small.
“Ms. Oberoi,” Meera managed, her voice a little breathy. She remembered Natasha’s piercing gaze at the gala, her subtle hints of a shared history with Aryan.
Natasha smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze raked over Meera, lingering for a fraction too long on the emerald green saree. “Emerald green. How… *striking*. It’s a very bold choice for someone just entering our circles. Though I suppose Aryan’s tastes *have* changed rather dramatically.” She paused, allowing the implication to hang in the air. “He always preferred a more… classic elegance before. But then, men are often drawn to novelty, aren’t they?”
Meera felt a prickle of annoyance. “Perhaps ‘novelty’ is just another word for ‘authenticity’ sometimes, Ms. Oberoi.” She hadn't meant to sound so defiant, but the words slipped out, an automatic defence mechanism against Natasha’s veiled barbs.
Natasha’s smile tightened marginally. “Oh, ‘authenticity’,” she purred, drawing out the word like a sharp little blade. “A fascinating concept. Especially in a world where so much is carefully constructed, wouldn’t you agree? Some arrangements, for instance, are simply for… show. For presentation. To satisfy certain… family expectations, or business requirements. One must always read the fine print, mustn’t one?” Her eyes glittered, assessing Meera’s reaction.
Meera’s blood ran cold. *The fine print.* Had Natasha somehow found out about the contract? Was this a test? She swallowed hard, trying to keep her composure. She forced herself to meet Natasha’s gaze, her mind frantically searching for a non-committal answer.
“I suppose so, Ms. Oberoi,” Meera said, trying to sound nonchalant, despite her racing pulse. “Though I find it’s far more important to focus on the spirit of an agreement, rather than just the words on paper. Emotions, after all, aren’t always bound by clauses, are they?” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. She had revealed too much, hinted at too much. She sounded defensive, guilty.
Natasha’s perfect eyebrows arched slightly. “My, my. Such a philosopher. And such a… *natural* fit for the Raichand family. Especially with their penchant for… rather swift engagements.” She took a delicate sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving Meera’s. “You know, Aryan and I were quite close once. We practically grew up together. I thought I knew everything about him. His preferences, his ambitions, his… vulnerabilities.” Her voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper, laced with a venomous sweetness. “He has quite a few of those, you know. Sometimes, a person can seem very strong, very put-together, but they carry old wounds. And some people are very good at exploiting those wounds, even if they don’t realize it.”
Meera felt a strange pang. A flash of the younger, happier Aryan from the photo she'd found, before the pain had hardened him. Natasha spoke of vulnerability, of old wounds. Was she referring to *her*? To Natasha’s own betrayal? A sudden, fierce, and utterly irrational protectiveness surged through Meera. She barely knew Aryan, but the thought of Natasha, this poised, predatory woman, knowing his deepest hurts, touched a raw nerve. It wasn't about the contract anymore. It was about something deeper, something she couldn't name, a sudden fierce desire to shield him, even from his past.
“Everyone has vulnerabilities, Ms. Oberoi,” Meera said, her voice steadier than she expected. She clutched the teacup tighter, knuckles white. “And everyone has wounds. The question is, how do you choose to heal them? With genuine care, or by trying to pick at them again?”
Natasha’s composure faltered for a second, her smile slipping. Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her face. Meera was not the naive, easily intimidated girl she had expected. She was blunt, direct, and surprisingly, stood her ground.
“How… interesting,” Natasha murmured, her gaze turning cold. “You certainly have a way with words. Just like you seem to have a way with… acquiring things. Fortunes, families, reputations. I must say, it’s quite a talent for someone from… what was it again? A small art studio in the suburbs?” She delivered the last part with a calculated sneer, clearly trying to strip Meera of her newfound confidence, to remind her of her 'place.'
Meera’s cheeks burned. The insult hit home, reminding her of her debt, her desperation, the very reason she was standing here pretending to be Aryan Raichand’s fiancée. But instead of shrinking, something snapped inside her. She wasn’t going to let this woman, with her condescending smiles and veiled threats, diminish her, or Aryan, or even their ridiculous, chaotic situation.
She put down her teacup with a decisive clink. “Ms. Oberoi,” Meera said, her voice clear and surprisingly firm, drawing a few curious glances from nearby guests. “My background might not be as… polished as yours, but at least I know the difference between a genuine connection and a calculated display. And I certainly know that some people would do anything to cling to something they’ve lost, even if it means trying to tear others down. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Dadi is waiting.”
With that, Meera turned, leaving Natasha momentarily stunned and speechless. It wasn't a witty retort or a grand revelation. It was just Meera being Meera: blunt, honest, and fiercely principled, even when it put her at risk. She walked away, her head held high, though her knees felt like jelly. She found Dadi, who smiled at her approvingly.
“Did you meet Natasha, my dear?” Dadi asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “She can be… rather intense, can’t she?”
Meera managed a shaky smile. “Intense, yes, Dadi. Very intense.” She glanced back at the tea table. Natasha was still standing there, her crimson gown a stark splash against the elegant backdrop, her expression a furious mask of disbelief and anger. Her eyes met Meera’s for a moment, blazing with an unholy fire that promised retribution.
Meera had stood her ground. She had defended… something. Their contract, Aryan, herself. And in doing so, she had unwittingly painted a target on her back. Natasha Oberoi was not used to being challenged, especially not by someone she considered a mere pawn. Meera knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning. Natasha wouldn't let this go. And Meera felt a strange, unsettling mixture of fear and defiance. The game, she realized, had just gotten very real, and she was in it, whether she liked it or not, fighting not just for the contract, but for something that was beginning to feel terrifyingly like a future she hadn't planned.
**Cliffhanger:** Meera's first direct confrontation with Natasha leaves the latter surprised and infuriated by Meera's unexpected defiance and blunt honesty. Natasha, sensing a genuine threat beyond a mere contract, vows to intensify her efforts to expose Meera and regain her place. Meera, despite her fear, feels an unexpected surge of protectiveness over Aryan and their increasingly blurred relationship, realizing that Natasha's animosity has made their charade far more personal than she could have ever imagined.
Chapter 15
Chapter 15
The crimson dress of Natasha Oberoi, and the fury simmering behind her perfectly made-up eyes, was the last image Meera carried with her as the sleek, silent Rolls-Royce whisked her away from the Oberoi Grand. The adrenaline from their terse exchange still buzzed through her veins, leaving her feeling both exhilarated and utterly drained. She leaned her head against the cool leather seat, a profound sigh escaping her lips. She had stood her ground. She hadn't cowered. But the cost, she knew, would be high. Natasha was not a woman who took slights lightly, and Meera had, perhaps foolishly, provoked her.
Back at the mansion, the silence felt heavy, amplifying the thrumming in her ears. Ramu Kaka greeted her with his usual respectful nod, and she managed a tired smile in return before making her way to her room. The emerald green saree, which Dadi had so lovingly insisted upon, now felt like a heavy cloak, weighing her down. She quickly shed it, opting for the familiar comfort of a soft cotton dress. The encounter with Natasha had left her feeling vulnerable, stripped bare, and the opulence of her temporary residence suddenly felt less like a gilded cage and more like a vast, empty space that swallowed her anxieties whole.
She wandered into the living room, hoping to find a book, something to distract her from the lingering image of Natasha’s furious gaze. The room was immaculately tidy, a testament to the efficient household staff. Every cushion was fluffed, every surface gleaming. Meera’s eyes scanned the shelves, filled with leather-bound books and rare artefacts. Her gaze fell upon a small, intricately carved wooden box, tucked away on a lower shelf, almost hidden behind a collection of ancient maps. It looked out of place amongst the pristine, curated objects, possessing a worn, lived-in quality.
Curiosity, a potent and often troublesome trait of hers, pricked at her. Was it a music box? A keepsake? She reached for it, her fingers tracing the faint, faded carvings on its lid. It felt old, cherished. A private object, perhaps. But in this house, where even emotions felt public, a hint of privacy was an irresistible magnet. She carefully lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, were a few yellowed letters tied with a delicate silk ribbon, a silver pocket watch, and a small, rectangular photograph.
Meera picked up the photograph. It was a polaroid, the colours a little muted with age. It showed a younger Aryan, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, standing beside a woman who was undeniably Natasha. But it wasn't the sophisticated, cold Natasha Meera knew. This Natasha was smiling widely, genuinely, her arm linked through Aryan’s, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. And Aryan… Aryan was smiling too. A bright, unrestrained, utterly joyful smile that transformed his usually stoic features. His eyes, in the photo, held a carefree light Meera had never seen, a warmth that reached every corner of his face. His hair was slightly longer, falling boyishly over his forehead, and his clothes were casual, unlike the sharp suits he invariably wore now. They looked… happy. Young, in love, full of uncomplicated joy.
A strange, unexpected pang of sadness washed over Meera. It was an odd feeling, a pang of something akin to jealousy, but deeper, more melancholic. It wasn't just about Natasha; it was about the Aryan in the photograph. The Aryan who had lost that carefree smile, that unburdened happiness. Meera felt a profound sense of loss for a version of him she had never known, a version that had been, perhaps, extinguished by the very woman whose arm was linked so casually through his. She imagined the quiet joy of that moment, the innocent hope, and then the crushing weight of whatever betrayal had turned that vibrant smile into the guarded, weary expression she saw on him daily.
She traced the outline of his face in the photo, a silent yearning for that lightness to return. It made her realize the immense burden he carried, the depth of the past pain that had shaped him into the man he was today. The contract, the coldness, the walls he built – it all suddenly made a terrifying amount of sense. Natasha wasn't just a business rival or an ex-girlfriend; she was a wound, an open one that still bled into his present. The fierce protectiveness she had felt at the luncheon returned, but this time it was tinged with a genuine ache for his past self.
“What are you doing?”
The voice, sharp and cold, sliced through the quiet of the room, making Meera jump. The photograph slipped from her numb fingers, landing face down on the rug. She whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat. Aryan stood in the doorway, his face a mask of stone. His eyes, usually guarded, were now blazing with a raw, fierce anger that sent a shiver down her spine. He had clearly just come in, his tie loosened, a briefcase in his hand, but his entire posture was rigid with fury.
“I… I didn’t mean to,” Meera stammered, bending down quickly to retrieve the photo. Her fingers brushed against the polished wood of the box. “I was just… I saw this box. It was open. I just…” She trailed off, realizing how flimsy her excuse sounded. It wasn’t open. She had opened it.
Aryan strode forward, his footsteps heavy, reverberating through the silent room. His gaze landed on the photograph in her hand, and his jaw clenched. The anger in his eyes intensified, giving way to a chillingly cold fury. “You were just… going through my private things?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Did Dadi not teach you about boundaries? About privacy?”
Meera flinched, stung by his words. “It wasn’t open, no, I opened it, but I didn’t… I didn’t mean to snoop! It just looked… interesting. Different from everything else. I swear, I wasn’t trying to pry, Aryan! I just saw the photo, and…” She stopped, realizing she was only digging herself deeper.
He snatched the photograph from her hand, his movements swift and forceful. He looked at it for a brief, agonizing moment, and the happy smile of his younger self seemed to mock the rigid grimace on his current face. He then practically crushed the photo in his hand before throwing it back into the box with a harsh thud. The other items clattered against the wood.
“This is a private space, Meera,” he bit out, his voice laced with suppressed rage. “And those are private possessions. What gives you the right to just… go through them? You think just because you live here, you have access to every corner of my life? To my past?” His chest heaved, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Meera felt a surge of hurt, mixing with her residual fear. “No! Of course not! I made a mistake, Aryan, I already said that! I’m sorry! But you don’t have to yell at me like that! It was an accident!” She felt tears prickling at her eyes, a potent combination of shame, guilt, and the sting of his raw anger. She had genuinely felt a moment of connection, of understanding, looking at that photo. And now he was looking at her like she was the enemy, the trespasser who had desecrated a sacred space.
“Accident?” he scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your entire life seems to be one long, glorious accident, Meera. But some things are not for accidental discovery. Some things are meant to be kept hidden, untouched, unexamined by curious hands.” His gaze was chillingly direct, accusing.
The unfairness of his accusation, the way he dismissed her, cut deep. “I’m not a child, Aryan! And I’m not some nosy servant! I made a mistake, yes, but you’re reacting like I’ve uncovered some government secret! It was just a photo!” She knew it wasn’t just a photo to him. She knew that now, more than ever. But his disproportionate rage stung.
“It was *my* photo, Meera,” he ground out, his voice barely above a whisper, but charged with immense power. “*My* past. *My* pain. And it has nothing to do with you.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Meera felt a fresh wave of hurt, quickly followed by a flash of anger. “Fine!” she snapped, her voice trembling but resolute. “Your past, your pain. Keep it hidden! Keep building your walls, Aryan! Don’t let anyone in, don’t let anyone see that you’re anything but a cold, controlling billionaire! Because God forbid anyone see a glimpse of the real you, or God forbid anyone actually feel something for the person you *were*!” She gestured wildly towards the closed wooden box, her eyes blazing.
His eyes widened imperceptibly at her outburst, the sheer raw emotion in her voice momentarily catching him off guard. The anger flickered, replaced by a momentary flash of something akin to surprise, maybe even regret. But it was fleeting.
He ran a hand over his face, a weary gesture. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice calmer now, but still laced with an icy edge. “You don’t know anything about it. Or about her.”
“I know enough!” Meera shot back, her chest heaving. “I know that she’s the reason you look like you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders! I know that she’s the reason you can’t trust anyone! I know that she’s the reason you’re so afraid of being vulnerable!” She hadn’t meant to say it, but the words tumbled out, fuelled by a mix of anger, frustration, and that strange, painful empathy she felt for the younger Aryan in the photograph.
He stared at her, his expression unreadable for a long moment. The accusation in her voice, the truth in her words, seemed to strike a chord. His anger seemed to deflate, replaced by a heavy, almost desolate sadness that flickered in his eyes before he carefully shielded it. He looked exhausted, as if the argument had sapped all his remaining energy.
“Just… stay out of my personal space, Meera,” he finally said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He turned, and with a measured, deliberate pace, walked over to the shelf, picked up the wooden box, and without another word or glance at her, carried it out of the room. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Meera standing alone in the vast silence, the air still crackling with the residue of their raw exchange.
Meera sank onto the nearest sofa, her legs suddenly weak. Her outburst had been irrational, fueled by a mixture of defensiveness and a strange, unbidden compassion. But his reaction… his intense, almost violent protectiveness of that photograph, of that past, confirmed everything. There was a deep, festering wound connected to Natasha, a betrayal that had scarred him profoundly. It wasn’t just a broken heart; it was a shattered trust, a fundamental shift in who he was.
She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling a fresh wave of something she couldn’t quite articulate. It was a complex mix of sadness for him, frustration at his impenetrable walls, and a new understanding of the man she was contractually bound to. He wasn’t just the stoic billionaire; he was a man haunted by his past, a past that Natasha Oberoi was inextricably woven into. The intensity of his pain, so raw and exposed for a fleeting moment, lingered in the air, a ghost in the opulent room. And Meera realized, with a chilling clarity, that her clumsy act of trespass had brought her face-to-face with the very core of Aryan Raichand’s deepest vulnerability. A vulnerability that Natasha, she now knew, understood intimately, and would undoubtedly exploit.
The silence of the mansion pressed in on her. The contract, which had once felt like a cage of gold, now felt like a fragile shield, barely protecting them from the storm that was brewing. The confrontation with Natasha at the luncheon, followed by this raw glimpse into Aryan’s guarded past, had irrevocably shifted the dynamic. Meera knew, deep in her gut, that Natasha Oberoi would stop at nothing to get her revenge, and that the photograph, Aryan’s past, was a weapon she would not hesitate to wield. The unspoken war between them had just escalated, and Meera, a reluctant soldier in this battle of wills, felt a terrifying sense of dread for what Natasha would do next, now that she knew exactly where to strike.
**Cliffhanger:** Meera's accidental discovery of the old photograph reveals the deep, painful history between Aryan and Natasha, intensifying Meera's understanding of Aryan's guarded nature. The raw, tense argument that follows leaves both of them shaken, but Meera now realizes the true depth of Aryan's past betrayal. Unknown to them, Natasha, still seething from Meera's defiance at the luncheon, has already begun planning her next move, a move that will specifically target Aryan’s vulnerabilities and Meera’s perceived weaknesses, setting the stage for a dramatic unraveling of their carefully constructed facade.
Chapter 16
Chapter 16
The silence in the Raichand mansion the next morning was heavy, almost suffocating. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of a peaceful home; it was the tense, charged stillness that followed a storm. Meera had spent a restless night, replaying Aryan’s furious face, his raw pain, and her own reckless outburst. The image of the younger, happier Aryan in the photograph, contrasted sharply with the glacial expression he wore now. She had seen a glimpse of his soul, and he had reacted with a chilling retreat, pulling his walls up higher than ever before. He hadn’t joined them for breakfast, a pointed absence that spoke volumes. The house felt larger, colder, stripped of the fragile warmth that had begun to accumulate.
Meera felt a dull ache in her chest, a mix of hurt and frustration. She understood *why* he was guarded, why his past was such a raw nerve. But his inability to accept even accidental empathy, his immediate withdrawal into coldness, was maddening. She found herself drifting towards the sunroom, hoping the vibrant colours of her untouched canvas would offer some solace, but even her art felt distant, overshadowed by the lingering tension.
As if on cue, Dadi swept into the room, her voice bright and oblivious to the palpable strain between them. "Meera, my darling! There you are! I was just telling Aryan that he simply *must* take you to the ‘Artistic Visions’ exhibition opening this evening at the City Gallery. It’s a very prestigious event, and as my future granddaughter-in-law, and a talented artist yourself, your presence is absolutely essential!"
Meera’s head snapped up. An art exhibition? Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine excitement momentarily eclipsing her malaise. This was her world, her passion. A chance to see new works, feel the pulse of the art community. It was a lifeline in the suffocating luxury of the mansion.
“Oh, Dadi, that’s wonderful!” Meera exclaimed, her voice momentarily forgetting the previous night's argument. “I’d love to go!”
Dadi beamed. “Excellent! I knew you would. Aryan, darling, you’ll pick Meera up at eight, won’t you? And do try to look interested, even if you’d rather be stuck in a boardroom.” Dadi shot him a knowing look, then bustled away, leaving Meera and Aryan standing in the same room, yet miles apart.
Aryan, who had been standing stiffly by the doorway, his phone pressed to his ear, slowly lowered it. His gaze, when it finally met hers, was devoid of any emotion, a blank slate. “Eight o’clock,” he stated, his voice flat, emotionless. “And please, try not to cause any… incidents. This is a networking event for the merger, not a playground.” He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Meera feeling as though she’d been slapped.
The sudden burst of excitement she’d felt deflated, replaced by the familiar sting of his coldness. He was still angry. Still distant. He had reduced her passion, her talent, to mere background noise for his business deals. She clenched her fists, a fresh wave of resentment washing over her. Fine. If he wanted to treat it as a business meeting, she would treat it as an opportunity to find some inspiration, some semblance of her real life. And she would ignore him with as much dedication as he ignored her.
That evening, Meera stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the delicate shawl over her shoulders. She had chosen a simple, elegant black dress, something timeless that wouldn’t draw undue attention, yet still felt like *her*. A small, hopeful flutter had returned to her chest. She might be trapped, but tonight, she would immerse herself in her world. Maybe, just maybe, she could forget the contract, the fake relationship, and the stoic man waiting for her.
Aryan arrived promptly at eight, looking impeccably formal in a dark suit. He gave her a perfunctory glance, a brief nod, and led her to the waiting car. The ride to the gallery was shrouded in a polite, yet palpable, silence. Meera glanced at him once, catching his profile illuminated by the city lights. He looked tired, a faint shadow beneath his eyes. The sight stirred a reluctant sympathy within her, quickly squashed by the memory of his harsh words.
The City Gallery buzzed with intellectual energy and hushed conversations. Paintings, sculptures, and mixed-media installations adorned the walls, bathed in soft, strategic lighting. Meera’s eyes lit up immediately. She felt a magnetic pull towards the art, a profound sense of belonging. She spotted a vibrant abstract piece that resonated with her, and without thinking, started moving towards it.
Aryan, by her side, stiffened. His gaze swept over the eclectic collection, his expression betraying utter boredom. He looked like a man trapped in a dull, mandatory meeting. He kept one hand lightly on the small of her back, a possessive gesture for onlookers, but for Meera, it felt like a leash. He was scanning the room, not for art, but for potential investors, for familiar faces. His focus was entirely on business, on maintaining appearances, while her soul yearned for the raw, untamed beauty on the walls.
“Ah, Aryan, my boy!” A booming voice cut through the air. A distinguished gentleman, a prominent industrialist and art collector, approached them, his eyes twinkling. “And this must be the lovely Meera! Dadi speaks so highly of you. A true artist, I hear?”
Aryan forced a smile. “Indeed, Mr. Malhotra. Meera has a keen eye for aesthetics.” He introduced Meera with the practiced ease of a man presenting a prize possession, not a partner. Meera smiled, feeling the familiar tight grip of the charade. She exchanged polite greetings, but her eyes kept straying to the art, longing to explore.
After a few minutes of strained small talk about the merger, Meera saw her opportunity. “If you’ll both excuse me, I simply *must* get a closer look at that breathtaking piece over there,” she said, gesturing towards a large, vivid canvas. Before Aryan could object, she slipped away, drawn by the irresistible pull of the paint and canvas.
She approached the painting, a symphony of colours and textures, losing herself in its intricacies. The artist, a spirited woman with paint stains on her fingers and an infectious enthusiasm, was standing nearby, talking animatedly about her work. Meera listened, captivated, then hesitantly offered her own observations. To her delight, the artist, named Leena, welcomed her input, and soon they were deep in a passionate discussion about brushstrokes, colour theory, and the philosophy behind abstract art. Meera’s eyes shone with a light Aryan rarely saw, her hands gesturing animatedly as she spoke, completely forgetting the opulent setting, the contract, and the billionaire she was meant to be accompanying.
Meanwhile, Aryan stood rigidly by the entrance, trying to make polite conversation with a potential investor. He kept glancing over at Meera, who was now laughing heartily with the artist, her head thrown back, a genuine, uninhibited sound. He watched as she leaned in, completely engrossed in the conversation, her back turned to him. He felt a strange, unfamiliar pang. Annoyance? Exasperation? Something else he couldn’t quite place. She was supposed to be *with him*, presenting a united front. Yet, she was utterly lost in her own world, forgetting him, forgetting their purpose, forgetting *everything*.
The investor cleared his throat, pulling Aryan’s attention back. “Mr. Raichand? You seemed distracted.”
Aryan forced himself to refocus, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “My apologies. Just admiring the collection.” But his gaze kept drifting back to Meera, a subtle frown creasing his brow. She looked so alive, so radiant, in her element. And completely oblivious to him. He felt… ignored. An unfamiliar and surprisingly irritating sensation.
After what felt like an eternity, he excused himself from the conversation, his patience finally snapping. He strode across the gallery, his determined footsteps echoing softly on the polished floors. He reached Meera and Leena, interrupting their enthusiastic discussion with a curt cough.
Meera turned, startled, her eyes wide as she saw his rigid posture, the dark look on his face. “Oh! Aryan! You’re… you’re here.” She blushed, realizing she had completely forgotten his presence.
“Indeed, I am,” Aryan said, his voice clipped, his eyes narrowed. He looked at Leena with a barely concealed disdain. “I believe it’s time we left, Meera. We have other engagements.”
Meera frowned. “But we just got here! And I was just having a wonderful conversation with Leena about her work, and there are so many more pieces I wanted to see—”
“I said, it’s time to leave,” Aryan repeated, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument. He took her arm, his grip surprisingly tight, and began to pull her away. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Sharma. And you, Ms. Leena. Goodnight.” He practically dragged Meera through the crowd, ignoring her murmured apologies to the artist.
Meera stumbled, trying to keep up with his brisk pace. As soon as they were out of earshot, the anger she had suppressed bubbled over. “What was that, Aryan?!” she hissed, pulling her arm out of his grasp once they were in a quieter hallway. “You just pulled me away like a disobedient child! I was having a genuine conversation! This is *my* world, not some business meeting where you get to decide when it’s over!”
He stopped abruptly, turning to face her, his eyes blazing. “Your world? Your world needs to align with *our* world, Meera! We are here for a reason, to present a united front, to maintain an image! Not for you to wander off and engage in animated conversations with every bohemian artist you find! You completely ignored me! You ignored our guests! You ignored the entire purpose of us being here!”
“I was talking about art, Aryan! Something real! Something I’m actually passionate about! Unlike you, who clearly just sees this as another chore!” she retorted, her voice rising. “You looked bored out of your mind! You didn’t care about a single painting in there! And as for ignoring you, maybe if you were even slightly interested in anything beyond your balance sheets, I wouldn’t feel the need to escape every five minutes!”
“I don’t need to be ‘interested’ in your abstract paintings, Meera, to understand the importance of our agreement!” he shot back, his jaw tight. “You are my contractual partner, not a free-spirited butterfly who can flit around as she pleases! You have responsibilities!”
“And you, Mr. Raichand, are a controlling, arrogant, insufferable… robot!” Meera yelled, too angry to care about discretion. “You suck the life out of everything! You can’t stand it when someone has a passion that doesn’t involve making money! You can’t stand it when someone isn’t under your thumb! What, were you jealous that I was actually having fun?” The word hung in the air, a risky, provocative question.
Aryan stared at her, his expression hardening. His eyes narrowed, a flash of something unreadable in their depths. “Jealous?” he scoffed, a humourless laugh escaping his lips. “Of you talking about paint colours? Don’t be absurd, Meera. My only concern is that you uphold your end of the contract. Which, judging by your behaviour tonight, you seem intent on making difficult. Now, let’s go. I’ve had enough of this artistic charade.”
He turned and stalked towards the exit, leaving Meera fuming, her heart hammering in her chest. She followed him, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. His dismissal, his cold refusal to acknowledge anything beyond the contract, cut deeper than any insult. He had clearly been miffed, even if he refused to admit it, and his control issues were suffocating her. The art exhibition, which had promised a momentary escape, had only served to highlight the vast, unbridgeable chasm between their two worlds. And as they stepped out into the cool night, Meera knew, with a sinking heart, that their fragile truce had just shattered, leaving them both stranded in a bitter, unspoken war of wills. Her attempt at finding solace in her art had backfired spectacularly, only serving to remind them both of the fundamental differences that still defined their forced co-existence.
**Cliffhanger:** The disastrous art exhibition ends in a fiery argument, fueled by Aryan's impatience and Meera's resentment at his controlling nature. Meera's blunt accusation of jealousy leaves Aryan visibly affected, though he dismisses it. As they return to the mansion in stony silence, Rajeev Raichand, having observed their strained interactions at the gallery, sees an opening. He resolves to exploit this growing rift between Aryan and Meera, planning to subtly extract information from the vulnerable Meera, believing her to be naive enough to unknowingly betray Aryan.
Chapter 17
Chapter 17
The bitter taste of the argument from the previous night lingered in Meera’s mouth like stale coffee. The ride back from the art exhibition had been shrouded in a heavy, unforgiving silence, broken only by the hum of the luxury car. Aryan had slammed his door shut the moment they arrived at the mansion, leaving Meera to navigate the cavernous hallways alone, the echoes of his cutting words still ringing in her ears. He was a master of emotional withdrawal, and his coldness, now more pronounced than ever, was a constant, chilling presence in the opulent home.
The next morning brought no respite. Aryan remained elusive, hidden behind the fortress of his office walls. Meera felt restless, confined, and utterly miserable. Even Dadi’s usual cheer felt strained, as she sensed the lingering tension between the "couple." Meera tried to lose herself in a book, then in sketching, but her mind kept replaying the scene at the gallery, the flash of something unreadable in Aryan’s eyes when she’d accused him of jealousy. He had dismissed it, of course, but the memory lingered, a tiny, infuriating spark in the ashes of their latest conflict.
The opportunity for Rajeev to make his move came that very afternoon during a pre-arranged family brunch. These gatherings were a regular fixture in the Raichand household, a blend of traditional warmth and underlying corporate politicking. Dadi presided over the grand dining table, while family members, distant relatives, and a few close business associates circulated, exchanging pleasantries and subtle observations. Aryan, predictably, was present but detached, answering calls on his phone, his mind clearly on his upcoming merger.
Meera, feeling like a decorative but fragile piece of pottery, tried to blend in, offering polite smiles and deflecting inquiries about her “relationship” with Aryan with vague, Dadi-approved answers. It was during one of these attempts to seem effortlessly charming that Rajeev Raichand, Aryan’s cousin, approached her. He was slick, handsome in a predatory way, with eyes that seemed to constantly calculate. Meera had instinctively disliked him from their first introduction, sensing the thinly veiled animosity he held for Aryan.
“Meera, my dear,” Rajeev purred, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes plastered on his face. He extended a hand, his grip a little too firm. “Such a pleasure to see you. You’ve truly brought a breath of fresh air into the Raichand household.” His gaze swept over her, a little too possessive, making her uncomfortable.
Meera offered a polite, somewhat stiff smile. “Thank you, Rajeev. It’s… different.” She tried to sound sincere, but the words felt hollow.
“Different, indeed,” he chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone. “Aryan is… a difficult man, isn’t he? So consumed by his work. This merger, in particular, has him completely tied up. It’s almost as if he can’t see straight. Are you finding it challenging to get his attention?”
Meera’s internal alarms immediately went off. She might be naive about high society, but she wasn’t stupid. This wasn’t casual concern; it was fishing. She’d heard snippets of gossip about Rajeev’s attempts to undermine Aryan in the business, about his frustration at being overlooked for key positions. His questions were too pointed, too eager for a 'yes'.
“Oh, Aryan is simply dedicated,” Meera replied smoothly, trying to sound airily dismissive. “All great businessmen are, aren’t they? He keeps incredibly busy, but he always finds time for family, and for… important conversations.” She threw in the last part, remembering Dadi’s lecture about always portraying Aryan as a family man.
Rajeev’s smile tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Yes, of course. Dedication is admirable. But perhaps he’s *too* dedicated to this specific merger? I mean, all his eggs in one basket, so to speak. Some of us in the family feel he might be overlooking other, perhaps safer, opportunities. Say, the new tech acquisitions in Southeast Asia, or perhaps the infrastructure contracts that are being floated? Has he mentioned any of those to you? He values your opinion, I hear.” He leaned in even closer, his eyes sharp, dissecting her.
Meera’s mind raced. Tech acquisitions? Infrastructure contracts? She knew absolutely nothing about any of it. Aryan didn’t discuss business with her, beyond the vague need to present a stable image for the merger. Her initial panic subsided, replaced by a strange sense of calm. She couldn’t give him information she didn’t have, but she could definitely mislead him.
“Oh, those are fascinating areas, aren’t they?” Meera chirped, putting on her most innocent, wide-eyed expression. “I’m always so fascinated by how Aryan’s mind works. He has such a unique vision for the future. Just yesterday, he was telling me about how he sees… um… the *synergy* of, you know, everything! All the pieces connecting. It’s like a giant puzzle, isn’t it? And he’s just so good at seeing the *big picture*.” She gestured vaguely with her hands, invoking her artistic sensibilities. “He’s always talking about how important it is to keep things… *fluid*. Not getting bogged down in one specific area, but keeping all options open, like a… a palette of opportunities!”
She smiled brightly, pleased with her spontaneous, utterly nonsensical corporate jargon mixed with artistic metaphors. Rajeev stared at her, his polite smile faltering. He had clearly expected her to either confirm Aryan's singular focus on the merger or, even better, reveal some specific details about his alternative plans. Instead, she had given him a baffling, abstract painting of corporate strategy.
“A palette of opportunities,” Rajeev repeated slowly, his brows furrowed in confusion. He looked utterly bewildered. “Right. Very… insightful, Meera.” He tried to regain his composure, but his frustration was evident. “So, he’s not really discussing the specifics of, say, the potential pitfalls of this main merger, or perhaps some of the… *unforeseen challenges* he might be facing from the other investors?”
Meera giggled, a little too loudly. “Oh, pitfalls! Challenges! Aryan loves a good challenge, you know! It’s what drives him! He sees them as… *dynamic elements* in the overall composition! Makes the whole thing more interesting, wouldn’t you agree? Like a little splash of dark paint to make the bright colours pop!” She ended with a dramatic flourish of her hand.
Rajeev’s face was a mixture of barely suppressed annoyance and deep confusion. He couldn't quite call her out on her rambling vagueness without exposing his own probing. She was either a complete airhead or surprisingly clever. He chose to believe the former, but it didn't help him. "Well, yes, I suppose. Fascinating. I'll… I'll leave you to your, ah, artistic musings, Meera. Do tell Aryan I stopped by." He turned abruptly, his pleasantries dropping instantly as he walked away, clearly frustrated and empty-handed.
Meera watched him go, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She might not know corporate jargon, but she knew how to speak in riddles. And more importantly, she knew how to recognize a snake in the grass.
Unknown to Meera, Aryan had been observing the entire exchange. He had been pretending to check emails on his phone while subtly watching Rajeev gravitate towards Meera. He’d seen Rajeev’s predatory smile, the way he leaned in, and the focused intensity in his cousin’s eyes as he started asking questions. Aryan had braced himself for Meera to inadvertently reveal something, to stumble, to perhaps even complain about his workaholic tendencies. He knew she was naive to the cutthroat world of corporate espionage.
But then, he watched, a flicker of surprise growing in his eyes. Meera’s initial awkwardness gave way to a strange, almost theatrical performance. Her wide-eyed innocence, her bizarre metaphors, her cheerful dismissal of any specific information. He saw Rajeev’s growing confusion, his polite facade cracking under the barrage of Meera’s art-infused corporate jargon. He even caught the faint, triumphant smirk on Meera’s face as Rajeev beat a hasty retreat.
A small, almost imperceptible huff of air escaped Aryan’s lips, something akin to a chuckle. He quickly suppressed it, but a grudging admiration settled within him. She might be clumsy, she might be a whirlwind of chaos, and she might drive him absolutely insane, but she wasn’t a fool. She had intuitively understood Rajeev’s agenda and, in her own unique, utterly bewildering way, had completely disarmed him. She hadn't given him an inch.
As Rajeev walked away, Aryan slowly lowered his phone, his gaze finding Meera across the room. Her smile was still on her face, a small, private victory. Their eyes met across the crowded room. For a brief moment, the lingering tension from their previous argument seemed to dissipate, replaced by a subtle, unspoken acknowledgment. Aryan gave her the faintest, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture of quiet approval that only she would understand. There was no warmth, no apology, no softening of his rigid posture. But it was a nod. A tiny, significant seed of trust, planted in the rocky ground of their forced relationship. He hadn't expected it, and it surprised him how... satisfied he felt.
Meera’s heart gave a strange little flutter. She hadn’t expected him to be watching, let alone to *acknowledge* her. The nod was almost imperceptible, a fleeting shift in his usually unreadable expression, but it was there. It was his way of saying, ‘Well played.’ And in that moment, for the first time since the art gallery debacle, the heavy cloud between them lifted, just a fraction. They were still at odds, still bound by a contract, but they had shared a tiny, unspoken victory against a common adversary. And that, Meera realized, was a starting point for something, however small.
Rajeev, however, was far from giving up. Retreating to a quieter corner, he fumed. “That girl is either an idiot or surprisingly good at playing one,” he muttered to himself, pulling out his phone. He had underestimated her, but he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He needed information, and Meera, despite her unexpected deflection, was still the weak link. He would have to find a different, more direct way to get what he needed, perhaps appealing to her desperation. He smirked. Everyone had a price, especially a girl drowning in debt. He just had to find hers. The game had just begun.
**Cliffhanger:** Rajeev, frustrated by Meera's unexpected shrewdness, vows to find another, more cunning way to get information from her. Meanwhile, the shared moment of discreet understanding between Aryan and Meera, a subtle nod of approval from him for her handling of Rajeev, plants a tiny seed of trust between them. Unbeknownst to them, Meera is about to face a genuine personal crisis, completely unrelated to the Raichand empire, a crisis that will inadvertently reveal Aryan’s hidden compassionate side and force them closer than ever before, much to Natasha and Rajeev's dismay.
Chapter 18
The subtle, almost imperceptible nod from Aryan, a quiet acknowledgment of her accidental triumph over Rajeev, had warmed Meera’s heart in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It was a fleeting moment, gone as quickly as it appeared, but it had left behind a strange sense of truce, a fragile understanding that perhaps, despite their constant friction, they weren’t entirely adversaries. That small seed of trust, however, was about to be put to an unexpected test, one that would expose vulnerabilities neither of them had intended to reveal.
The following morning, Meera awoke with a familiar ache in her throat and a dull throbbing behind her eyes. It was the kind of insidious cold that crept up on you, whispering promises of misery. She tried to ignore it, pulling the duvet higher, willing it away, but the chills that rippled through her body told a different story. She staggered out of bed, her limbs heavy, and managed to make it to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror showed pale skin, slightly glazed eyes, and a nose that was already threatening to rival Rudolph’s.
“Oh, no, no, no,” she groaned, clutching her head. A cold was the last thing she needed. She had responsibilities, even if they were contractual ones. Dadi would notice, Aryan would be annoyed by the inconvenience. She couldn’t afford to be sick.
Determined to push through, she dressed slowly, each movement an effort. The opulent Raichand mansion, usually a place of daunting grandeur, now felt overwhelmingly vast, each step down the marble staircase echoing her exhaustion. She made it to the dining room, hoping a strong cup of chai might miraculously cure her, but the aroma of the rich breakfast laid out on the table only made her stomach churn.
Aryan was already there, impeccably dressed as always, engrossed in his tablet, a testament to his unending work ethic. Dadi, however, noticed immediately.
“Meera, darling, are you quite alright?” Dadi’s sharp eyes, despite their warmth, missed nothing. “You look a little… peaky.”
Meera forced a smile, a monumental effort. “Just a little tired, Dadi. Didn’t sleep too well.” She tried to sound breezy, but her voice came out raspy, a tell-tale sign.
Aryan looked up from his tablet, his eyes briefly flicking over her. A fleeting frown creased his brow, a silent judgment that she wasn’t performing her role with sufficient vigor, even for a simple breakfast. He returned to his tablet without comment, a silent dismissal that stung.
Throughout breakfast, Meera picked at her food, feigning interest, trying to appear normal. But the effort was immense. Her head spun, her body ached, and her attempts at small talk with Dadi felt like climbing a mountain. Halfway through, a fit of sneezes erupted, loud and uncontrolled.
Dadi immediately put a hand to Meera’s forehead. “Good heavens, child! You’re burning up! You have a fever!” She looked at Aryan, her expression stern. “Aryan! Look at her! She’s clearly unwell!”
Aryan finally put his tablet down, a look of weary exasperation on his face. He walked over, his movements precise, and placed the back of his hand on Meera’s forehead. His touch, brief and purely functional, sent a jolt through her, not of affection, but of stark awareness of his presence, his cool skin against her burning one.
“She does have a fever,” he confirmed, his voice devoid of sympathy. “Rakesh,” he called to the head butler, who instantly materialized. “Please call Dr. Singh. And tell him to come immediately. Meera needs to be looked at.” He turned to Meera, his expression severe. “You should have said something earlier. Now you’ve probably spread whatever this is.”
Meera flinched, the accusation stinging. “I tried to push through,” she mumbled, her voice weak. “I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“Bother or not, we cannot have you ill, Meera. It’s unprofessional, and inconvenient,” he stated, his tone business-like. “Go back to your room. Rakesh will arrange for a maid to bring you anything you need. And stay away from Dadi until you’re well.” His words were a command, not a concern, and Meera felt a fresh wave of humiliation and disappointment. This was his version of care: pragmatic, distant, and utterly devoid of warmth.
She nodded miserably and, with Dadi’s worried glances following her, dragged herself back to her room. The world seemed to tilt slightly as she walked, and by the time she reached her bed, she collapsed onto it, the chill having turned into a raging inferno. She pulled the covers over her, shivering uncontrollably despite the heat.
Hours later, the doctor arrived. He was a kind, elderly man who quickly diagnosed a severe viral fever. He prescribed medication, advised rest, and left instructions with a silent, efficient maid. Meera drifted in and out of sleep, plagued by feverish dreams, the mansion’s grandeur feeling like a cold, lonely cage.
In the late afternoon, she was vaguely aware of a presence in her room. She opened her eyes, groggy and disoriented. Aryan stood by her bed, a glass of water and a pill in his hand. He looked uncomfortable, his jaw tight. The maid, usually by her side, was nowhere to be seen.
“Here,” he said, his voice flat, holding out the pill. “The doctor said you need to take this. And drink some water.”
Meera managed to push herself up slightly, wincing at the ache in her limbs. She reached for the glass, her hand trembling. He didn’t offer to help, just watched her struggle. She swallowed the pill with difficulty, the water tasting like ash.
“Thank you,” she whispered, genuinely grateful for the simple act, despite his cold demeanor.
He simply nodded, his gaze sweeping over her, assessing. “Don’t thank me. This is merely… efficient management. We cannot afford for you to be indisposed, especially with the foreign delegation arriving next week. Your health is, for now, a contractual obligation.”
The harsh reminder cut through the fog of her illness. Of course. It wasn’t concern; it was cold calculation. Meera felt a familiar sting in her eyes, tears of weakness and frustration. She turned her head away, burying her face in the pillow.
Aryan, however, did not leave immediately. He stood there for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. He watched her for a beat, then, almost imperceptibly, his posture seemed to soften. He sighed, a quiet exhalation of air, as if battling an internal conflict. He then walked over to the bedside table, picked up the glass, and refilled it from a jug that had been placed there.
“You need to keep hydrated,” he stated, placing the glass back. His voice was still terse, but there was a subtle lack of the sharp edge it usually carried.
Meera, her eyes still closed, felt a faint warmth spread through her. Maybe it was the fever, or maybe it was the tiny, unexpected gesture.
He then moved to the window, pulling the heavy drapes slightly open, letting in a sliver of weak afternoon light. He adjusted the thermostat, making the room slightly warmer. He was still silent, still stoic, but he was *doing* things. Small, almost hesitant things.
“Are you hungry?” he asked after a long pause, his voice surprisingly gruff.
Meera shook her head. “No. Just… dizzy.”
He hummed, a non-committal sound. “The doctor said you might be. I’ll ask the kitchen to prepare something light for later. Something you might actually keep down.”
He stood by the window for another moment, looking out, his back to her. Meera, despite her illness, felt a strange sense of comfort from his unexpected presence. He wasn't kind, not in the way Priya or Dadi would be, but he was… present. He was acting, however begrudgingly, with a strange, awkward sense of care.
Suddenly, she heard a faint cough from him. She cracked her eyes open. He was rubbing his temples, a rare sign of his own discomfort.
“You’re… not feeling well either?” she rasped.
He dropped his hand quickly, his face resuming its usual mask. “No. Just… a long day.” He turned. “Get some rest. I’ll be in my study.”
He walked towards the door, then paused. His gaze lingered on her, a moment longer than necessary. “Call if you need anything,” he said, his voice softer than before, almost a murmur. “The staff will be available.” And then he was gone.
Meera closed her eyes, the warmth spreading. He had said “call if *you* need anything,” not “call if *I* need you to be available.” It was a subtle distinction, but in the world of Aryan Raichand, it was a chasm. He hadn't just ordered the staff; he had come himself. He had *stayed*. He had adjusted the room, refilled her water, and even offered to get her food. He was still Aryan—awkward, pragmatic, and unwilling to admit anything remotely resembling genuine concern—but beneath the layers of cold efficiency, she had glimpsed something else. Something… softer.
Later that evening, when the fever had slightly subsided, the maid brought her a bowl of clear, warm soup. It was simple, yet incredibly comforting. Meera ate slowly, feeling a fragile strength return.
A few hours after that, just as she was drifting off again, there was a soft knock on her door. It wasn’t the staff. It was too hesitant, too quiet.
“Come in,” she mumbled, her voice still weak.
The door creaked open, and Aryan stood there, a small, steaming mug in his hand. He looked even more uncomfortable than before, as if holding the mug was a monumental task.
“Rakesh informed me you were awake,” he stated, his voice stiff. “I… uh… thought you might appreciate this. It’s… herbal tea. For colds.” He extended the mug awkwardly.
Meera’s eyes widened. Herbal tea? From *Aryan*? This was uncharted territory. She slowly reached for it, her fingers brushing his as she took the mug. His skin was warm, not cold as she had expected.
“Thank you, Aryan,” she said, her voice laced with genuine surprise and a touch of something else – a burgeoning appreciation.
He didn't respond, merely watching her. He didn’t sit, didn’t relax. He just stood there, a silent sentinel, his presence a strange comfort. Meera took a sip of the tea. It was strong, perhaps a little too bitter, but the warmth spread through her chest.
“Dadi wanted to check on you herself,” he finally said, his voice low. “I told her you were resting. She was… concerned.”
“You protected me from Dadi’s fussing?” Meera managed a weak smile.
He looked away, a faint colour rising in his neck. “It was prudent. You need rest. Her… enthusiasm… would be counterproductive to your recovery.” He paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “And I didn’t want her to catch anything.”
Meera suppressed a giggle. He’d actually just admitted, however indirectly, to looking out for her. The layers of his cold pragmatism were slowly, painstakingly peeling back. This was the first time he had truly, genuinely, without the pretense of the contract, done something *for* her, simply because she was unwell.
“Aryan,” she said, her voice soft. “Thank you. Really. I appreciate it.”
He shifted uncomfortably, clearly unused to such direct gratitude. “Just… get well,” he muttered, his eyes darting away from hers. “It’s important.” The unspoken implication of their contract hung in the air, but somehow, for the first time, it didn't feel like a weapon. It felt like an excuse for him to care.
He made a move to leave. But as he turned, his hand accidentally brushed against the small bedside table, sending a stack of Meera’s sketchbooks tumbling to the floor.
“Oh!” Meera exclaimed, reaching for them.
Aryan immediately bent down to retrieve them, his movements surprisingly quick. As he gathered the scattered books, his gaze fell upon an open page in one of them. It was a sketch, a rough but undeniably accurate portrait of *him*. Not the stoic, unapproachable billionaire, but a subtle portrayal of him in a moment of unguarded thought, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes that she had glimpsed during their tense late-night conversation, or perhaps during the subtle moments she observed him.
His fingers stilled on the page. He picked up the sketchbook, his eyes fixed on his own likeness, captured with a sensitivity he hadn’t thought possible. He looked up, his gaze locking with hers, a complex mix of surprise, confusion, and a flicker of something raw in his eyes.
Meera’s heart leaped into her throat. Her secret art project, her attempt to capture the hidden facets of the man she was forced to live with, was exposed. And Aryan Raichand, the man who guarded his emotions with an ironclad resolve, was looking at a piece of her art that saw right through him. The room suddenly felt charged, the air thick with unspoken emotions and the shocking revelation of a hidden truth.
**Cliffhanger:** Aryan stares at his portrait in Meera's sketchbook, the vulnerability in his painted eyes a stark contrast to his usual demeanor. Meera is mortified that her secret art, capturing his unguarded moments, has been discovered. The unexpected intimacy of this revelation, coupled with his earlier, awkward care, leaves them both stunned and exposed, pushing their fragile, contractual relationship into entirely new, dangerously emotional territory.
Chapter 19
The image of Aryan’s face, frozen in a rare moment of vulnerability, his eyes locked onto the portrait in her sketchbook, was seared into Meera’s feverish mind. The silence in the room stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the frantic pounding of her own heart. He hadn’t looked angry; instead, his expression was a complex tapestry of surprise, confusion, and a hint of something deeper, something akin to raw exposure. He, Aryan Raichand, the impenetrable billionaire, had been *seen*. And by her, of all people.
Mortification, hot and prickly despite her lingering fever, flushed through Meera. This wasn’t just a casual sketch; it was an intimate observation, a glimpse beneath the carefully constructed mask he wore. Every line, every shadow in the drawing, spoke of a sensitivity she had only glimpsed in fleeting moments, a hidden pain she could only speculate about. To have him discover it like this, amidst his uncharacteristic show of concern, felt like a gross invasion of his privacy, even though it was her own art.
"Give me that!" she croaked, her voice still hoarse, a desperate flush creeping up her neck. She snatched the sketchbook from his stunned fingers, pulling it to her chest as if protecting a fragile secret. The sudden movement, despite her weakness, was fueled by pure, unadulterated embarrassment.
Aryan flinched, startled by her abruptness. He took a step back, his face instantly resuming its familiar, guarded impassivity. The flicker of vulnerability vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the stoic mask she knew so well. He looked at her, his gaze intense, perhaps searching for an explanation, but Meera couldn’t meet his eyes. She felt exposed, caught red-handed in an act of emotional espionage.
“It’s… it’s nothing,” she mumbled, clutching the sketchbook tighter. “Just… a doodle. I sketch everything. It means nothing.” She hoped he believed her, but the lie felt hollow, even to her own ears. Her cheeks burned.
He didn’t press. He simply stood there, watching her, his silence more unnerving than any accusation. The air crackled with the unspoken. After what felt like an eternity, he gave a curt nod, a subtle tightening of his jaw. “Very well,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of the earlier gruff concern. “Get some rest, Meera. You clearly still need it.”
And with that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Meera alone with her pounding heart and the incriminating sketchbook. She sank back onto her pillows, relief mingling with a strange sense of loss. The brief, almost tender moment of care had evaporated, replaced by the chilling formality she had grown accustomed to. Yet, the memory of his face as he looked at the portrait lingered, a silent question mark in the quiet room.
The next morning, Meera felt significantly better. The fever had broken, leaving her weak but clear-headed. She cautiously ventured downstairs, bracing herself for Aryan’s return to his usual cold demeanor. He was at breakfast, already engrossed in his tablet, seemingly unaffected by their awkward encounter. Dadi, however, was in high spirits, sensing Meera's recovery.
“Ah, Meera! Looking much better, my dear!” Dadi exclaimed, her eyes twinkling. “A good night’s rest works wonders! Now, that’s better. Because we have much to do, young lady! The foreign investors are arriving this week, and we must make sure everything is perfect!”
Meera managed a weak smile. “Perfect, Dadi? What exactly are we making perfect now?”
Dadi leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes fixed on Aryan, who seemed oblivious, but Meera suspected he was listening intently. “Your love story, of course!” she whispered dramatically. “The Singhanias are very traditional, very family-oriented. They will want to know *everything* about how you two fell in love! It must be charming, romantic, and absolutely convincing!”
Meera nearly choked on her juice. “Our… love story?” she stammered, glancing nervously at Aryan, who had finally looked up, a familiar exasperated sigh escaping his lips. “Dadi, I don’t think –”
“Nonsense!” Dadi waved her hand dismissively. “Of course, you do! All young lovers have a beautiful story! Now, Aryan is a bit… reserved, as you know. So, we must rehearse! We must create a narrative that is both believable and utterly heartwarming! We don’t want any awkward silences, do we?” She fixed Aryan with a formidable stare. “Aryan, you will cooperate fully. This is crucial for the merger, remember?”
Aryan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dadi, with all due respect, I don’t think a theatrical production of our… courtship… is necessary. My business acumen should be enough.”
“Nonsense!” Dadi declared again, slamming her palm lightly on the table, making the cutlery clatter. “Business is about trust, and trust is built on character! A stable, loving relationship shows character! Now, after breakfast, we shall begin our rehearsal. In the living room. Meera, you lead, my dear. You have the romantic imagination for it.”
Meera’s stomach churned with a mixture of dread and a strange, bubbling amusement. A love story. For them. This was going to be a disaster of epic proportions.
An hour later, they stood awkwardly in the grand living room, Dadi perched on a velvet armchair like a hawk, clipboard and pen in hand, looking every bit the demanding director. Aryan stood stiffly, arms crossed, a picture of barely concealed annoyance. Meera, despite her earlier nervousness, felt a mischievous spark ignite within her. If they had to do this, she might as well make it interesting.
“Right,” Dadi announced, tapping her pen. “Let’s start from the beginning. How did you two meet? Aryan, you first.”
Aryan cleared his throat, his posture rigid. “We met… at a charity event. My assistant, Rohan, was handling the guest list. Meera was there as an… artist, I believe. We had a brief conversation about the… philanthropic aspects of the evening. It was… professional.” He finished, as if reading from a corporate memo.
Dadi groaned, slamming her clipboard down. “Professional?! Aryan! This is a love story, not a board meeting! Meera, darling, your turn. Give it some emotion!”
Meera grinned, unable to resist. “Well, Dadi, it was a dark and stormy night…”
Aryan rolled his eyes. “It was a perfectly clear Tuesday evening.”
“Details, Aryan, details!” Meera waved him off. “Anyway, I was there, feeling utterly out of place, clutching my humble art portfolio, when suddenly, across the crowded room, my eyes met his. It was like a bolt of lightning, Dadi! His eyes, so deep, so mysterious, like… like a midnight canvas waiting for a splash of colour!” She gazed dreamily at Aryan, who stared back with an expression of utter bewilderment.
Dadi clapped her hands. “Excellent! Yes! A midnight canvas! What happened next?”
Meera continued, warming to her theme. “He strode towards me, Dadi, a powerful presence, a force of nature! And he extended his hand, and when our fingers touched, there was this… electric current! He said, ‘Excuse me, I believe you’ve dropped something.’ And I, flustered but captivated, looked down and realised I’d dropped my heart, Dadi! Right there, at his feet!” She pressed a hand to her chest dramatically.
Aryan scoffed. “You dropped your scarf. A rather bright, paint-splattered scarf, if I recall. And my exact words were, ‘Madam, your scarf is obstructing the path.’”
“Oh, Aryan, you’re ruining the romance!” Meera exclaimed, mock-offended.
“Romance that never happened!” he retorted. “We met when you spilled coffee on my three-piece suit right before a crucial meeting! It was a disaster, not a romantic encounter!”
Dadi’s eyes widened. “Coffee? A suit? This is good! A classic meet-cute! A chaotic beginning that blossoms into love! Meera, incorporate the coffee! The clumsiness! It makes you relatable!”
Meera’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! A clash of worlds! The meticulous billionaire and the free-spirited artist! It was fate, Dadi! I, in my artistic reverie, accidentally bumped into him, a fountain of creativity – and coffee – spilling onto his perfectly tailored suit. He looked at me, his eyes blazing, and I thought, ‘Oh, he hates me.’ But deep down, I knew it was passion! A spark! It was the moment our disparate worlds collided, only to merge into a beautiful masterpiece!”
Aryan stared at her, his jaw slack. “A beautiful masterpiece? It was a fifteen-minute argument about dry-cleaning bills!”
Dadi chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, you two! So perfectly imperfect! Aryan, you must look at her with longing, like she is your entire world! Meera, give him a soft, loving gaze! Imagine you are gazing at the man who holds your heart!”
They both tried, stiffly. Aryan looked like he was suffering from indigestion. Meera looked like she was trying not to laugh. It was awful.
“No, no, no!” Dadi cried, exasperated. “More! More emotion! Think of your happiest memory together! What did you do on your first date?!”
Aryan sighed. “We haven’t had a first date, Dadi. Not a real one.”
“Details, Aryan!” Meera interjected, grabbing his arm and looking up at him with a mischievous glint. “We went to a quaint little café, Dadi. He, the mighty Aryan Raichand, tried his first street-side samosa!”
Aryan’s eyes widened in alarm. “I did no such thing!”
“And he loved it!” Meera continued, ignoring him. “He tried to be all formal, but the spicy potato filling was just too much for him! He choked, and I had to pat him on the back!” She demonstrated with a vigorous pat to his chest. Aryan looked utterly horrified.
“I have never choked on a samosa!” he protested, pushing her hand away.
Dadi burst into laughter, holding her stomach. “Oh, Meera! You are a gem! This is perfect! The human touch! The vulnerability! Aryan, you will have to confirm this story!”
Aryan looked at Dadi, then at Meera, who was now barely suppressing giggles. He stared at her, then, a slow, grudging smile, one Meera had rarely seen, began to spread across his face. It wasn’t a full smile, more of a loosening of his features, a crack in his rigid facade. He looked at Meera, and a genuine, exasperated laugh finally escaped him, a deep, rumbling sound that startled even himself.
Meera’s laughter bubbled up, light and free, mirroring his. They stood there, in the opulent living room, laughing together, for the first time truly, genuinely laughing at the sheer absurdity of their situation, at the ludicrous love story they were fabricating, and at their own ridiculous attempts to play the part.
Dadi watched them, her stern director’s facade melting into a look of profound satisfaction. This was far better than any rehearsed lines. This was real.
Their laughter eventually subsided, leaving a comfortable silence in its wake. They stood facing each other, a shared warmth blooming between them. The air was no longer thick with tension, but with a lightness they hadn’t experienced together before. Meera looked at Aryan, and for a moment, she didn’t see the contract, didn’t see the billionaire, didn’t see the man who frustrated her to no end. She saw a fleeting glimpse of the man from her sketch – vulnerable, human, and unexpectedly, surprisingly, capable of laughter.
He looked back at her, his eyes softer than she had ever seen them. The professional distance, the contractual obligations, the invisible walls between them – for a brief, magical moment, they seemed to dissolve, blurring into insignificance. The lines of the contract, which had bound them so tightly, felt distant, almost invisible.
“Right then,” Dadi announced, breaking the spell, though her voice was now full of warm approval. “That’s enough rehearsal for today. You two are naturals. Just… keep that spirit. The Singhanias will be here in two days. Get ready for your biggest performance yet.” She beamed, utterly convinced of her own genius.
Meera looked at Aryan. He was no longer smiling, but the lingering softness in his eyes remained. The comfortable silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn't awkward. It was charged with a new, fragile understanding, a shared secret born of laughter. The upcoming dinner with the investors suddenly felt less like a chore and more like a challenge they would face together, not as reluctant partners, but as something… more. Something that was becoming undeniably, dangerously real.
**Cliffhanger:** The laughter and shared moment of connection leave Aryan and Meera in a new, uncharted territory. The contract feels less like a prison, and more like a catalyst. But as the highly traditional foreign investors draw closer, ready to scrutinize their "love story," Natasha Oberoi, Aryan's ex, is also preparing her own moves, sensing the growing emotional bond between them and determined to expose any weakness. She will soon issue a "friendly" warning to Aryan, hinting at truths that could unravel everything they’ve built, real or fake.
Chapter 20
The lingering warmth of shared laughter, a genuine, unforced sound that had surprised even himself, still resonated within Aryan Raichand as he navigated the sterile grandeur of his office the next morning. The memory of Meera’s infectious giggle, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she was truly amused, kept intruding on his meticulously organized thoughts. It was disconcerting. He prided himself on his control, on his ability to compartmentalize. Yet, for the first time in a long time, the walls around his emotions felt... permeable.
He sat at his imposing mahogany desk, a stack of merger documents awaiting his scrutiny, but his mind kept replaying Meera’s dramatic rendition of their "love story," complete with the imagined street-side samosa incident. He found himself almost smiling, a reflex he quickly suppressed. This was unprofessional. This was… dangerous. He was in this arrangement for pragmatic reasons: Dadi’s peace of mind, the merger, the stability his image desperately needed. Meera was a means to an end, a temporary solution, a contract. Nothing more.
But then he thought of her pale, feverish face, the way she’d flinched when he’d been curt with her, and the surprising, almost instinctive urge to provide comfort, even if disguised as “efficient management.” And then, that sketch. That damn sketch. She had captured something in his eyes, a vulnerability he meticulously hid from the world, a weariness he barely acknowledged to himself. It was unsettling. It made him feel seen, in a way he hadn't allowed anyone to see him since… since Natasha.
A knock on his office door jolted him back to reality. “Come in,” he barked, his voice sharper than intended.
Rohan, his best friend and COO, walked in, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Morning, boss. Heard the in-house dramatics department was in full swing yesterday. Dadi seemed rather pleased with the ‘romantic rehearsal’.”
Aryan grunted. “It was a farce. And completely unnecessary. My reputation is built on hard work, not fabricated fairy tales.”
Rohan leaned against the doorframe, a picture of relaxed amusement. “Tell that to the Singhanias. Or Dadi. She was positively glowing. Said Meera has ‘such a natural flair for romance’. Apparently, your attempt at ‘professional courtship’ didn’t quite cut it.” He winked. “But I heard you two finally managed a laugh. A genuine one.”
Aryan’s gaze hardened. “We were laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Nothing more.” He tried to sound convincing, even to himself.
Rohan merely raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Right. Just be careful, my friend. Forced proximity can do funny things to a man, even one as unfeeling as you claim to be.” He pushed off the doorframe. “Anyway, I have a meeting with the tech team. Just thought I’d check if your ‘contractual obligation’ was recovering well from her ‘unprofessional illness’.” His voice was light, but his eyes held a deeper question.
“She’s fine,” Aryan said dismissively, picking up a pen and feigning interest in a document. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do.”
Rohan chuckled softly before leaving. Aryan stared at the merger papers, but his focus remained fragmented. *Unfeeling as you claim to be.* The words echoed in his mind. Was he? He had always prided himself on his emotional detachment, a shield forged in the fires of past betrayal. But lately, around Meera, that shield felt… thinner.
***
Across town, in her sleek, minimalist office, Natasha Oberoi scrolled through her tablet, a faint, predatory smile touching her perfectly sculpted lips. A society column had just published a small piece about Aryan Raichand’s “charming new fiancée,” complete with a blurry paparazzi photo of him holding Meera’s hand at a recent event. The caption spoke of his “rare public display of affection.”
Natasha snorted. *Affection?* Aryan Raichand didn’t do affection. Not anymore. Not after what she’d done to him. The thought brought a pang, quickly suppressed. She had her own empire to build, and Aryan’s vulnerability was a weakness she could exploit. This sudden “girlfriend” was a puzzle, and Natasha prided herself on solving puzzles, especially when they stood in her way.
She had observed Meera at the last gala. Clumsy, yes. Out of place, certainly. But there was an undeniable vibrancy, an unpretentious charm that had clearly disarmed even Savitri Raichand, the formidable Dadi. And more disturbingly, Aryan had actually *covered* for her social gaffe. He had defended her to the gossiping elite. That was unlike him. The Aryan she knew would have distanced himself from such an inconvenience. Something was off.
Natasha’s network of contacts was extensive. A few discreet inquiries had already yielded some interesting tidbits about Meera Sharma: a struggling artist, a background of modest means, whispers of family debt. Nothing concrete yet, no smoking gun, but enough to fuel Natasha’s suspicion. This wasn’t a love match. This felt… orchestrated. And if it was, Natasha intended to unravel it, especially if it gave her an advantage in securing the same international merger Aryan was vying for.
She needed to talk to Aryan, to plant a seed of doubt, to gauge his reaction. And she needed to do it subtly, under the guise of concern. She tapped a few keys on her tablet. “Get me Aryan’s schedule. Find a window for a ‘casual’ meeting. Lunch, perhaps.”
***
Two days later, the opportunity presented itself. Natasha managed to secure a meeting with Aryan, citing "discussion of potential philanthropic collaboration" – a perfectly acceptable excuse in their high-society circles. Aryan, ever the pragmatist, agreed, despite the slight prickle of unease he felt when he saw her name on his calendar. He hadn’t seen her one-on-one since their bitter parting years ago. He told himself it was purely business.
They met in a discreet private dining room at one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants. Natasha was impeccably dressed, radiating elegance and confidence. Her smile was warm, inviting, but her eyes held a calculating glint.
“Aryan,” she began, her voice smooth as velvet, after the pleasantries were exchanged and the waiter had discreetly retreated. “It’s good to see you. You’re looking… well.” Her gaze flickered to his left hand, subtly noting the absence of a ring. “And congratulations are in order, I suppose. On your engagement. Or rather, your recent, very public courtship.”
Aryan’s jaw tightened. “Thank you, Natasha. Meera and I are… very happy.” The words felt stiff, unfamiliar on his tongue, especially with her. He forced a polite smile.
Natasha leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting to one of feigned concern. “I must admit, I was quite surprised. You, Aryan, settling down so… suddenly. And with someone… so different from your usual circle. She seems… sweet.” The word “sweet” was delivered with a subtle inflection that implied naivety, even weakness.
“Meera is a wonderful woman,” Aryan stated, his tone firm. “She brings a new perspective to my life.” He found himself defending Meera almost instinctively, a surprising surge of protectiveness rising within him.
Natasha’s eyes, however, didn't miss his subtle shift. She paused, picking at a piece of bread. “Yes, a new perspective. And I understand she’s an artist? How… refreshing. One rarely sees that world intersect with ours, does one?” Her tone was subtly dismissive, subtly painting Meera as an outsider, someone not quite equipped for the demands of their world.
“Art is as valid a profession as any other,” Aryan replied, a hint of steel entering his voice. “And Meera is exceptionally talented. Her art brings joy and beauty, something our world often lacks.” He surprised himself with the vehemence of his defense. He was actually *praising* Meera to Natasha, the woman who had once stripped him of his own ability to trust or admire.
Natasha’s smile remained, but her eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “Of course, of course. I merely meant… this world, Aryan, it can be very… demanding. It requires a certain… fortitude. A thick skin, if you will. People can be cruel, especially to those who don’t quite fit the mold. And someone as… innocent… as Meera might find it challenging to navigate.” She paused, then lowered her voice, as if sharing a painful truth. “I speak from experience, Aryan. People talked about me, even when we were together. They will talk about her too. Especially if there’s… anything less than straightforward about her background.”
The veiled threat, the implication of digging into Meera’s past, was clear. Aryan’s posture stiffened. “Meera has nothing to hide. Her background is her own, and it is honorable. Unlike some.” The last two words were delivered with a cold precision, a direct jab at Natasha’s own past actions, the betrayal that had scarred him.
Natasha flinched, a flicker of genuine hurt crossing her face before she regained her composure. “Still angry, I see. Such a shame. We could have been formidable, Aryan. But that’s in the past. My only concern now is for *you*. As a friend.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “There are whispers, Aryan. About this sudden engagement. People are talking. They wonder if this is… entirely real. If it’s not perhaps a little too convenient, given the merger with the Singhanias. They’re old-fashioned, aren’t they? Like Dadi. Always insisting on a settled family man.”
She let the implication hang in the air, her eyes fixed on his. It was a direct hit, a thinly veiled accusation about the contract. Aryan’s breath hitched. How much did she know? Or was she just guessing, playing on his vulnerabilities?
“People always talk, Natasha,” Aryan said, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “Especially when someone is as successful as I am. And especially when they have nothing better to do. My relationship with Meera is my business. It is genuine, and it has nothing to do with any merger.” He stared her down, challenging her to push further. He was bluffing, of course. It *did* have everything to do with the merger. But he wouldn’t let her see that.
Natasha held his gaze for a long moment, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. “If you say so, Aryan. I merely wanted to offer a friendly warning. The world can be… unkind. Especially to those who enter it unprepared. Or those who aren’t… truly what they seem.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, laden with insinuation. “Just ensure your new… arrangement… doesn’t become a liability instead of an asset. For your sake, and for the Raichand name.”
She sat back, picking up her wine glass, her point made. She had planted the seed of doubt, probed his defenses, and most importantly, she had seen his reaction. The surprising defensiveness, the subtle shift in his usual coldness when Meera was mentioned. It confirmed her suspicions. This was more than just a contract for him. And that, she knew, could be exploited.
Aryan, for his part, felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. Natasha was cunning. She hadn’t openly accused him, hadn’t revealed anything concrete, but her words had been precise, cutting right to the heart of his deception. And his unexpected, almost fierce defense of Meera had shown her a weakness he hadn’t intended to reveal. He was unsettled. Deeply unsettled. He knew Natasha well enough to know she wouldn’t stop here. This was just the first move in her insidious game.
He returned to his office after the lunch, his mind racing. He called Rohan. “Get me everything you have on Natasha’s current projects, her connections, her movements. And keep an eye on Rajeev. I have a feeling they might be working together.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “And quietly, discretely, look into Meera’s past, her family’s financial situation. Everything. I need to know what Natasha might be digging for.” He hated doing it, hated the invasion of Meera’s privacy, but Natasha’s implied threat left him with no choice.
As for Meera, she was completely oblivious to the shark-infested waters Aryan was now navigating on her behalf. She was in the mansion’s sprawling gardens, sketching the vibrant bougainvillea, humming a cheerful tune. The last few days had been surprisingly… pleasant. The laughter with Aryan, the awkward but genuine care he’d shown when she was ill, the simple truce that had settled between them – it had all chipped away at her resentment. She was beginning to see him not just as her cold, demanding employer, but as a complex, perhaps even lonely, man. A man she was increasingly, and dangerously, becoming curious about.
She dipped her brush into her watercolour palette, adding a splash of crimson to her sketch. The sun was warm on her face, and for the first time in a long time, the weight of her debt felt a little lighter, the absurdity of her situation a little less crushing. She was unaware that miles away, in a world she barely understood, a very real threat was beginning to gather, one that would force her and Aryan to confront not just the facade of their relationship, but the burgeoning, complicated truth beneath it.
**Cliffhanger:** Natasha's veiled warnings have left Aryan deeply unsettled, forcing him to acknowledge his unexpected protectiveness of Meera. He knows Natasha won't stop, and he's now racing to uncover her plans. Meanwhile, Dadi, ever the matchmaker, has been subtly observing the growing, albeit awkward, affection between Aryan and Meera. Convinced that her plan is working perfectly, she is about to begin her own "detective work," subtly questioning Meera about her "love story" with Aryan, pushing them to weave an even more elaborate (and hilarious) web of lies.
