The Sharma household was a symphony of clinking spoons and loud debates.
"Anu, eat one more paratha. Law is a heavy subject, you need brain fuel," Mrs. Sharma insisted, hovering over Ananya with a steel spatula.
"Mummy, she’s going to an office, not a war zone," Kabir chuckled, dodging a playful swat from his mother.
At the head of the table, Dr. Ishaan looked up from his medical journal. At twenty-nine, he carried a natural gravity that usually calmed the house down. He looked at Ananya, noticing the way she was fidgeting with her dupatta. He knew her better than anyone—he knew that behind her "topper" confidence was a girl who still remembered the cruel whispers of the school hallways.
"Ananya," Ishaan said softly. She looked up. "You belong in that boardroom as much as anyone else. Your skin, your background, your bank account—none of that defines your intelligence. Remember that when you walk in there."
Ananya felt a lump in her throat and nodded. "Thanks, Bhai."
"And if the CEO is a jerk," Kabir added, winking, "just remember he probably had to pay someone to do his homework in college. You did yours yourself."
With their laughter ringing in her ears, Ananya stepped out into the humid Mumbai morning.
Raichand Enterprises, 9:30 AM
The lobby was a cathedral of glass and ego. Ananya felt small as she smoothed her simple white kurta. Everyone around her seemed to be dressed in brands she couldn't pronounce.
She was directed to the 30th floor. When the elevator doors opened, she was met with a wall of silence. No one was talking; everyone was typing or walking with purpose.
"You're the new legal intern? Ananya Sharma?" A woman with a sharp ponytail and a stressed expression—Meera—approached her.
"Yes, Ma'am. Good morning," Ananya said, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
"Don't 'Ma'am' me, I'm just the assistant. Follow me. Mr. Raichand wants a briefing on the Singhania merger, and he wants the interns to take notes. Whatever you do, don't speak unless he asks you a direct question. And for heaven’s sake, don't look at his phone."
Ananya frowned. Is he a CEO or a dictator? she wondered.
They entered a conference room that felt like it was made of ice. At the end of a long mahogany table sat Advait Raichand.
He didn't look up. He was wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her father’s pension. His hair was perfectly styled, but his face was a mask of cold boredom. He looked like a man who had never laughed a day in his life.
"You're late," Advait said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the room.
Ananya checked her watch. "Actually, I'm four minutes early, sir."
The room went silent. Two other interns—both boys in expensive blazers—looked at her like she had just signed her death warrant.
Advait finally lifted his head. His dark eyes narrowed as they swept over her. He took in her simple cotton clothes, her lack of makeup, and the deep, dusty tone of her skin. A flicker of something passed through his eyes—judgment? Disdain?
"I don't pay for 'actually,' Miss Sharma," Advait said, leaning back. "I pay for results. Sit down. And try not to let your 'middle-class' opinions clutter my meeting. I’m only interested in the law."
Ananya felt the old sting of a bully’s remark, but this time, she didn't look down. She pulled out her notebook, her jaw tightening.
"Logic dictates that punctuality is based on a clock, not a mood, Mr. Raichand," she replied quietly, her voice echoing in the dead-silent room. "And as for the law? That’s exactly why I’m here."
Advait paused, his pen hovering over a document. For the first time in years, someone had pushed back. He looked at her again—really looked at her—and realized this wasn't going to be the boring internship he expected.
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