CHAPTER 4: The Devil's Smile

11:30 AM | Design Department\, 28th Floor

"Your seat is here."

Meera Khanna, the senior designer, pointed to a cramped corner desk piled high with fabric samples, old lookbooks, and what looked like someone's forgotten lunch from three weeks ago. The desk was literally in the corner, tucked behind a pillar, hidden from the natural light that flooded the rest of the open-plan office.

Aanya smiled gratefully anyway. "Thank you so much—"

"The coffee machine needs cleaning." Meera cut her off, her smile razor-thin. "The files from 2019 need organizing by season and collection. And I need fifty mood boards for the spring bridal line by tomorrow morning. Inspirational, not derivative. Understood?"

Aanya's smile didn't waver. She'd faced worse. She'd faced hospital administrators threatening to disconnect her father's dialysis. She'd faced loan sharks with interest rates that should be illegal. She'd faced a fake marriage to a stranger who was now her CEO.

A coffee machine was nothing.

By 3 PM, she'd cleaned the coffee machine until it gleamed, organized three years of files into a system that actually made sense, and finished fifteen mood boards. Her fingers ached from cutting and pasting. Her eyes burned from staring at fabric swatches. But fifteen were done. Thirty-five to go.

Her phone buzzed under the desk.

Arjun: How's first day? Is the job everything you hoped? Did they recognize your genius yet?

Despite everything, Aanya smiled. Arjun. Her best friend since they were twelve, when he'd moved into the flat downstairs and she'd caught him crying over a dead puppy. They'd been inseparable ever since—through school, through college, through all the bad decisions and worse boyfriends. He was the one person who always made her feel lighter.

Aanya: My boss is a nightmare. My husband is the CEO. Normal Tuesday.

Arjun: Wait WHAT

Aanya: Long story. Tell you later.

Arjun: Aanya. AANYA. You can't just drop "my husband is the CEO" and log off. That's not how friendship works. That's not how ANYTHING works.

Aanya: Watch me. ❤️

She slipped the phone back into her bag, still smiling. Arjun would be furious—the good kind of furious, the worried-best-friend kind. She'd have to tell him eventually. Just not now. Not when she had thirty-five mood boards to finish and a husband-boss to avoid.

6:15 PM

Her phone buzzed again. Unknown number.

Unknown: Conference room. 3rd floor. Now.

Aanya stared at the message. Her heart rate, which had finally calmed down, spiked again.

Aanya: Who is this?

Unknown: Your husband.

Three words that shouldn't make her stomach flip but absolutely did.

Aanya: It's 6 PM. My shift ended.

Unknown: The contract doesn't have working hours. Come.

The 3rd floor was empty when she got there. Dark. Echoing. The kind of floor that housed IT servers and storage rooms, not people. Her chappals—still the broken ones, she hadn't had time to replace them—clicked against the marble as she walked toward the only lit room at the end of the corridor.

Conference room 3C. Door slightly ajar.

She pushed it open.

Rudraksh stood by the window, the city lights sprawling behind him like a carpet of diamonds. He'd removed his jacket and loosened his tie. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked like they'd actually seen manual labor once, despite his current life of boardrooms and billion-dollar deals.

He didn't turn when she entered.

"You're afraid of me."

It wasn't a question.

"I'm not."

"You're trembling." His voice was flat. Observational.

Aanya straightened her spine, furious at her body's betrayal. "It's cold in here."

Finally, he turned. Something flickered in his eyes—was it appreciation? Respect? It vanished before she could identify it.

"You finished the mood boards."

"Yes."

"The files from 2019."

"Yes."

"The coffee machine."

"I don't make coffee. I'm a designer."

"You made coffee today." He moved closer, each step deliberate. "You cleaned the machine. You organized the files. You've done fifteen mood boards in half a day, which is more than most of my senior designers can manage."

Aanya's jaw tightened. "How do you know all that?"

"I know everything that happens in my company." He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could see the exhaustion lurking behind his eyes. "Meera is testing you. She does that to everyone. Most people cry by day three."

"I won't cry."

"No. I don't think you will."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with things unsaid. His gaze was too intense, too searching. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle she didn't know she presented.

"Why did you call me here?" she asked finally.

"My mother. She wants to meet you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But you said Sunday—"

"Change of plans." He pulled out his phone, scrolling through what looked like a thousand unread messages. "She's impatient. She found out I got married through a source at the temple—apparently the pandit's wife talks. Now she's demanding to meet you immediately. Dinner tomorrow. 7 PM. Malhotra House." He looked up. "I'll send the address."

Aanya's stomach dropped. "I don't have anything to wear."

"Wear what you wore at the wedding."

"That was a two-thousand-rupee saree from Lajpat Nagar. It's already been worn. It's—"

"It's fine." He cut her off, impatient now. "My mother isn't judging your clothes. She's judging whether you're real."

"It's not fine. Your mother is Nandini Malhotra. She probably wears diamonds to breakfast. She probably has servants who wear better clothes than my entire wardrobe."

For the first time, something like surprise crossed his face. Then—was that a smile? It was gone before she could be sure, just a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth.

"There's a credit card in your bag."

Aanya froze. She looked down. Opened her bag. Nestled among her meager possessions was a black American Express card she had definitely not put there.

"When did you—"

"While you were cleaning the coffee machine." He walked past her toward the door. "Buy something appropriate. Nothing too flashy—my mother doesn't like show-offs. Nothing too simple—my mother will think I'm mistreating you. Something in between. You're a designer. Figure it out."

"I'm not taking your money."

He stopped at the door, hand on the frame. Turned back.

"It's not for you. It's for the act. My mother has been waiting six years to see me married. If you show up in a two-thousand-rupee saree, she'll spend the whole night wondering why her billionaire son can't afford to dress his wife properly. She'll ask questions. Questions I don't want to answer." His eyes met hers. "This is damage control. Nothing more."

Aanya clutched the card, her knuckles white. "Fine."

"Good. Don't be late." He was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Aanya stood alone in the empty conference room, the black card burning in her hand.

Twenty-five lakhs for her father's life. Now this.

What else would this contract cost her?

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