The ceiling fan above her creaked with each turn, mocking her as she sat in the hospital corridor, clutching the crumpled bill in her trembling hands.
₹4,82,000.
Aarvi Sharma stared at the numbers as though they were written in a foreign language. The ink bled in her vision as her eyes burned. Four lakh eighty-two thousand. The cost of keeping her father alive for a week longer.
Her father, who now lay motionless on the hospital bed, hooked to machines that beeped rhythmically, as if they were the only ones stubborn enough to believe he had a chance.
But he hadn't survived. He had left her alone—just like that—without even opening his eyes to say goodbye.
The debt collectors hadn't cared about her tears. The hospital administrators hadn't cared about her pain. To them, she was nothing but a young woman in cheap clothes who couldn't pay her bills.
"Miss Sharma, if you don't clear the dues, we can't release the body," the receptionist said flatly, sliding the papers back toward her.
Her throat tightened. "Please, just give me a few days. I… I'll arrange something."
The woman's expression didn't waver. "We've already given you extensions. We need the payment today."
Aarvi pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. She wasn't going to beg—not anymore. Her pride had already been crushed into dust these past few months.
She folded the bill and shoved it into her worn-out sling bag, stood up, and walked out of the hospital with her shoulders straight. She wouldn't let them see her break.
But the moment she stepped outside into the sweltering Delhi heat, her chest heaved. The world blurred. She wanted to scream, to throw something, to collapse.
Instead, she walked. Because what else could she do?
---
At the Café
The tiny café smelled of burnt coffee and old frying oil. Aarvi tied her apron tightly, forcing her grief to the back of her mind. She couldn't afford to fall apart. Not when this job was the only thing standing between her and complete ruin.
"Table four, hurry up!" her manager barked, snapping his fingers.
She plastered on a smile that felt like broken glass against her lips and balanced the tray.
When she reached the table, the customers didn't even look at her. They laughed loudly, talking about stocks and mergers.
"Here's your cappuccino and sandwich, sir," she said softly, placing the items down.
One of the men glanced at her nametag, then smirked. "Sharma? You wouldn't happen to be related to Sharma Textiles, would you?"
Her blood ran cold.
She froze, the tray still in her hand.
The man chuckled cruelly. "Guess not. That little company got swallowed up last month by Malhotra Enterprises. Your father must've been one of those idiots who refused to sell."
The tray slipped slightly, and she barely caught it before it fell. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to stay silent.
The men's laughter echoed in her ears long after she walked away.
---
Fired
Her manager cornered her near the back door later that evening.
"Aarvi, I'm sorry, but…" he scratched his head, avoiding her eyes. "With the takeover, the new management says we're cutting staff. You're… you're let go."
Her throat tightened. "But I need—"
He held up a hand. "I know. But it's out of my control. I'll give you a week's pay as compensation."
That was it. No job. No income. No father. Only debt.
Her legs felt weak as she stepped out into the night. She had never felt so utterly lost.
---
The Black Car
The sleek, black Mercedes that pulled up beside her looked like it had driven straight out of another world—a world where people like her were invisible.
The tinted window rolled down slowly, and a man in a suit peered out. "Miss Aarvi Sharma?"
She blinked, stepping back. "Yes?"
"The Chairman would like to meet you."
"Chairman?" Her brows furrowed. "Who—?"
"Reyansh Malhotra," the man said simply.
Her heart stopped.
The name that had haunted her life for months. The man whose empire had swallowed her father's company whole. The man who had indirectly pushed her father to his grave.
And he wanted to see her?
Before she could refuse, the bodyguard opened the back door. "Please."
Aarvi hesitated, but something inside her stirred—a mixture of anger, curiosity, and the tiniest flicker of hope.
What could a man like him possibly want with her?
She slid into the car.
---
Malhotra Towers
The skyscraper loomed above her, its glass walls gleaming like a mirror to the stars. She felt small, like a trespasser in a world not meant for her.
The elevator shot up to the 47th floor, her stomach flipping with every passing second.
When the doors opened, she was led into a vast office. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the room, showcasing the glittering city below.
And there he was.
Reyansh Malhotra.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored black suit. His presence filled the room like thunderclouds before a storm. His face was sculpted from ice—sharp jawline, cold eyes the color of steel, lips pressed into a thin line.
He didn't look at her at first. He was signing documents with swift, decisive strokes. The silence stretched, suffocating.
Finally, he set down his pen and lifted his gaze.
For a moment, Aarvi forgot how to breathe. His eyes pinned her in place, assessing, dissecting.
"You're exactly as I imagined," he said flatly.
She bristled. "And you're exactly as I imagined—arrogant and heartless."
One of his brows arched slightly, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he slid a folder across the desk toward her.
"Read it."
She hesitated before opening it.
Her eyes widened. "This is—"
"A marriage contract," he finished for her, leaning back in his chair.
She stared at him, disbelief flooding her veins. "Are you insane?"
His lips curved, though it wasn't a smile. "Hardly."
---
The Proposal
"Why me?" she demanded. "You could have any woman in the country. Models, actresses, politicians' daughters—"
"I don't want them," he interrupted, his voice calm but firm. "I want you."
She laughed bitterly. "You ruined my father. Destroyed my family. And now you expect me to marry you?"
"It's business," he said coldly. "Everything is business."
Her fists clenched. "Marriage isn't business!"
"Then think of it as a transaction." His gaze was unyielding. "One year. You play the role of my wife. In return, I'll clear your debts. Your father's hospital bills, your loans, everything. You'll be free."
Her breath caught. Free. The word echoed inside her like a lifeline.
But at what cost?
She slammed the folder shut and shoved it back toward him. "I'd rather starve than marry a man like you!"
The air crackled between them. His jaw tightened, but his eyes flickered with something—something she couldn't name.
She stood, her hands shaking, her heart pounding.
"This conversation is over," she said, turning on her heel.
As she stormed toward the door, his voice followed her, low and certain.
"You'll be back, Aarvi. You don't have a choice."
Her steps faltered.
And deep down, she knew he was right.