Raichand Tower didn't announce itself.
It didn't need to.
The building rose from the street like a decision already made—steel, glass, and a kind of silence that swallowed noise. Aarohi stood across the road for a moment, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder, letting her eyes travel up until the top disappeared into reflected sky.
Eight p.m.
The lobby doors opened before she touched them.
Cool air brushed her face. Everything inside smelled faintly of citrus and something clean she couldn't place. The floor shone. Somewhere, soft music played—instrumental, unintrusive, expensive.
A man in a dark suit stepped forward. "Ms. Mehra?"
"Yes."
"Please follow me."
He didn't ask her to sign in. He didn't ask for ID. He didn't ask anything at all. He simply walked, and she matched his pace, heels clicking too loudly against the floor.
They passed people who looked like they belonged—sharp clothes, low voices, eyes that slid away quickly. A glass elevator waited with its doors already open.
The ascent was smooth. Silent. The city folded beneath them, lights blooming like a second sky.
No one spoke.
When the doors opened, the hallway was carpeted, thick and soundless. At the end stood a single door, dark wood, no nameplate.
The man gestured. "He's inside."
Aarohi nodded once.
Her hand hovered for a second before she knocked.
"Come in," a male voice said.
Not loud. Not soft. Certain.
She pushed the door open.
The office was large, but not crowded. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. A desk placed slightly away from them. A low table. Two chairs.
And a man standing near the window, phone at his ear.
He turned only when he ended the call.
Kabir Raichand.
He was taller than she expected. Dressed simply—dark shirt, sleeves rolled back, watch on his wrist. No unnecessary movement. No hurry.
His eyes moved to her face. Then paused. Not in interest. In assessment.
"Ms. Mehra," he said.
The way he said her name felt practiced. Like he had already repeated it in his head.
"Yes."
"You're on time."
"So are you."
A corner of his mouth shifted. Not a smile.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite the desk.
She did.
He didn't join her immediately. He went to the desk, picked up a thin folder, and only then sat across from her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Aarohi noticed small things. The faint line near his left brow. The absence of personal items. The way he placed the folder perfectly parallel to the desk edge.
Control lived here.
"You know why you're here," he said finally.
"Yes."
"Good. That saves time."
He opened the folder, slid out a document, and pushed it toward her.
She didn't touch it yet.
"This is a contract marriage," he continued. "Two years. Public appearances when required. We live in the same residence. We present stability. Nothing more."
"And after two years?" she asked.
"A clean divorce. With a settlement large enough to ensure you never have to negotiate again."
Her fingers rested on her knee. She kept them there.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
"Because," he replied, "there are negotiations I need to close. And there are people who believe a man without a personal life is a weakness."
He looked at her steadily.
"You fit what they won't question."
"And what is that?" Aarohi asked.
"Unremarkable on the surface," he said calmly. "And therefore safe."
Something flickered in her chest. Not anger. Something colder.
"I see," she said.
"You can walk out," Kabir added. "This is an offer. Not a trap."
"Is that what you tell yourself?"
For the first time, he paused.
Just for a second.
Then: "I tell myself the truth. This is mutually beneficial."
She picked up the document.
It was thorough. Dates. Clauses. Boundaries. Medical coverage. Financial transfers. Confidentiality.
Her mother's treatment was listed in clear, precise terms.
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Kabir watched that. Noted it.
"You need the money," he said.
"Yes."
"I need the image."
Silence stretched.
"Do you know anything about me?" she asked.
"I know enough."
"Like what?"
"That you've worked in and around hospitals most of your adult life. That you keep changing addresses. That you have no legal ties beyond your mother. And that you don't give up easily."
He closed the folder gently.
"Those are qualities I can work with."
Aarohi leaned back slightly.
"And what about you?" she asked.
"What about me?"
"What am I marrying into?"
Kabir met her gaze.
"Power," he said. "And the cost that comes with it."
The city lights burned behind him.
Aarohi thought of the rattling fan.
Of the sliding paper.
Of the number that refused to become smaller.
"How soon?" she asked.
"If you agree," he said, "the engagement is announced in three days."
She exhaled once.
"Then," she said, "I want one condition added."
Kabir's brow lifted slightly. "Which is?"
"No one interferes in my mother's care. Not your family. Not your board. Not your lawyers."
"Agreed."
"And," she continued, "I will not be treated like a decoration."
A pause.
Then: "I don't keep decorations," Kabir said. "I keep equals."
The words surprised her.
She looked down at the contract.
And signed.