Chapter 2:

1 month ago...

April 20, Saturday, 2024

Anika's POV

Straightening the soft folds of my white dupatta over my right shoulder, I took a final glance in the mirror. The white anarkali suit flowed gracefully to my ankles, its delicate embroidery catching the faint morning light. I had paired it with small oxidised jhumkas that swayed gently whenever I moved, and I’d left my hair loose, letting the waves frame my face.

Whether or not I liked the people I was about to meet didn’t matter. I had always believed that getting ready was for me, not for anyone else. Looking presentable made me feel in control — and today, I needed that feeling.

A few spritzes of Dior perfume clung to my skin, warm and floral. Satisfied, I stepped out of my room, my heels tapping softly on the polished floor as I descended to the ground level of the mansion.

Dadi and Mami were already here in New York. They’d flown in because they were going to meet a potential groom for me — the man they had personally chosen.

His name was Arnav Rai Mehrotra.

Seven Days Ago…

The showroom’s spotless glass reflected the sleek black silhouette of the car that had caught my attention the moment I walked in.

“How much is this one?” I asked the salesperson, tilting my head toward the black Rolls Royce Phantom parked under a pool of white light.

“Ma’am, it’s only 10.48 crores,” he said smoothly.

I almost laughed. Only. As if he’d just quoted the price of a mid-range handbag.

Rolling my shoulders back, I slipped off my sunglasses and began walking slowly around the car. Every curve of its design spoke of craftsmanship; the shadow-black paint seemed to drink in the light before releasing it in a subtle shimmer. The smell of new leather and polished metal lingered faintly in the air.

I had always had a weakness for Rolls Royce. This one, in particular, felt like the kind of car that demanded to be admired, touched, owned. My fingers itched to trace the line of the hood, just to feel the cool smoothness beneath my skin.

“Bring me the papers,” I told the young salesperson, who immediately nodded and turned to get the documents.

But before he could take a step, another voice cut through the air — deep, calm, and laced with quiet authority.

“Bring the documents to me.”

It wasn’t the interruption that irritated me — it was the assumption in his tone.

Something in me, however, refused to let the moment pass unnoticed. I turned.

And there he was.

The man stood with the easy poise of someone who knew the weight of his presence. He was dressed in a deep blue suit, tailored to perfection, paired with a crisp white shirt and a red silk tie tucked neatly under a waistcoat. A golden Rolex gleamed faintly on his wrist. His black leather shoes caught the light as if they’d just been polished minutes ago.

Behind him stood another man in a pale blue suit, likely his assistant, holding a slim leather briefcase and a file.

But it was his eyes that stopped me mid-breath — deep grey, like steel under a winter sky. Sharp, unreadable, they gave away nothing, and yet for a moment, I felt something unexplainable run through me.

I straightened my back, my voice cutting the space between us. “Excuse me. Don’t you know it’s highly impolite — and unprofessional — to interfere in someone else’s business?”

His gaze shifted from the salesperson to me, and for some reason, that slow movement made my skin prickle.

“Do I look like I care, Miss?” he asked, his tone as detached as his eyes.

Ah. One of those men. The kind whose ego was as expensive as their wardrobe.

I smiled, but it wasn’t the warm kind. “I don’t care what you look like, but I’ve already decided to buy this car, and you can stay out of it. You seem decent, wealthy, and professional enough not to argue over a mere car. Aren’t you?”

I didn’t wait for his reply. Turning to the salesperson, I said firmly, “Bring the documents. Quickly.”

My heels clicked sharply against the white marble floor as I strode toward the counter, the sound echoing through the spacious showroom. I’ve never denied it — I love attention, and in moments like these, I commanded it effortlessly.

Settling into the chair, I signed the purchase papers with practiced ease and transferred the payment. The staff informed me the car would be delivered to my mansion by evening.

As I rose to leave, I didn’t see the man again — but I could still feel the echo of his gaze from earlier.

On the way out, I noticed something odd. The expressions on the faces of the showroom staff were unusually tense, their eyes darting between each other as if they’d just witnessed something risky.

Tilting my head toward Ryle, my secretary, I asked, “What’s with everyone here? They look… nervous.”

“I’m not sure, ma’am,” she replied, her tone composed as always.

I let it go. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth my time — or so I thought.

Back to April 20…

That day at the showroom was the first time I saw him. I didn’t know his name then, nor did I imagine I would ever see him again.

But fate — or perhaps the universe’s odd sense of humour — had other plans.

One week later, his family arrived at my home. He wasn’t with them, but the fact that they had come at all meant only one thing: they were here to discuss my marriage to him.

I wasn’t sure how to process it. Marrying a man who had been a complete stranger to me just a week ago? A man who had tried to steal a car out from under me? It felt surreal — and not in the good way.

I’d never been one for deep, long-term relationships. In high school and college, I’d dated four or five times, but each ended amicably. My focus had always been on building my own life, my own empire. Love was a luxury I didn’t have time for.

My father used to say, “To achieve something, you must sacrifice something.” And I had taken that to heart.

Now, as I adjusted the small white stone bindi on my forehead, I could only sigh at the irony.

The moment I stepped into the main hall, Mami greeted me with a cheerful, “Lijiye, aa gayi humari beti.”

(Here comes our daughter.)

I plastered on my best professional smile.

Seated opposite Dadi and Mami was a group I recognised from photographs. The elegant woman in a deep green silk saree was Neha Rai Mehrotra — Arnav’s mother. The cream, high-collared blouse and neatly tied low bun gave her an air of quiet authority. Beside her was another woman in salmon-pink silk, two men I presumed were their husbands, and a young girl with an open, eager expression.

Bowing slightly, I greeted them. “Namaste.”

Mrs. Rai Mehrotra’s smile was warm. “Aao, baitho.” She patted the space beside her.

(Come, sit.)

As I sat, she said, “I’ve seen you on TV and social media, but you’re even more beautiful in person.”

To my own surprise, I felt heat rising to my cheeks. I wasn’t used to blushing — my reputation was one of control and reserve.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rai Mehrotra,” I replied.

Her questions came easily, without the cold scrutiny I’d expected.

“What do you like to do?”

“I enjoy reading,” I said, choosing the safest answer.

“And cooking?”

“I do cook sometimes,” I admitted with a small laugh, “but it’s not really my cup of tea.”

Through my peripheral vision, I saw the young girl smiling at me with unguarded admiration. Strange. I was often called a monster by employees and critics alike, yet here I was, being treated like someone precious.

Then came the question I hadn’t prepared for. "What's your ideal type?"

I kept my tone even. "I want loyalty and respect," I answered. "Someone who respects the boundaries I set and stands by me. Intelligence and dignity matter to me more than charm." I tried to keep my tone light—no need to be harsh in front of such a gentle woman.

The young girl piped up, bright and earnest, "I think my brother would really appreciate that. He respects people who know who they are."

I smiled.

She leaned forward with a grin. "Then Bhai is perfect for you, Bhabhi."

Bhabhi. I almost choked on my own breath.

Mrs Rai Mehrotra's eyes grew a little sad, but steady. "I raised my son to respect others," she said quietly. "He can appear distant—life made him cautious. Something happened years ago that changed him. He’s careful, not cruel. If he seems cold sometimes, it’s more guard than heartlessness."

For the first time that day, I caught a flicker of pain in her eyes.

The Rai Mehrotra family was known for their empire. But now, I wondered — what story lay hidden behind their polished success?