The rain lashed against the windows of Malhotra Group like it was trying to warn her.
Meher Kapoor sat stiffly in front of India’s most feared billionaire. His office was silent—too silent. No ticking clocks. No music. Just the sound of her heart pounding and the steady scratch of Aarav Malhotra's pen.
He didn’t even glance at her.
“I thought you'd be taller,” he said finally, flipping the page of a file.
Meher’s jaw clenched. “And I thought you'd have a soul.”
That got his attention.
Their eyes met. His—dark, unreadable. Hers—wide with fury and disbelief.
“You want me to sign a marriage contract?” she asked, holding up the file. “One year of pretending to be your loving wife, in exchange for wiping my family’s debt?”
He leaned back, cool as ever. “I don’t need love, Ms. Kapoor. I need silence. A woman who won’t ask questions. Someone disposable.”
“And if I say no?”
Aarav smiled—sharp, heartless. “Then your father loses his shop. And the media learns about your brother’s scholarship fraud.”
Meher’s hands trembled. The walls were closing in.
“Why me?” she whispered.
“Because you’re desperate enough to say yes.”
He slid the pen toward her.
For a moment, all she could hear was the storm outside—and the sound of her dreams shattering.
Meher took the pen.
And signed.
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