Priyanka Ved
Part 1
The hospital smelled like sterile cotton and silent prayers. Meera sat on the cold plastic chair, her hands tightly clasped, knuckles pale. Her brother Aarav’s breathing was the only rhythm keeping her grounded. Machines beeped steadily beside him, like they were mocking her helplessness.
“Miss Meera Singh?” A voice snapped her back. She looked up to see a middle-aged man in a tailored black suit—sleek, expensive, and utterly out of place in the dull corridor of the government hospital.
“Yes?” she asked, standing up, instinctively wary.
“I’m Mr. Pradhan. I work for Mr. Veer Khanna.” His voice was flat, mechanical. “You’ve been summoned. Now.”
Meera frowned. “Veer Khanna? The business tycoon?”
He gave a short nod. “Car’s waiting. You’ll want to hear what he has to say. It concerns your brother.”
Her pulse quickened. “Wait, what does he know about Aarav?”
But the man had already turned and begun walking. Meera hesitated only for a second. The hospital bills were piling, the transplant waitlist was endless, and Aarav’s time was running out. If this was about him, she had no choice but to follow.
The car was black, glossy, and silent. Mr. Pradhan didn’t speak. Meera kept glancing out the tinted window as Mumbai blurred by—slums, neon signs, concrete towers. Her reflection stared back at her, anxious eyes, chapped lips, and fraying strength. She clutched her tote bag tighter, the last envelope of cash inside already promised to next week’s medicine.
Twenty-seven minutes later, the car halted in front of an imposing glass building—Khanna Towers. It stretched into the sky like it didn’t believe in limits.
Inside, the elevator whooshed up without a sound. Mr. Pradhan led her to the top floor, past an empty reception, and into a room that could’ve been a magazine spread—chrome, leather, marble, and one man standing by the wall of glass overlooking the city.
Veer Khanna.
She had seen his photos—business magazines, tabloids, viral reels. But none of them captured the sheer weight of his presence. Tall, sharply cut suit, dark eyes unreadable, and a silence that felt like a blade poised at your throat.
“You called me?” Meera asked, trying to sound calm.
He turned slowly. “Yes. Sit.”
She didn’t move. “Why?”
He raised an eyebrow, like mildly amused by her defiance. “Because I don’t like people towering over me when I’m about to change their lives.”
She sat, lips pressed into a line. “You said this was about Aarav.”
“It is.” He leaned back, fingers steepled. “He needs a liver transplant. But he’s low on the list. Very low.”
Meera’s throat went dry. “I know. I’ve tried everything. Unless I can—”
“I can move him up,” Veer interrupted. “I can have him operated in the best private facility by tomorrow. Fully covered. No delays.”
Meera blinked. “Why? You don’t even know me.”
He smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant. “I don’t do charity, Miss Singh. I do deals.”
She stared. “What kind of deal?”
Veer tapped the sleek black folder on his desk and slid it toward her. She opened it with trembling hands.
A contract. Six pages. Her name printed at the top. And two words in bold:
“Temporary Relationship Agreement.”
“You’ll be my girlfriend,” he said casually. “Publicly. For six months. Appearances, parties, travel. Everything my PR needs. You’ll stay at my residence. Follow my rules. No questions.”
Meera gaped at him. “That’s insane.”
“Is it?” he said smoothly. “You’re desperate. I’m offering exactly what you need.”
“Why me?”
He stood and walked toward her, every step deliberate. “Because you’re clean. No social media drama, no record, no skeletons. You’re invisible—until I make you visible.”
She rose too, heart pounding. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s one clause.” He reached out and flipped to the final page. “You don’t leave. Not before I do. No matter what happens. No matter what I say or do. You stay.”
Meera read the words. Her fingers trembled.
“You can’t leave me before I do.”
The air thickened.
“This is blackmail,” she whispered.
“No,” he said, eyes locking with hers. “This is an exchange. Your brother’s life—for a few months of yours.”
She looked away, jaw clenched. “Why not hire an actress?”
“Because I don’t trust actresses. I need someone real. Someone who needs me more than I need her. That’s leverage. And I like leverage.”
Meera’s mind raced. Could she even do this? Fake love a man like him? Cold, commanding, unreadable? But what choice did she have?
“I want to see my brother’s file,” she said quietly. “I want to be sure you can actually help.”
Veer nodded once. “Mr. Pradhan will send the medical documents to your phone within the hour. Along with confirmation from the hospital.”
She looked back at the contract.
Veer said, more softly now, “Time is running out. For him. And for your freedom.”
Meera raised her eyes. “You mean I’ll be your prisoner?”
“You’ll be my responsibility,” he said, stepping closer. “And I don’t let go easily.”
She took a breath.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
Veer didn’t smile. He simply extended a pen.
“Sign.”
She signed. Her hand shook.
As she placed the pen down, Veer leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.
“Welcome to my world, Miss Singh. You belong to me now.”
And in that moment, Meera knew—she hadn’t sold six months of her life.
She had sold her soul.
Part 2
The penthouse was all glass and silence. When Meera entered, she felt the air change—not warmer, not colder—just heavier. As if every inch of this place had seen too much and refused to forget.
A staff member took her bag silently and disappeared down a hallway. No one spoke. No one smiled. This wasn’t a home. It was a fortress.
“Your room is this way,” Mr. Pradhan said, walking ahead.
Meera followed, her footsteps echoing on marble floors. She passed open spaces with impossible views of Mumbai, glittering in the dark like a city pretending to be gold. A library with floor-to-ceiling shelves. A private gym. A piano no one seemed to touch. And finally, a door that opened to a room larger than her entire apartment.
“This is yours,” Pradhan said.
“My room?” she asked, almost surprised.
“For now. Mr. Khanna prefers privacy.”
She stepped in. The bed was king-sized, the curtains velvet, the closet already stocked with dresses in shades she’d never afford. Deep red, forest green, sapphire. Labels she’d only heard celebrities whisper about.
“There are instructions inside the wardrobe for tomorrow’s event,” Pradhan added. “You’ll be attending as Mr. Khanna’s date.”
“Tomorrow?” Meera blinked. “So soon?”
He didn’t answer. Just nodded and left.
Meera sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the full-length mirror. Her reflection looked pale and confused. This wasn’t her world. This wasn’t her plan. But Aarav’s face floated in her mind—smiling, weak, hopeful. That was her world. Her reason.
She lay down, fully clothed, too exhausted to cry.
Morning came with a knock on the door.
It wasn’t a servant. It was him.
Veer Khanna, in a tailored navy suit, hair perfectly in place, eyes unreadable as always.
“Get dressed. We leave in an hour.”
She sat up. “No ‘good morning’? Not even fake civility?”
His lips twitched, a hint of something cruel. “I’m not paying for morning pleasantries. Just the illusion of affection in public.”
She stood. “And in private?”
“In private, I expect obedience. Silence. And presence.”
Her fists clenched. “I’m not your toy.”
“You’re not,” he said, walking in. “You’re a chess piece. One I placed on the board. But the game is mine.”
He looked her up and down. “Wear the black dress. The one with the slit. And fix your face. You look like you’ve cried.”
“I haven’t,” she snapped.
“Good. Keep it that way.”
He turned and left.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she showered and opened the wardrobe. The black dress stared back at her—silky, sharp, far too bold. But she wore it. Because tonight, she would play her part. Because tomorrow, Aarav would live.
The event was at the Taj ballroom. Flashing cameras, red carpets, and too many air kisses. Veer’s hand was firm on her waist as they walked in. Every eye turned to them.
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. “Smile, Meera. You’re madly in love.”
She smiled. A practiced, distant smile. One that didn’t touch her eyes.
People swarmed him. Industrialists, politicians, socialites. And he introduced her, again and again, as “my girlfriend.” The word felt foreign every time it touched his lips. Like a lie that wore diamonds.
One woman, in a sequined saree, looked her up and down and said, “She’s very… real.”
Veer replied, “That’s what I needed.”
And just like that, Meera realized what she was—a human shield. A distraction. A headline to kill another.
Later, as she stood alone by the bar, a man approached her. Tall, charming, too smooth.
“You’re the new flame, huh?” he said, offering his hand. “Karan Malhotra. Old school friend of Veer.”
She shook it. “Meera.”
“You must be special. Veer doesn’t do girlfriends. Not since… well.” He winked.
She raised an eyebrow. “Not since what?”
He leaned closer. “Not since Natasha. But maybe he’s changed.”
She was about to ask who Natasha was, but Veer appeared behind her.
“Walk away, Karan,” he said, voice calm but lethal.
Karan grinned. “Same old Veer.”
He left.
Veer turned to her. “Don’t talk to strangers.”
“He wasn’t a stranger. He was your friend.”
“He was fishing.”
“For what?”
“For cracks in my armor. Which means you.”
She took a deep breath. “You could try being less cryptic.”
He looked at her. “And you could try being more obedient.”
She wanted to slap him. Instead, she said sweetly, “Anything for my boyfriend.”
He stared for a second, then chuckled. “You’ll survive.”
Back at the penthouse, Meera stepped out of the elevator first.
“You don’t have to walk me to my room,” she said.
Veer followed anyway.
He stopped at her door. “You did well tonight.”
“High praise,” she said flatly.
He tilted his head. “Do you hate me yet?”
“I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”
“You’ll learn. I’m not a good man, Meera.”
“Then why should I trust you with my brother’s life?”
He paused.
“Because when I make a promise, I don’t break it. I may own people, but I don’t betray them.”
She opened the door.
“And you think that’s noble?” she asked.
“No. I think it’s honest.”
He walked away.
Meera stepped inside and shut the door, her back against it. Her chest rose and fell. Her heels hurt. Her heart hurt more.
In the silence, she whispered to herself—
“You can’t leave me before I do.”
What kind of man writes that clause?
And what kind of girl signs it?
Part 3
Meera woke to sunlight slanting across the marble floor, filtering through curtains too rich to belong to someone like her. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then she turned, saw the black dress crumpled in the corner, and remembered.
The fake smile, the heavy stares, the weight of Veer’s hand on her back. The price she had agreed to pay, night after night, for her brother’s second chance at life.
She got up, pulled on a robe from the wardrobe, and walked barefoot to the balcony. The city stretched beneath her like a promise it would never keep—hustling, sprawling, glittering. Somewhere in that sea of glass and dust, her brother lay asleep in a white hospital bed, unaware of what she had given up for his tomorrow.
There was a knock.
She turned, startled. A woman entered without waiting—tall, elegant, dressed in a black pantsuit.
“I’m Anaya,” the woman said, her tone clipped. “Mr. Khanna’s PR strategist. I manage his image. And now, yours.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry,” Anaya said, walking to the coffee table and placing a thick folder down. “You’re not the first girl we’ve handled.”
Meera’s brows shot up. “Meaning?”
Anaya glanced at her. “Meaning you’ve entered a narrative now. This isn’t about truth. It’s about perception.”
Meera crossed her arms. “Is this Veer’s idea?”
“Veer doesn’t care how the world sees him. But I do. And if you mess this up, you don’t just hurt his image. You risk exposure. And that could nullify the contract.”
Meera stiffened. “So you’re here to train me?”
“To guide you,” Anaya said smoothly. “Consider it girlfriend orientation.”
The folder contained photos, timelines, and backstories. Their “first meeting” was now at a book launch. Their “second date” at a charity gala. She was now a literature student from Delhi University. Veer had “discovered” her through mutual friends.
“Where’s the real version?” Meera asked coldly.
Anaya looked up. “That died the day you signed. The world doesn’t want reality. They want curated chaos.”
Before Meera could reply, the door opened again.
Veer walked in.
His eyes flicked from Meera to Anaya. “All good?”
Anaya stood straighter. “She’s cooperative.”
“Noted,” Veer said, already halfway to the bar. He poured himself black coffee.
Meera folded her arms. “So. How long do I keep pretending?”
He took a sip, watching her over the rim of the mug. “Until I say stop.”
“And what happens if I slip?”
He set the cup down, walked over, and stopped inches from her. “Then you’ll be replaced.”
Her jaw clenched. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a reality.”
She didn’t flinch. “You really do own people.”
“No,” he said. “I control situations. Don’t confuse the two.”
He turned and left the room.
Anaya sighed. “He’s not the devil, Meera. But he’s not your savior either. He’s something in between.”
“And I’m supposed to survive him?”
“You’re supposed to match him. Or at least, not crumble.”
—
That afternoon, they were photographed leaving a high-end restaurant in Bandra. Veer’s arm was draped over Meera’s shoulder like it belonged there. He smiled once—for the cameras—and whispered, “Hold my hand.”
She did.
Reporters shouted questions. “Veer! Is this serious?” “Meera, how did you two meet?” “Is this your first public relationship?”
Meera looked up at him. His face was calm. In control. As if none of this touched him.
She forced a smile and waved. That was her job now.
Inside the car, she exhaled sharply. “Do you ever get tired of pretending?”
Veer looked out the window. “Pretending is how people like us survive.”
“People like us?”
“People who’ve lost the right to be ordinary.”
She turned to him. “What did you lose?”
He said nothing. Just stared out, fingers tapping the leather seat.
That night, she checked her phone. There was a message from the hospital.
Aarav’s surgery scheduled. 10:00 AM Friday. Khanna Foundation to cover full cost.
She stared at the screen, then placed the phone to her chest. For the first time in days, she cried—not out of helplessness, but out of release.
He kept his word.
No matter how cruel, how cold—he had kept his word.
—
Two days later, she walked into the living room and froze.
There was a woman standing by the window. Blonde hair. Long legs. Wearing confidence like a second skin.
She turned slowly.
“You must be Meera,” she said.
“I am. And you are?”
“Natasha Malhotra.”
The name hit like ice water.
Veer’s ex.
Natasha smiled. “You’re prettier than I expected.”
Meera narrowed her eyes. “And you’re ruder.”
Natasha laughed. “Feisty. He always liked that.”
“Did you let yourself in?”
“I still have the code. And the memories.”
Before Meera could reply, Veer walked in.
He stopped short. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Natasha shrugged. “Came to see what’s replaced me.”
Veer stepped forward, jaw clenched. “You don’t belong here.”
“I never did,” she said, smiling. “But you? You never stopped wanting control. And now you’ve found someone to sign it over willingly.”
Meera felt the tension rise like smoke.
Veer turned to her. “Go to your room.”
“No,” Meera said quietly.
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. You trained her already.”
Veer looked like he might explode. “Leave.”
Natasha walked to the door, then paused. “She doesn’t know, does she? About the clause?”
Meera froze.
“What clause?” she asked.
Veer said nothing.
Natasha smirked. “Oh, darling. You really should read the fine print.”
She walked out.
Meera turned to Veer. “What is she talking about?”
Veer’s face was stone.
She walked up to him. “Tell me.”
He looked at her then, and something in his eyes broke. “The clause… it’s not just ‘you can’t leave before I do’.”
“Then what?”
“It means… if you try to leave early, you pay.”
“Pay what?”
Veer hesitated. Then: “Everything. The medical cost. The PR penalties. The damages. Legally. Personally.”
Meera felt the blood drain from her face.
“You trapped me.”
“I gave you a choice,” he said quietly. “You signed it.”
“You didn’t explain.”
“I didn’t lie either.”
She stepped back. “I trusted you.”
“That was your first mistake.”
She slapped him.
Hard.
He didn’t move.
Just looked at her with those dark, haunted eyes.
“You said you weren’t a good man,” she whispered. “You were right.”
She turned and walked away, the sound of her own breath louder than anything else.
And this time, Veer didn’t stop her.
But she knew.
She couldn’t leave.
Not yet.
Not until he did.
Part 4
The slap still echoed in Meera’s mind long after she locked her door.
She didn’t regret it. She only regretted how much it hurt her—not her hand, but her chest. Her own heart had betrayed her, aching even as she lashed out at the man who had turned her life into a legal performance.
She sat on the bed, eyes stinging. She thought about tearing the contract. About leaving. But she remembered the clause.
If she walked now, everything fell apart. Her brother’s surgery would be halted. The money would be clawed back. The media scandal, if the truth came out, could destroy not just Veer but her family’s name too. He hadn’t lied—he had calculated.
She stared at the marble floor until it blurred. The city lights outside kept dancing like nothing had happened.
The next morning, Meera didn’t emerge for breakfast. She skipped lunch too. No one knocked. No one asked.
By evening, she forced herself into the shower. She needed to stop sulking. She needed to survive.
When she came out, a note lay on her dressing table.
8 PM. Khanna Estate. Dress formal. Don’t make me come get you. —V
She considered tearing it. Instead, she chose the most modest gown from the wardrobe—a navy silk piece with a high neck and long sleeves. Her rebellion would be subtle, silent.
At 7:45, the elevator dinged.
Veer was waiting.
He didn’t say anything as she stepped in. Neither did she. The air between them was electric—but not with romance. With resentment.
The car drove them through south Mumbai until they reached a gated colonial-era mansion.
“Whose house is this?” Meera asked.
“Mine,” Veer replied.
Of course.
Inside, it was a mix of old money and modern taste—mahogany meets minimalist art. Waitstaff moved around quietly. Chandeliers glowed like captured fire.
Guests were already there. Politicians, film producers, royalty. Meera felt their eyes on her, measuring her worth.
“Smile,” Veer said under his breath. “Be charming.”
She looped her hand around his arm. “Don’t worry. I’m good at pretending.”
His jaw flexed. But he said nothing.
Midway through the evening, Meera spotted Natasha. Dressed in red this time, sipping champagne like it was blood.
Their eyes met. Natasha raised her glass and mouthed, Still here?
Meera turned away.
Veer led her to the piano in the corner. “You play?”
“Not for an audience,” she replied.
“Tonight, you do.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
“Because the board needs to see you’re more than a pretty distraction. They respect culture.”
“You want me to perform like a circus animal?”
“I want you to stop being a liability.”
The words burned.
Still, she sat at the piano. Her fingers hovered over the keys. She hadn’t played since college. Her mother had loved Chopin. Her father had hated the sound.
She began to play. Soft, melancholic notes. A melody that didn’t ask for applause. Just a quiet space to mourn in.
When she finished, the room was still. Then came the claps.
Veer didn’t smile, but he looked at her differently. Not with control. With something closer to—wonder?
Natasha came over, clapping slowly. “Impressive. I almost believed you belonged.”
Meera turned to her. “I’m not trying to belong. I’m surviving.”
Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “Just be careful, darling. You might survive him—but you won’t survive falling for him.”
Later, in the car, the silence was different.
Not tense. Not hostile. Just full of things unsaid.
Meera finally spoke. “Why her?”
Veer didn’t look at her. “That’s none of your concern.”
“She made it mine.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, “Natasha was once where you are.”
Meera blinked. “Fake girlfriend?”
“No. Real. For a while.”
“And?”
“She tried to destroy me. Publicly. Legally.”
Meera frowned. “Why?”
He turned to her, finally. “Because I didn’t give her what she wanted.”
“And what was that?”
“My soul.”
Meera exhaled. “You think everyone wants to own you. That’s why you try to own them first.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I told you I’m not a good man.”
She leaned back. “Maybe not. But you’re not soulless either.”
He looked at her, surprised.
“You played Chopin,” she added. “A monster wouldn’t ask for Chopin.”
Back at the penthouse, she walked straight to her room. But just before she closed the door, Veer spoke.
“You were brilliant tonight.”
She paused. “So was I obedient enough?”
He stepped closer, voice low. “No. But you were… real. That matters more.”
She opened the door without replying.
“Meera,” he said again.
She turned slightly.
“You can hate me all you want. Just don’t underestimate me.”
She nodded. “Right back at you.”
And shut the door.
But for the first time, the sound didn’t feel like an ending.
Part 5
It rained the next morning.
Mumbai rain wasn’t gentle. It came in vertical sheets, washing over glass towers and tin roofs alike. Meera stood by the balcony, watching the grey sky, her coffee untouched. Veer had left early. No note. No message.
The house was silent, except for the rhythmic tapping of rain and the distant hum of housekeeping. But inside her, noise simmered.
A storm of questions.
Was Natasha telling the truth?
What other clauses had she signed away?
And why was it getting harder to separate fake from real?
She turned away from the balcony and reached for her phone. Aarav’s nurse had messaged once in the night—Vitals stable. No complications. He’s asking for you.
Meera’s eyes stung.
She hadn’t visited in days.
Veer had insisted the media would sniff something if she slipped away too often. But today, she didn’t care.
She got dressed in simple jeans and a kurta, tied her hair up, and left without permission.
The hospital was a different world.
Sterile, cold, and oddly comforting. In this place, Meera was still just a sister, not a contract-bound puppet in a billionaire’s play.
Aarav lit up when he saw her. “Didi!”
She smiled and sat beside him. “How are you feeling?”
“Better! I even ate the terrible hospital dal today.”
She laughed, brushed his hair back. “That’s how you know you’re healing.”
They talked about cartoons, school, how he hated the nurse with the green glasses. But when he asked if she was okay, she lied.
“I’m good. Everything’s… working out.”
Aarav blinked slowly. “That man—Mr. Khanna—he’s helping, right?”
Meera hesitated. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll thank him when I see him.”
She swallowed. “Maybe just thank the doctors.”
Aarav smiled and dozed off mid-sentence. Meera watched him breathe, chest rising and falling, soft and even. She kissed his forehead and stepped out.
She needed air.
But as she turned the corridor, her heart froze.
Veer was standing by the vending machine, arms crossed, watching her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I could ask you the same.”
“I don’t need permission to see my brother.”
“No, but you need sense. There are two journalists camped outside.”
She stiffened. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I always know.”
“That’s not protective. That’s obsessive.”
Veer walked forward, slowly. “You went off script, Meera.”
“I’m not your product!”
“You’re my responsibility.”
She glared at him. “That’s not the same thing.”
He paused, then said quietly, “I’ve arranged for Aarav’s post-op care to continue at a private facility. One with no press access.”
She blinked. “You didn’t tell me.”
“You were angry.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to know!”
He stepped closer. “You signed the contract, Meera. You gave me control.”
She stepped back. “Then maybe it’s time I took some of it back.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
She didn’t answer. Just walked past him and left the hospital.
Back at the penthouse, Meera went straight to her room. She pulled the contract from the bottom drawer of her wardrobe, spread it on the table, and began to read—really read.
There it was again.
Clause 12(b): In the event of premature termination initiated by the secondary party, full reimbursement of all expenses and reputational damages shall be claimed by the primary party.
Expenses: That meant the hospital bills, the clothes, the travel.
Reputational damages? How did you even calculate that?
Meera felt sick.
She had walked into a trap. Elegant, legal, and nearly impossible to escape.
Unless…
Her eyes flicked to the bottom.
Addendum: Any amendment to this agreement must be co-signed by both parties and notarized in presence of legal counsel.
Her breath caught.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
That evening, Veer came home late. His shirt was slightly rumpled, his face drawn. For the first time, he looked tired.
He poured himself whiskey, sat in the living room, and stared into nothingness.
Meera stepped out, barefoot, holding the contract.
“Talk,” she said.
He didn’t look at her. “Now?”
“Yes. Or I walk.”
“You can’t.”
She threw the contract on the coffee table. “Maybe I can’t afford to. But I can ruin the narrative. You wouldn’t risk that.”
His jaw tightened.
“I want a clause added,” she said. “After six months, I get full immunity. No fines. No debts. No damage claims.”
“And what do I get?”
She hesitated. “More than what you have now.”
He looked up.
“You’ll get honesty,” she said. “And maybe… someone who doesn’t fear you.”
He studied her.
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m bargaining,” she replied.
He set the glass down.
“Tomorrow. 11 AM. My lawyer will be here. You’ll get your clause.”
Meera didn’t smile. She just nodded.
“And one more thing,” Veer added. “Don’t ever use your brother as a shield again. That makes you like me.”
She stared at him. “Maybe I am like you. But I didn’t start out that way.”
She walked back to her room.
Veer sat alone, the silence crawling back in.
That night, sleep didn’t come easily.
Meera lay awake, thinking.
About Aarav’s smile.
About Natasha’s warning.
About Veer’s loneliness, hiding behind threats and signatures.
And about herself.
What was she becoming?
The girl who once believed in love now read legal fine print to measure safety.
She touched the contract one last time before turning off the light.
One more clause.
One more chance.
One more day in a life that wasn’t hers—but maybe, just maybe, could still be.
Part 6
The lawyer arrived in a crisp grey suit, briefcase in hand, and an expression that said he was used to cleaning up emotional messes with legal language. Veer didn’t speak much. He simply gestured for Meera to sit across the long glass dining table, her hands resting beside the now-familiar contract. The air between them was thick—more courtroom than living room.
Mr. Sahni, the lawyer, opened the folder and cleared his throat. “We’ve added the immunity clause. After six months, all liabilities transfer to Mr. Khanna. You’re free, with no financial or legal burdens. Provided you maintain discretion.”
Meera read the new paragraph carefully. Her eyes traced each word like they could bite.
“I need a copy,” she said.
“Of course,” Sahni replied, producing two. “Sign here and here.”
She picked up the pen, hesitated, then signed.
Veer didn’t watch her. He was on his phone, fingers tapping, his expression unreadable.
As the lawyer left, Meera stood. “Thank you.”
Veer finally looked up. “You could’ve walked away with nothing.”
“But I didn’t,” she replied. “Because I don’t trust you yet.”
His mouth twitched. “Smart.”
She turned to leave.
“Meera,” he said, quietly. “You’re getting better at this.”
“At what?”
“The game.”
She paused. “I’m not playing.”
He tilted his head. “That’s the best strategy of all.”
Later that evening, the clouds rolled in again. Meera sat curled up on the massive couch with a book she wasn’t really reading. Rain smudged the skyline outside. The city looked like it was being erased.
Veer walked in, his presence making the air heavier.
“You hungry?” he asked.
She blinked. “That’s the first time you’ve asked me that.”
“I’m evolving.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Into a human?”
He almost smiled. “There’s Thai food in the kitchen.”
They sat at the long dining table in awkward silence, the only sound being the gentle tapping of forks against porcelain. Somewhere between the green curry and the jasmine rice, Meera asked the question she’d been holding in her chest.
“Why did you put that clause in the contract?”
He didn’t look up. “Because people always leave. I just wanted to leave first.”
She set her fork down. “That’s not a reason. That’s a wound.”
Veer’s fingers paused. “Isn’t everything?”
Meera leaned forward. “Was it Natasha? Did she break something in you?”
He finally looked up, his eyes darker than usual. “She broke someone in me. Not everything. Just the part that used to hope.”
There was a pause.
“What happened?”
Veer exhaled slowly. “I fell in love with her when I was twenty-three. She was fire. Reckless. She made me believe I could be more than numbers and boardrooms. But when my father died, I had to step in—run the company, manage scandals. She wanted out.”
“Why?”
“She hated control. And I was becoming it.”
He stood and walked to the window, the stormlight slicing across his face. “She left. But not before leaking boardroom audio to the press. Made it look like I manipulated shareholders after my father’s death.”
Meera’s breath caught. “Did you?”
He turned. “I did. But she sold it for attention. For revenge. I barely kept my position.”
“And yet you still let her into your house?”
He gave a hollow laugh. “Letting her in is easier than pretending she never existed.”
Meera walked to him. “You can’t keep inviting your ghosts.”
“They never leave,” he whispered. “They just learn new addresses.”
Their eyes locked, and for the first time, she didn’t see the coldness in his gaze. She saw a boy—terrified, trying to hide it behind power and polish.
She reached out and touched his wrist.
He didn’t move.
“I’m not her, Veer,” she said softly. “But I’m also not yours.”
He looked at her. “I know.”
And just like that, the walls between them cracked a little.
The next morning, Meera woke early and headed to the hospital. Aarav was scheduled for tests. As she waited in the lounge, sipping vending machine coffee, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Be careful. Not everything in Veer’s world is what it seems.
She frowned. No name. No context.
A second message followed.
He didn’t save your brother out of kindness. He owes a debt. You’re part of the repayment.
Meera’s stomach dropped.
She tried calling back. The line was disconnected.
Her mind raced. Who would send that? Natasha? Someone from Veer’s company? And what debt?
She reached the hospital records desk and asked, “Who authorized the funding for Aarav’s surgery?”
The nurse checked. “Khanna Foundation, yes. But the original referral came from someone named Devika Thakur.”
Meera blinked. “Who is that?”
“She listed herself as a family friend.”
Meera’s heart thudded.
She didn’t know any Devika Thakur.
She walked out of the hospital, her thoughts a storm. That name. That message. That hidden layer of truth Veer never mentioned.
Back at the penthouse, she waited for him.
He arrived at dusk, tie loosened, eyes tired.
“Who is Devika Thakur?” she asked.
He stopped mid-step.
“She’s… no one,” he said too quickly.
“Try again.”
He sighed. “She’s my mother’s friend. She ran a children’s foundation years ago. She helped fund a project I was involved in.”
“And?”
“And she came to me. Told me about your brother. Asked for a favor.”
“So you didn’t choose me?”
He looked away.
“You chose to repay a favor.”
Meera’s voice broke. “So all this—all of it—is debt?”
He stepped forward. “No. It started that way. But you—”
She shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t rewrite the story now.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You didn’t tell me. That’s worse.”
She turned, walked to her room, and slammed the door shut.
Inside, she sank to the floor.
She had given up her name, her body, her trust. And all of it was based on a transaction she hadn’t even known existed.
She whispered into the quiet—
“Who am I to him, really?”
And outside, Veer stood by her door, but didn’t knock.
Because he didn’t know either.
Part 7
Meera didn’t pack. She didn’t yell. She didn’t even write a note.
She just left.
At 6:00 a.m., she walked out of Veer Khanna’s penthouse in the same clothes she had worn the night before, took the elevator down forty-one floors, and hailed an auto outside the gates. The driver gave her a strange look—like she didn’t belong in this part of Mumbai. And maybe she didn’t. Not anymore.
By 7:00 a.m., she was at a small rented room near Bandra Station—modest, quiet, paid for in cash. She turned off her phone, shut the windows, and sat on the edge of the bed in complete silence.
Her chest ached—not with heartbreak, but with something heavier.
Disillusionment.
He hadn’t chosen her. He’d been given her. Like a task. A repayment. A favor owed. The love story she never believed in had never even started.
For a brief moment, she had thought maybe—just maybe—beneath Veer’s jagged edges was someone reaching out to her.
But now she knew. There was no reaching out. Only strategy.
And the contract? That wasn’t security. It was a leash.
By the afternoon, the texts started.
Veer Khanna: Come back. We need to talk.
Veer Khanna: You’re not thinking clearly.
Veer Khanna: I can fix this.
Then came the calls—from him, from Anaya, even from Mr. Sahni.
She ignored them all.
But what truly terrified her was that her heart wanted to pick up.
That somewhere in the wreckage, some foolish part of her still hoped he would show up. Not as the man who wrote contracts, but as the man who’d stood by the window that rainy night and whispered about ghosts.
The knock came at midnight.
Meera didn’t open the door. But she didn’t move away either.
“Meera,” Veer said through the wood, voice low, urgent. “I’m not here to control you. I’m not even here to convince you. I’m just… here.”
She stayed silent.
“I should’ve told you,” he continued. “About Devika. About the favor. About how this started.”
Meera closed her eyes.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said. “Because somewhere along the way… it stopped being a transaction.”
She opened the door slowly.
He stood there in a hoodie and jeans, damp from the drizzle, hair uncombed for once. No suit. No staff. No performance.
“You lied by omission,” she said.
“I did,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry.”
She stepped aside.
He entered, looked around the sparse room, and sat at the small table.
Meera sat across from him. “You don’t like small spaces.”
He gave a ghost of a smile. “I don’t like empty ones.”
Silence.
Then, she asked, “Why me?”
His answer was quiet. “Because you didn’t need me. And that terrified me.”
She looked at him, confused.
“Everyone in my life wanted something—power, access, money. But you? You bargained only for your brother. You kept your identity intact. Even after I tried to rewrite it.”
Meera swallowed. “And yet, you hid things from me.”
“I thought if I gave you the truth, you’d leave.”
“I left anyway.”
Veer looked down at his hands. “I’ve never… chased anyone before.”
She looked away. “Don’t start now.”
“I’m not chasing,” he said. “I’m just asking for one thing.”
“What?”
“Time.”
She raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“To earn a version of you that isn’t contractual.”
Meera stood. “It doesn’t work like that, Veer. You don’t just earn people. You meet them. As equals.”
He nodded slowly. “Then let me meet you. From the beginning.”
The next few days passed like strange echoes of a life neither of them had planned.
Veer didn’t drag her back to the penthouse. He didn’t send gifts or threats.
Instead, he started texting her—real things.
Veer Khanna: Just had the worst espresso of my life. Reminded me of your attempt to make coffee last week.
Veer Khanna: There’s a bookstore near your street. Has a poetry section. You might like it.
He never demanded replies. He just… reached out.
And slowly, Meera started replying.
Meera: At least I try making coffee. You microwave yours.
Meera: Found the store. Bought Neruda. I don’t forgive you yet.
Veer: I’m not asking you to.
One week after the night she walked out, they met at Marine Drive.
Not as a couple. Not as client and contract.
Just two people sitting by the sea, watching waves blur city lights.
Veer handed her a single folded paper.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Termination clause. Immediate. No penalties. No conditions.”
She unfolded it. The contract. Signed by him.
“You’re free,” he said.
She stared at him.
“I don’t want to own you, Meera,” he said. “I want to be chosen.”
Her voice trembled. “You think this fixes everything?”
“No. But it unfixes what was broken.”
Meera held the paper in her lap.
“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to. Just… don’t lie to yourself about what this is.”
“And what is it?”
“A story,” he said, “that started with a contract and maybe—just maybe—could end with something real.”
She didn’t reply.
But when he stood up and walked away, she didn’t stop him.
Not because she wanted him gone.
But because now, she wanted to follow.
On her own terms.
Part 8
A month passed.
No contracts. No penthouse. No games.
Just a quiet truce.
Meera moved into a rented apartment near Cuffe Parade—a one-bedroom with peeling paint and an ocean view that surprised her every morning. She went back to freelance writing. Small assignments. Nothing fancy. Just enough to feel like herself again.
Veer didn’t push.
Instead, he did the unthinkable: he waited.
Sometimes, they met for lunch. Sometimes, she ignored his texts. Sometimes, they fought—over old wounds, over new misunderstandings. But everything was different now. Cleaner. No stakes beyond choice.
And that made it terrifying.
Because this time, she wasn’t forced to stay.
She wanted to.
One Sunday afternoon, Veer showed up at her doorstep with two cups of filter coffee and a file.
“I swear to god,” Meera said as she opened the door, “if that’s another contract—”
“It’s not,” he said quickly. “It’s just something I want you to see.”
She let him in, curious despite herself.
They sat by the window on the floor. He handed her the file.
Inside were scanned copies of old letters. Handwritten. Faded ink.
“They’re from Devika Thakur,” he said. “To my father. She used to run a foundation for abandoned kids. One of the girls was sick. Liver disease. No donor. She wrote to my father asking for help.”
Meera flipped through the pages, eyes scanning Devika’s precise cursive.
“My father refused,” Veer said, voice distant. “Said there was no ROI.”
Meera looked up.
“So you stepped in?” she asked.
“I was nineteen. I siphoned funds from one of our dormant company accounts. Quietly. Got the girl into a Singapore hospital. Paid off everything before anyone noticed.”
He smiled faintly. “That girl lived. She’s twenty-six now. A teacher in Nashik.”
Meera stared at him.
“I never told anyone,” he said. “Not even Devika knew it was me until years later. When I took over the company, she came to me and said—‘If you ever owe me anything, remember this: help without questions. Like you once did.’”
Meera closed the file slowly.
“So when she told you about Aarav…”
“I didn’t hesitate.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I needed you to know,” Veer added. “Not because I want to be forgiven. But because I don’t want to be misunderstood.”
Meera nodded. “You’re not the villain I made you out to be.”
He smiled. “Don’t be so sure. I’m still a control freak with a superiority complex.”
She laughed. “That you are.”
He leaned closer. “But I’m also someone who’d do anything to see you smile.”
Her face softened. “Even drink badly made coffee?”
“I already am,” he said, grimacing. “You still brew like a poet.”
Later that week, Meera got a message from Natasha.
Meet me. One hour. Café Jazzmint. Don’t bring him.
Meera debated ignoring it. But curiosity won.
When she arrived, Natasha was already seated, legs crossed, red nails wrapped around a wine glass.
“You look healthier,” she said, eyeing Meera.
“And you look exactly the same,” Meera replied.
“Consistent. It’s a skill.”
Meera sat. “Why did you call me?”
Natasha leaned forward. “You’re smart. You deserve the full picture.”
Meera’s brows furrowed. “What picture?”
“You think Veer’s changed. That he’s learned honesty.” She smirked. “But power doesn’t dissolve—it rebrands.”
Meera’s pulse quickened. “Say what you want to say.”
Natasha slid a USB stick across the table.
“That contains boardroom footage from last week. Veer made a deal with Shiv Jha—media mogul. The same man who ran a smear campaign on your NGO years ago.”
Meera’s throat dried. “That can’t be true.”
“Check it. Or don’t. But if you think love cures capitalism, sweetheart—you’re in the wrong story.”
Back home, Meera sat frozen.
Her hands trembled as she inserted the USB into her laptop.
Footage loaded.
A sleek boardroom. Veer at the head of the table. Shiv Jha beside him.
Veer’s voice: “We need the media on our side. My personal life isn’t the story—I want control of the narrative.”
Shiv: “And what about Meera Sen?”
Veer: “Leave her out of it. She’s not leverage.”
Shiv: “Then she’s a liability.”
Veer: “She’s mine to handle.”
Silence.
Then: “We have a contract. She won’t speak.”
Meera shut the laptop.
Everything inside her stilled.
He hadn’t sold her out. But he hadn’t protected her either.
He had used her name in the same breath as risk and narrative and control.
And worst of all—he had said “mine to handle.”
She called him.
He picked up instantly. “Meera—”
“We need to talk.”
They met at the sea face, under the grey sky that had once washed them clean.
She handed him the USB.
He didn’t flinch.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” he said. “I was trying to manage it before it reached you.”
“That’s the problem,” she said. “You still think everything needs managing.”
“I said you’re not leverage—”
“But I was still in the room,” she cut in. “A name on the spreadsheet. A liability. A thing.”
Veer looked away. “Old habits don’t die. But I’m trying.”
“You told him I wouldn’t speak because of a contract.”
“I said it because I knew you wouldn’t want this fight.”
“And yet here we are.”
He stepped closer. “Meera, I’ve spent years playing defense. Trying to stop fires before they start. I didn’t know how to be soft. Or open. Or human. Until you.”
She exhaled shakily. “Then act like it. Don’t shield me. Stand beside me.”
He nodded. “I’m not asking for blind trust.”
She looked at him, eyes searching. “Good. Because I don’t have it.”
“But,” she added quietly, “I do have… something else.”
“What?”
She offered a small smile. “A beginning.”
He smiled back. Not with victory. But with relief.
Later that night, she sent an email to Shiv Jha’s office.
One line: “I am not a liability. And I will not be spoken about as one.”
The next day, she received an apology letter—and a speaking offer at a women’s media conference.
She accepted both.
The contract was long gone.
But something deeper now bound them—choice, anger, forgiveness, and the slow stitching of scar to skin.
Love, perhaps.
Not in declarations, but in decisions.
And this time, Meera wasn’t the girlfriend in the contract.
She was the woman rewriting the terms.
Part 9
It was raining again.
Not the gentle drizzle that swept Marine Drive in silver, but a sharp, sideways downpour that soaked through umbrellas and flooded the city’s pores. Meera stood by her window, the fogged glass blurring the neon chaos outside. It was oddly fitting—this weather. Restless. Waiting. Like the pause before thunder.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You should know who really sent Devika to you. It wasn’t coincidence. And Veer isn’t the only one with secrets.
She stared at the message, heart still.
Then another.
There’s something in Veer’s past that can ruin you both. Check the Mhatre file. 2013. Khanna & Associates.
The number disappeared. Blocked. Gone.
Meera sat slowly, her breath uneven.
She had promised herself she was done with secrets. But the past, it seemed, had other plans.
The next morning, Veer was at her doorstep.
Not with flowers. Not with coffee. But with a manila folder in his hand, slightly creased.
“I thought you’d come anyway,” he said, quietly. “But just in case you didn’t—I brought it.”
“The Mhatre file,” she said.
He nodded.
She opened the folder.
Inside were reports, a transcript of internal emails, and one grainy photograph of a construction site—charred, blackened, broken.
“Mhatre Group was a housing project we were funding in 2013,” he began. “They were cutting corners. Unsafe foundations. We pulled out just in time—but it was too late.”
Meera flipped the page. A newspaper clipping.
Four dead in Virar building collapse. One survivor: a 9-year-old girl.
“I didn’t know at the time,” Veer said, voice hollow. “That the structural report had been doctored. My father had covered it up, pushed it through to hit quarterly targets.”
Meera’s eyes widened. “And you…?”
“I found out a week later. When the building fell.”
She looked up. “What did you do?”
“I went public.”
She blinked.
“I leaked the documents anonymously. The company took a hit. My father nearly disowned me. I lost board access for six months. But I couldn’t live with it.”
He paused. “The girl who survived—her name was Aarti.”
Meera frowned.
“She was taken in by Devika’s foundation.”
Her breath caught. “That’s the same girl—”
“Yes. The one I later helped with the liver transplant.”
Meera sat back, the pieces falling together like a slow avalanche.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“Because every time I’ve been honest, people have weaponized it. Even Devika used that incident to steer me toward you.”
Meera blinked. “You think she manipulated this?”
“She nudged. She always does. But I don’t regret it.”
He stepped closer. “If that file changes how you see me, I won’t blame you.”
She stared at the folder, then at him.
“You were trying to protect a stranger,” she said. “That doesn’t make you weak, Veer. It makes you… unbearably human.”
He let out a breath.
She touched his wrist gently. “But next time—don’t wait for ghosts to knock before handing me the truth.”
He nodded. “Deal.”
A week later, Meera stood backstage at the Women in Media Conference, palms sweaty, heart rattling in her chest. She had prepared a five-minute speech. Nothing fancy. But now, under the lights and buzz of cameras, it felt both too much and too little.
When they called her name, she stepped onto the stage.
The hall fell quiet.
She began slowly.
“I used to think stories needed perfect endings. That people were either villains or heroes. That love either saved you or destroyed you. But the truth is—sometimes, love begins where the contract ends.”
A few heads turned. A few pens froze.
“I was someone’s girlfriend because a piece of paper said so. But I stayed because I chose to. And leaving taught me this: power isn’t about who signs the papers. It’s about who walks away with their soul intact.”
The room burst into quiet applause.
Backstage, Veer stood just behind the curtain. He hadn’t told her he’d come.
When she saw him, her smile was small, but real.
“You looked proud,” she teased.
“I was terrified,” he replied.
They walked out together into the Mumbai night, the rain softened now, just a whisper on the pavement.
Two days later, a news article went viral.
Anonymous Source Alleges Shiv Jha Funded Political Laundering Scheme through Khanna & Associates.
Veer was on every TV screen.
Meera stared at the headline, pulse racing.
By afternoon, three news channels had parked outside Veer’s office. By evening, his board was demanding answers.
When he returned home that night, he looked exhausted.
“It wasn’t me,” he said before she even asked. “But it was my father. Years ago.”
“Will they blame you?”
“They already are.”
She sat beside him.
“This is the reckoning,” he whispered.
“Then let’s reckon,” she said softly.
He looked at her, something fragile in his expression. “You’re staying?”
She nodded. “You gave me the choice. I’m using it.”
He leaned forward, kissed her forehead.
And in that quiet moment, amidst the noise of headlines and half-truths, they found something unshakable.
Not rescue.
Not revenge.
But redemption.
Part 10
The office was silent in a way Meera had never experienced before. Not quiet—silent. As if the very walls were holding their breath.
Veer sat at the head of the long table, his board members lined up like judges. The air was thick with tension. Shiv Jha’s scandal had cracked something deeper—old deals, buried loyalties, unspoken alliances. Veer wasn’t just fighting for his image. He was fighting for the company.
“I did not know about the payments,” he said, voice calm but resolute. “They were routed through a legacy shell firm created during my father’s tenure. I found out two nights ago.”
A rustle of papers. Raised brows. A question fired:
“And why didn’t you report it immediately, Mr. Khanna?”
“I was verifying the evidence. I’m not in the business of throwing shadows without proof.”
A pause.
Then another voice—softer. “Do you expect us to believe that your personal ties to the whistleblower aren’t influencing your decisions?”
Meera.
That was the subtext in the room. The unspoken bullet.
Veer stood. “Meera Sen is not the whistleblower. But even if she was, I’d still say the same thing: the truth matters more than damage control.”
He walked out before they could reply.
Outside the boardroom, his assistant handed him a note.
One line, in Meera’s handwriting:
“You don’t have to choose between truth and love. Just don’t lie to either.”
When he arrived at Meera’s apartment, she was pacing near the window, her face unreadable.
“They’ll push me out,” he said.
She turned. “Then let them.”
He blinked.
“Veer, you’ve spent your whole life fighting to sit at their table,” she said, stepping closer. “But maybe it’s time to build your own.”
He stared at her.
“There’s a journalist who wants to interview you,” she continued. “Not about the scandal. About your story. Your choices.”
He frowned. “Control the narrative?”
“No,” she said. “Tell the truth. On your terms.”
The interview aired two days later.
A stark set. One man, one chair, one voice.
Veer Khanna looked directly into the camera.
“My name is on a company that was built on both brilliance and shadows. I can’t change the past. But I can be transparent about the present.”
He didn’t dodge. He didn’t sugarcoat.
He admitted what he knew. What he didn’t. Where he failed. Where he tried to undo the damage.
And finally—he spoke about Meera.
“She walked into my life as a line item on a contract. She became the woman who tore up the page and taught me that power without integrity is just noise.”
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t theatrical.
It was raw.
And it spread like wildfire.
Three weeks later, Veer was removed from the chairman position—but not disgraced. His honesty, rare in the world of scripted press releases and polished deception, earned him something unexpected: public respect.
And opportunity.
A venture capital firm reached out.
“Start your own house,” they said. “Run it your way.”
He didn’t say yes immediately.
He went to Meera first.
She was writing again—an essay on systemic corruption in philanthropy. Her laptop was open, her tea cold.
“I got an offer,” he said.
She didn’t look up. “Good.”
“They want me to lead a new company. From scratch.”
Now she looked up.
“So?” she asked.
“I want you to be my first advisor.”
Meera smiled. “You don’t need my advice.”
“I need your honesty.”
She stood, walked over, and held his face in her hands.
“No contracts,” she said. “No deals. Just us.”
He nodded. “And if we break?”
She shrugged. “We begin again.”
Months passed.
They moved in together—not in a penthouse, but a quiet duplex in Worli. Nothing extravagant. Just enough windows, just enough quiet.
Aarav’s health improved. The doctors called it “encouraging.”
Meera’s essays got picked up by independent outlets. She began speaking at panels.
Veer built his company from the ground up—with clean audits, open books, and a small team that believed in second chances.
They fought. They forgave.
They learned to tell the truth faster.
They laughed more than they used to.
And the word contract never came up again.
One monsoon morning, as they watched the waves hit the rocks below their balcony, Veer slipped a plain silver ring into Meera’s palm.
“No papers,” he said.
She looked at him, startled.
“No promises of forever,” he added. “Just one: if we ever need to walk away, we’ll tell the truth before we shut the door.”
Meera closed her fingers around the ring.
“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said,” she whispered.
He smiled. “You’re the most unpredictable chapter in my story.”
She slipped the ring onto her finger.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
She felt like she wasn’t just being written into someone’s story.
She was writing her own.
THE END
