Dhruv's POV
The restaurant smelled of old money—truffles, aged wine, and hushed conversations that decided the fate of millions.
It was a scent I knew well. It was the scent of my battlefield.
I guided Katha toward the private table near the window, my hand resting firmly on the small of her back. To the onlookers, it looked like a gesture of affection from a protective husband. But I knew the truth.
It was a steering wheel. I was guiding a prop, hoping it wouldn't break before the show ended.
Waiting for us were three men. The key investors. The Sharks.
Mr. Singhal, the lead investor, stood up. He was a man in his sixties with eyes like a hawk and a smile that didn't reach them. He was the one I needed to convince. If he smelled weakness, the deal was dead.
"Dhruv!" Singhal boomed, his voice carrying over the soft jazz music. "And this must be the mystery bride."
I pulled out a chair for Katha, my jaw tight. "Gentlemen, my wife. Katha Rathore."
I watched her sit. She smoothed the heavy silk of her saree, her movements graceful but stiff. I could see the pulse jumping frantically in her throat. She was terrified.
Don't mess this up, Katha, I pleaded silently. Just sit there. Look pretty. Don't speak.
"Namaste," she whispered softly, bowing her head.
Good. Submissive. Traditional. Exactly what these old-fashioned men wanted to see.
The lunch began.
For the first twenty minutes, Katha was invisible. Singhal and I spoke of mergers, stocks, and acquisition costs. I was in my element—sharp, ruthless, commanding. I felt the adrenaline of the deal coursing through my veins.
But I knew the interrogation was coming. Singhal hadn't come here just to eat risotto. He had come to sniff out a scandal.
"So, Mrs. Rathore," Mr. Singhal suddenly turned his hawk eyes on her. The clinking of cutlery stopped.
I stiffened. Under the table, my hand clamped onto her knee. I squeezed it hard.
A warning. Be careful.
"We were all quite... shocked," Singhal said, swirling his wine glass, watching the red liquid coat the sides. "Dhruv has always been married to his work. We never even knew he was seeing anyone. And then suddenly—a wedding?"
He leaned forward, a cynical smirk playing on his lips.
"It makes one wonder... was it a shotgun wedding? Or perhaps a sudden merger of convenient families?"
The table went silent.
Rage flared in my chest. The insult was veiled, but sharp. He was questioning the legitimacy of my marriage. He was implying I was unstable, impulsive.
My jaw clenched. I opened my mouth to shut him down, to offer some cold, corporate lie that would put him in his place.
"It wasn't sudden for us, Mr. Singhal."
The voice was soft, melodic, and steady.
I froze.
I turned my head slowly to look at Katha.
She had raised her head. She wasn't looking at the table. She wasn't looking at me for help. She was looking directly at Mr. Singhal, her eyes clear and shining with a fabricated warmth .
"It only seemed sudden to the world," she lied, her voice gaining a confidence I didn't know she possessed. "But for us... it was a long time coming."
Singhal raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is that so? Do tell. How did the great Shark fall in love? I can't imagine Dhruv writing poetry."
The other investors chuckled.
My grip on her knee tightened painfully. Stop, I panicked internally. What are you doing? You're going to ruin it.
Katha smiled. A small, shy, secret smile. She turned her gaze to me.
She looked deep into my eyes. And for a second, I felt exposed.
"He didn't write poetry," she said softly. "He saved me."
I stopped breathing.
"We met... on a rainy night," she began, weaving a story out of thin air. "I was going through a very difficult time. I felt like I was falling. Like I had no one in the world to hold me."
She paused, her fingers absentmindedly touching the gold necklace at her throat—the cheap chain I had bought her that morning.
"I was standing in the rain, lost. And then... he stopped."
She looked back at the investors, holding their attention like a seasoned storyteller.
"Most people see Dhruv Rathore as a businessman who cares only about profit," she said gently. "But that night... he didn't ask who I was. He didn't ask what I could give him. He just... held me."
She looked back at me. Her eyes were wet.
And the terrifying thing was... she wasn't lying. I had held her. On the road. On the terrace.
"He is the kind of man," she whispered, "who catches you when the rest of the world pushes you down. He didn't just offer me his hand, Mr. Singhal. He gave me a home."
She reached out and covered my hand—the one resting on the table—with her own. Her palm was warm.
"How could I not marry my Prince?"
Silence.
Absolute, pin-drop silence.
I stared at her. My heart slammed against my ribcage like a sledgehammer.
What the hell?
It was a lie. A complete fabrication. I hadn't saved her; I had bought her. I hadn't given her a home; I had given her a contract.
But the way she said it... with such raw emotion, with tears glistening in her eyes... it sounded like the purest truth I had ever heard. She had taken my cruelty—the rain, the saving—and painted it gold.
Mr. Singhal stared at her for a long moment. Then, his face softened. The cynicism vanished.
"Well," Singhal let out a breath, looking at me with new respect. "I must say, Dhruv. I underestimated you. You found a diamond."
He raised his glass. "To the happy couple. To love that saves."
"To love," the others chorused.
I was slow to raise my glass. I couldn't take my eyes off Katha.
She wasn't looking at me anymore. She had lowered her gaze, sipping her water, her hand trembling slightly.
She isn't clumsy, I realized, a strange, hot sensation curling in my gut. She isn't weak.
She is a dangerous liar. Just like me.
Outside the Restaurant
The meeting ended in triumph. The deal was secure. The investors were charmed.
As we waited for the car, I stood next to Katha. The tension between us had shifted. It was no longer the tension of a master and a servant. It was the tension of two accomplices who had just pulled off a heist .
I turned to her. I had to know.
"Where did you come up with that?" I asked, my voice low.
Katha didn't look at me. She watched the Mumbai traffic. "You paid for a wife, Sir. I was just earning my salary."
I flinched. The words were a direct hit.
"It was a good story," I admitted grudgingly. "The Prince part was a bit much, though."
Katha finally turned to me. Her eyes were dry and hollow again. The actress was gone. The broken girl was back.
"It wasn't a story for me," she whispered. "It was my mother's wish. I just... borrowed it for your deal."
I felt a sharp, violent pang of guilt in my chest.
I looked at the necklace. I realized the weight of what she had just done. She hadn't just lied for me. She had taken her most precious dream—her dead mother's dying wish—and sold it to save my business deal.
She had prostituted her memories for my profit.
Before I could say anything, the car pulled up.
As Katha moved to get in, I caught her wrist.
"Katha," I said.
She stopped, looking back at me with those haunted eyes.
"You did good today," I said, my voice rough.
It wasn't an apology. It wasn't kindness. It was barely a compliment. But for a man like me, it was a thunderclap.
Katha looked at my hand on her wrist, then at my eyes.
"Thank you, Sir," she said quietly.
She pulled her hand away and slid into the car.
I stood on the pavement for a second, staring at my empty hand. I felt a strange sense of loss.
I had won the investors. I had won the deal. But as I looked at the girl sitting in my car, staring out the window with sad, dead eyes, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was losing something much more important.
I got in the car.
"Home," I ordered the driver.
But the word home suddenly felt like a lie, too.