Ishita Sharma had exactly three problems that morning.
First, she was late.
Second, she was broke.
Third—and this was the worst—her father was in the hospital, and the hospital didn't believe in mercy.
The auto-rickshaw screeched to a halt outside Malhotra Group's headquarters, a towering glass monster that seemed to scrape the sky itself. Ishita threw money at the driver, jumped out, and nearly tripped over her own feet as she ran inside.
"This is it," she muttered, clutching her resume like it was a lifeline. "Don't mess this up."
The lobby was massive. Marble floors gleamed under blinding lights. People in tailored suits moved with purpose, their heels clicking like a countdown to her failure. Ishita adjusted her cheap kurti, painfully aware that she didn't belong here.
She rushed toward the reception desk, not noticing the man who stepped out of the private elevator.
And then—
Crash.
Her shoulder slammed into a solid wall.
Hot liquid splashed everywhere.
"Oh my God!" Ishita gasped as her coffee cup slipped from her hand, shattering against the floor. Brown stains spread across a pristine black suit.
She froze.
"I—I'm so sorry," she blurted out, hands fluttering uselessly. "I wasn't looking, I swear, I'll clean it, I'll—"
Silence.
Heavy. Crushing.
Slowly, Ishita looked up.
The man standing in front of her was tall. Not just tall—commanding. His presence alone seemed to pull the air toward him. His black hair was perfectly styled, his face sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes that stopped her breath.
Dark. Cold. Unforgiving.
They looked at her like she was something inconvenient stuck to his shoe.
The entire lobby had gone still.
Someone whispered behind her, barely audible.
"That's… Mr. Malhotra."
Her heart dropped straight to the floor.
Aarav Malhotra.
CEO of Malhotra Group. Billionaire. The man newspapers called the youngest devil of Indian corporate history.
"I'll pay for the suit," Ishita said weakly, her voice trembling. "I swear. Please just—"
He didn't speak.
Instead, he looked down at his ruined sleeve with detached irritation, then back at her. His gaze was slow, deliberate, assessing her like a problem that needed solving.
"You just ruined a suit worth more than your yearly income," he said calmly.
Each word felt like a slap.
"I—I didn't mean to," she whispered, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to fall. "I was just—"
"Late," he finished for her, glancing at his watch.
Her mouth fell open.
"How did you—"
"Everyone who runs in this building is late," he said. "And desperate."
The truth stung.
"I'm sorry," she said again, bowing slightly. "I'll leave."
She turned to go.
"Stop."
The single word halted her instantly.
Aarav studied her profile now—the frayed edges of her bag, the worn-out sandals, the resume clutched too tightly in her hand. Something flickered in his eyes. Interest. Not kindness.
"Come to my office," he said.
Her head snapped back toward him. "W-what?"
"Now."
People around them exchanged looks of pity. Some looked relieved it wasn't them. Everyone knew what being summoned by Aarav Malhotra meant.
Career death.
"I don't—" she started.
"Private elevator," he added, already walking away. "Unless you'd prefer security escort you out."
Her legs felt like jelly as she followed him.
Inside the elevator, the silence was suffocating. Ishita stared at the floor, her heart pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. The elevator rose rapidly, her fate climbing with it.
She stole a glance at him.
Aarav Malhotra didn't look angry.
That scared her more.
The elevator doors opened into an entire floor that belonged solely to him. His office was massive, minimalist, cold. Power radiated from every corner.
"Sit," he ordered.
She perched on the edge of the chair like she was afraid it might bite her.
"You're here for a job," he said, opening her resume.
"Yes, sir."
"Average grades. No connections. No experience worth mentioning," he said flatly.
Her shoulders slumped.
"Your father's name is Rajesh Sharma," he continued.
Her breath hitched.
"He was admitted to City Care Hospital three weeks ago. Heart condition. Surgery pending."
Her head snapped up. "How do you know that?"
Aarav placed the file down and leaned back, fingers steepled.
"I know everything," he said. "That's why you ran into me today."
Tears spilled before she could stop them.
"I just need a chance," she whispered. "One chance. I'll work day and night. I don't need a salary, just—"
"You don't need a job," he interrupted.
She froze.
"You need money," he corrected. "And protection."
Her chest tightened. "What does that mean?"
Aarav stood, walking around the desk slowly, like a predator circling prey.
"It means," he said quietly, "that your life just became very complicated."
Fear crept into her bones.
"Mr. Malhotra, I don't understand—"
"You will," he said, placing a folder in front of her. "Soon enough."
She looked down.
MARRIAGE AGREEMENT
Her hands shook.
And somewhere deep inside, a voice screamed—
Run.
But Ishita Sharma had never been good at running away