Anya Sharma had always believed in fairy tales, not the kind with princes and glass slippers, but the ones where ambition met opportunity, where hard work paved the way for dreams. Her dream, meticulously crafted since childhood, involved a bustling newsroom, the thrill of breaking stories, and the satisfaction of a byline with her name etched onto it. At twenty-four, she was well on her way, a vibrant, tenacious journalism graduate interning at a prestigious national daily. Her tiny apartment, filled with stacks of books and the scent of instant coffee, was a testament to her independence and the fierce dedication she poured into her burgeoning career.

Her life was a symphony of early mornings, late-night research, frantic deadlines, and the occasional celebratory pizza with her equally ambitious friends. It was far from glamorous, but it was hers. Every step felt like a conscious choice, every sacrifice a worthwhile investment in the future she was building. She often imagined her life unfolding like a carefully edited documentary: compelling, purposeful, and entirely on her terms.

The call came on a Tuesday, a day usually reserved for chasing leads and deciphering cryptic press releases. It was her mother, her voice unusually formal, devoid of the usual chiding about Anya’s perpetually messy hair or her diet of quick meals. “Anya, your father and I need to speak with you. Come home this evening. It’s important.”

Anya’s stomach tightened. “Is everything alright, Ma?”

“Just come home, dear. We’ll explain then.” The line clicked, leaving Anya with a prickle of unease. Her parents weren’t given to theatrics. “Important” from them usually meant something genuinely significant, often something that would upend the delicate balance of her well-ordered life.

The Sharma household, a sprawling bungalow in a quiet, tree-lined lane, felt unusually silent when Anya arrived later that evening. The usual clatter of utensils from the kitchen, the distant hum of the television, even the chirping of crickets outside – all seemed muted. Her parents were waiting in the formal living room, seated opposite each other on the ornate velvet sofas, looking as though they were preparing for a somber ceremony. Her father, usually jovial, had a grim set to his jaw, while her mother wrung her hands, her eyes avoiding Anya’s.

Anya’s unease solidified into a cold dread. She sat on the edge of a third sofa, her heart hammering against her ribs. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Her father, Mr. Dev Sharma, cleared his throat, a sound that seemed to echo in the stillness. “Anya, your mother and I… we have received a proposal. A very significant proposal.”

Anya frowned. “A proposal? For whom?” She instantly thought of her younger cousin, who was of marrying age, but then the gravity of the room hit her. No, not for a cousin. Her parents were looking at her.

Her mother, Mrs. Priya Sharma, finally met her gaze, her eyes laced with a mixture of apprehension and forced enthusiasm. “For you, beta. From the Rane Group.”

The Rane Group. The name hit Anya with the force of a physical blow. The Rane Group wasn’t just a company; it was an empire. Led by the formidable Arjun Rane, it was a titan in the tech industry, with ventures sprawling across continents. Their name commanded respect, envy, and a healthy dose of fear in business circles.

“The Rane Group?” Anya repeated, bewildered. “What about them?”

Her father leaned forward, his hands clasped. “Arjun Rane. He has proposed marriage.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Anya stared at her parents, her mind scrambling to process the information. Arjun Rane. The name conjured images of sharp suits, ruthless business deals, and headlines detailing his almost mythical success. He was a man in his late forties, perhaps early fifties, a widower, and notoriously private. He was also, by all accounts, incredibly powerful and impossibly rich. And he had proposed to her? It was absurd.

“Are you… are you serious?” Anya asked, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. “This has to be a joke, right? I don’t even know him. We’ve never met.”

Her mother sighed, a sound of profound weariness. “It is not a joke, Anya. His family approached us. It’s a very advantageous match.”

“Advantageous?” Anya shot up from the sofa, her journalistic composure crumbling. “For whom? For the family name? For some business deal? What about my life? What about me?”

“Anya, calm down,” her father said, his voice firm, though a vein throbbed visibly in his temple. “This is a matter of great importance. Our business, Anya Exports, has been struggling. The market… it’s been difficult. A partnership, a strategic alliance with a company like the Rane Group, would secure our future for generations.”

The truth, stark and painful, settled over Anya. Her father’s business, her family’s legacy, was in trouble. She knew they’d faced challenges, whispers of declining orders and mounting debts had occasionally reached her ears, but she’d dismissed them as normal fluctuations. Her parents had always shielded her from financial worries, allowing her to pursue her education without distraction. Now, that shield was crumbling, and she was being asked to be the solution.

“So, I’m to be sacrificed?” she retorted, her voice rising with each word. “A pawn in a business merger? Is that what this is? You’re selling me?” The words were harsh, but they burned with the raw hurt and betrayal she felt.

Her mother’s eyes welled up. “Don’t say that, beta! This is for your future, too. Think of the stability, the prestige. You would lack for nothing.”

“I don’t want to lack for nothing! I want to work, I want to build my own life!” Anya paced the room, her agitation growing. “I want to marry someone I know, someone I choose, someone I love! And him? He’s… he’s old enough to be my father!”

Her father’s voice, though still controlled, sharpened. “Arjun Rane is a respectable man. He is forty-nine, not ancient. He is a man of immense character and influence. And he is willing to provide for you in a way few men could. He has no children, and you would be his sole focus.”

“Forty-nine and twenty-four. That’s a twenty-five-year age gap!” Anya exclaimed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Do you not see how ridiculous this is? What would we even talk about? He’s a stranger! A complete stranger!”

“Love develops,” her mother interjected softly, quoting a common adage about arranged marriages. “Respect comes first. Affection follows.”

Anya scoffed. “In fairy tales, maybe! Not in real life, not when it’s forced upon you like this!” She stopped pacing and faced them, her eyes pleading. “Please, Papa. There has to be another way. We can find investors. I can work, I can help! We don’t have to do this.”

Her father shook his head, a weariness seeping into his tone. “We’ve tried everything, Anya. The market is unforgiving. Without significant capital, we face ruin. This… this is our only option. Arjun Rane is offering a lifeline, not just for the business, but for our family’s reputation. He is not asking for a dowry; he is offering a partnership, and in return, he wants a wife from a respectable family. Our family.”

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by Anya’s ragged breathing. She looked from her father’s grim, resolute face to her mother’s tear-streaked, imploring one. They truly believed this was the only way. Their desperation was palpable. The weight of their expectation, of their financial ruin, pressed down on her, crushing her dreams under its immense burden.

“What about my career?” she whispered, the last vestige of her independence slipping away. “My internship? My plans?”

“You would want for nothing, Anya,” her father repeated, softer this time. “You could pursue anything you wish. His resources are limitless.”

Anya knew that was a lie, or at least a half-truth. Marriage into a traditional, powerful family meant sacrificing her freedom, her agency. It meant becoming Mrs. Arjun Rane, not Anya Sharma, the journalist. It meant gilded cages and societal expectations, not late-night stakeouts and the thrill of a breaking story.

She sank back onto the sofa, feeling the fight drain out of her. How could she argue against financial ruin? Against the silent pleas in her parents’ eyes? They had sacrificed so much for her, for her education, for her dreams. Now, it was her turn to sacrifice. But the bitter taste of resentment filled her mouth.

Her mother moved closer, gently taking Anya’s hand. “He is a good man, beta. Respected. He has a kind heart, despite his reputation in business. He lost his first wife many years ago, and he has been alone. He is looking for a companion, someone to build a future with.”

A companion. Not a lover, not a partner in the true sense, but a companion. A young, fertile woman to provide a new generation for the Rane legacy. The unspoken expectation hung in the air: a baby. The idea of bearing a child for a man she didn't know, a man who was almost a stranger, sent a shiver of cold dread through her.

“We are to meet them next week,” her father announced, his voice regaining some of its usual authority, signaling that the discussion was over, the decision made. “His sister, Mrs. Leena Sharma, will accompany him. Be prepared, Anya. This is important.”

Anya didn't respond. She simply stared at the patterns on the Persian rug, her mind racing. Arjun Rane. A name she’d only ever seen in financial newspapers or business magazines, now inextricably linked to her future. Her future, which, just hours ago, had seemed so clear, so bright, had been irrevocably derailed.

She imagined him: stern, unsmiling, a man who commanded respect but perhaps little warmth. She imagined a life of quiet luxury, endless social engagements, and a crushing loneliness that no amount of wealth could fill. Her ambition, her dreams of a life lived on her own terms, felt like distant echoes, fading into the suffocating reality of an unwanted proposition.

Later, locked in her old bedroom, the walls covered with posters of journalists she admired, Anya wept. Not just for the loss of her dreams, but for the loss of her innocence, the naive belief that she controlled her own destiny. The arranged marriage wasn’t just a proposal; it was a sentence. A life sentence she was powerless to appeal.

The thought of meeting him, of facing the man who held her family’s future and her own in his hands, filled her with a profound sense of dread. She didn’t know what to expect, but she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that her life as Anya Sharma, the aspiring journalist, was over. Her new identity, Mrs. Arjun Rane, was already beginning to settle over her, heavy and unfamiliar, like a shroud.

The air in the grand drawing-room of the Malhotra mansion hung heavy with anticipation, a thick, palpable silence that pressed down on Anya's chest. It was an old-money silence, woven from generations of wealth and expectation, far removed from the comfortable hum of her own family home. Outside, the Delhi sun beat down, but within these walls, a hushed, almost reverent cool pervaded, maintained by unseen central air conditioning. Anya clutched the delicate silk of her dupatta, the fabric a soft, unfamiliar barrier against the tremor in her hands. Her mother, seated primly beside her on the plush velvet sofa, offered a reassuring, yet firm, squeeze to her knee.

"Remember, Anya beti," Mrs. Sharma had whispered moments earlier, adjusting a stray strand of Anya’s hair, "be polite. Be graceful. Smile. This is important."

Important. The word felt like a mountain she was expected to climb. Important for whom? For the family name, for the alliance, for the Malhotra empire. But what about for Anya Sharma, the girl who dreamed of painting vibrant canvases, not of being a quietly agreeable wife in a grand, gilded cage?

The room itself was a testament to the Malhotras' status. Ornate Persian rugs, so thick they swallowed the sound of footsteps, covered the marble floor. Walls adorned with classical European art stared down at her, their subjects’ gazes as impersonal as the porcelain vases filled with exotic, scentless flowers. A crystal chandelier, hundreds of teardrop prisms, dripped from the high ceiling, catching the light and refracting it into tiny rainbows that danced mockingly on the polished surfaces. This wasn't a home; it was a museum, or perhaps, a stage. And she was about to make her debut.

Anya adjusted her cream-colored salwar kameez, chosen for its understated elegance and traditional appeal. Her mother had insisted on minimal makeup, accentuating her naturally large, dark eyes with kohl, and a soft pink on her lips. She had twisted her long, dark hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, a style that felt far too mature for her twenty-two years. She felt less like herself and more like an exhibit, meticulously prepared for inspection.

The murmur of voices from the hallway grew louder, then hushed abruptly as the doors to the drawing-room swung inward. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out everything else.

First, Mr. and Mrs. Malhotra entered, their expressions a mixture of grave courtesy and subtle appraisal. Mrs. Malhotra, impeccably dressed in a heavy silk sari, offered a stiff smile. Mr. Malhotra, stoic and commanding even in leisure, nodded curtly to her father. Then, he entered.

Devansh Malhotra.

Anya’s breath hitched. She had seen photographs, of course. Glossy magazine spreads, newspaper articles detailing his business triumphs, his face always sharp, intelligent, distant. But pictures, she realized, were poor imitations of reality.

He was taller than she’d imagined, his frame lean but powerful beneath the crisp fabric of his charcoal suit. The suit itself was clearly bespoke, fitting him with an effortless precision that spoke of wealth and tailored excellence. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight, emanating an almost regal bearing. He walked with a quiet confidence, his movements economical, not a single wasted gesture.

His face, in person, was more striking, more intense. Dark, intelligent eyes, the color of rich coffee, were set deep beneath strong brows. A finely sculpted nose, a firm jawline dusted with the faintest shadow of stubble, and lips that were thin and unsmiling completed the picture. His hair was meticulously styled, dark and slightly swept back, revealing a high, intellectual forehead. There was an undeniable gravitas about him, an aura of authority that seemed to pull all the oxygen from the room. He looked every bit the CEO, the man who commanded boardrooms and headlines.

He was also, undeniably, older. Not just by the thirteen years that separated them according to their horoscopes, but in the subtle lines etched around his eyes, the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth that suggested a life of serious decisions and weighty responsibilities. He carried himself with the weariness of someone who had seen much and bore its marks, a stark contrast to Anya’s own youthful, unmarred countenance. He exuded an experience, a worldliness that Anya, despite her university degree and quiet dreams, could scarcely fathom.

He greeted her parents first, a polite nod to her father, a brief, respectful inclination of his head towards her mother, his voice a low, resonant baritone that sent a strange shiver down Anya's spine. It wasn’t an unpleasant shiver, just an unexpected tremor.

Then, his gaze, cool and appraising, settled on Anya.

For a terrifying moment, she felt like a specimen under a microscope. His eyes, devoid of overt curiosity or warmth, seemed to take in every detail – her simple attire, her carefully arranged hair, the slight tremble of her hands. She met his gaze for a fleeting second, trying to project composure, but her heart was galloping. She quickly dropped her eyes to her lap, a blush creeping up her neck.

"Anya," Mrs. Malhotra introduced, her voice a little too bright, "this is Devansh."

He offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod. "Namaste, Anya." His voice was smooth, devoid of inflection, a formal greeting that held no emotion.

"Namaste," Anya managed, her voice a barely audible whisper, her throat suddenly dry. She clasped her hands tighter in her lap, feeling the silk of her dupatta crumple.

The small talk began, orchestrated by the mothers. Mrs. Malhotra inquired about Anya's studies, her interests. Mrs. Sharma, in turn, praised Devansh's business acumen, his philanthropy. It was a well-rehearsed dance of pleasantries, each word measured, each compliment returned.

Anya found herself answering questions about her art, her love for sketching, her volunteer work at a local orphanage. She tried to sound enthusiastic, intelligent, but the words felt hollow in the vastness of the room, under the piercing gaze of Devansh, who sat opposite her, silent and observant. He hadn't asked a single question directly of her yet. He merely listened, occasionally shifting in his seat, his gaze unwavering.

She stole glances at him. He had a way of looking without staring, a quiet intensity that was unnerving. His hands rested on his knees, long fingers, strong and unadorned. There was a faint scent of expensive cologne, clean and subtle, that reached her.

Finally, Mr. Malhotra cleared his throat. "Devansh, why don't you and Anya have a moment to yourselves? Perhaps a walk in the garden?"

Anya's breath hitched again. Alone? With him? She hadn't anticipated this. Her mother’s earlier instructions about "conversation topics" suddenly seemed inadequate. What does one talk about with a CEO who scrutinizes you like a quarterly report?

Devansh's eyes flickered to his father, then back to Anya, a hint of something unreadable in their depths. He rose smoothly, his height suddenly more imposing. "Of course, Father." His tone was polite, dutiful, but she detected no enthusiasm.

He gestured towards the large French doors that led to a manicured garden. "Shall we?"

Anya rose, her legs feeling a little unsteady. "Yes," she murmured, trying to keep her voice even.

As they stepped onto the stone pathway, the humidity of the Delhi summer hit her, a stark contrast to the chilled air indoors. The garden was breathtaking – meticulously sculpted hedges, vibrant bougainvillea spilling over trellises, and the scent of jasmine heavy in the air. Yet, even amidst such beauty, the tension between them was palpable.

They walked in silence for a few long, agonizing moments. The crunch of their shoes on the gravel path was the loudest sound. Anya tried to think of something, anything, to say. Her mind felt utterly blank. She was acutely aware of his presence beside her, the slight rustle of his suit fabric, the controlled rhythm of his footsteps.

Finally, Devansh broke the silence. His voice, though still formal, was slightly less clipped now that they were out of earshot of their families. "I understand you have an interest in art." It wasn't a question, more of a statement derived from the earlier conversation.

"Yes," Anya replied, grasping onto the topic like a lifeline. "I... I enjoy sketching. Landscapes, mostly. And sometimes portraits."

"And your studies?" he continued, his gaze fixed on the perfectly trimmed hedges ahead. "You completed your degree recently?"

"Yes, I did. In Fine Arts. I graduated last year." She hesitated, then added, "I was planning to pursue a master's, perhaps." The word 'was' hung in the air, weighted with the implication of her current situation.

He nodded slowly. "And now?" His voice was neutral, but Anya felt a prickle of annoyance. Was he testing her? Or merely stating the obvious?

"Now," she said, trying to infuse her voice with a modicum of composure, "my family feels it's time for me to... settle down." The words felt bitter on her tongue.

He finally turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers for a beat longer than before. There was a flicker – was it understanding? Or just a detached assessment of her discomfort? "Arranged marriages are a tradition," he stated, not as a defense, but as a fact. "They serve a purpose."

"For families, yes," Anya responded, surprising herself with her boldness. "But what about for individuals?" She immediately regretted it, fearing she sounded too rebellious, too ungrateful.

He paused, his gaze thoughtful, analytical. "Individuals often find their purpose within the framework of family, Anya. Compromise is a part of life. And of business."

Anya looked away, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the sun. Business. That was what this was to him. A transaction, a merger. Not a union of two people.

They walked past a rose garden, the heady scent a jarring contrast to the sterility of their conversation. He stopped by a marble fountain, its water trickling softly, the only other sound besides their measured breaths.

"What are your expectations?" he asked, turning to face her fully now. His arms were crossed over his chest, a posture that felt both closed off and powerful.

Anya’s mind raced. What was the correct answer? To say "love" felt naive, even foolish, in this context. To say "a comfortable life" felt mercenary. "I... I expect respect," she said, choosing her words carefully. "And... a home. Not just a house, but a home." She looked at him directly, trying to convey the depth of her unspoken longing for something genuine, something warm, even within the confines of this arrangement.

He considered her words, his expression unreadable. "Respect is fundamental," he acknowledged. "A home requires mutual effort." He paused, then added, "My work demands significant time and travel. That will not change."

It was a warning, stark and clear. He was laying out the terms. His career came first. Their marriage, if it happened, would fit around it.

"I understand," Anya said, her voice small. She did understand. He was being upfront, at least. No false promises.

"And you?" she ventured, needing to hear something, anything, from him beyond the practicalities. "What are your expectations, Devansh?"

His eyes, which had been fixed on her, shifted slightly, looking past her shoulder, as if searching for an answer in the distant trees. "Stability," he said, his voice softer, almost reflective, a rare glimpse of something beyond the CEO persona. "A partner who understands the demands of my life. Someone who can manage a household, represent the family. And..." he hesitated, then his gaze returned to hers, piercingly direct, "someone who can bring continuity to the Malhotra name."

Continuity. She knew what that meant. An heir. A baby. The thought sent a jolt through her. She was barely out of university, contemplating art school, and he was talking about an heir as casually as one might discuss a business acquisition.

The age gap suddenly felt like a gaping canyon between them. He was thinking of lineage, of future generations, of solidifying his empire. She was still thinking of freedom, of self-discovery, of a life yet to be truly lived. He was a finished book, bound and published; she was merely on the first chapter.

"I see," Anya managed, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

He seemed to sense her discomfort, though he didn't comment on it. Instead, he inclined his head towards the mansion. "Perhaps we should return. Our families will be waiting."

The walk back was just as silent as the walk out, but now, a new weight settled between them. The initial awkwardness had been replaced by a chilling clarity. He was precise, pragmatic, and entirely focused on what this marriage meant for his life, his legacy. He saw her as a suitable component in his meticulously constructed existence.

As they re-entered the drawing-room, the air inside felt even heavier than before. Their parents looked at them expectantly, smiles hovering on their lips, eager to read something, anything, in their children's faces.

Devansh offered another brief, almost imperceptible nod to Anya, then turned to his father. "We had a pleasant discussion, Father." His voice was calm, controlled, giving nothing away.

Anya merely offered a small, polite smile, mirroring his composure, though her insides were churning. She had glimpsed Devansh Malhotra, the man. And what she saw was a powerful, reserved, and utterly pragmatic individual. The kind of man who would never inspire the sort of vibrant, passionate love she had always dreamed of.

The meeting concluded with more polite goodbyes, promises to discuss things further, and the exchange of knowing glances between the parents. As Anya and her parents finally left the Malhotra mansion, stepping back into the humid Delhi air, she felt a profound sense of resignation settle over her. The first glimpse had confirmed her deepest fears. This wasn't a love story waiting to unfold. This was simply a matter of fate, and obligation. And her heart, she was certain, would remain untouched.

The following Sunday felt less like a day of rest and more like a day of reckoning. Anya sat at the polished dining table in their own, smaller, but no less elegant home, picking at her breakfast. The aroma of her mother's special parathas usually brought a smile to her face, but today, it seemed to cling to her, heavy and unappetizing. The pleasant discussion Devansh had alluded to, that 'pleasant discussion' where he saw her as 'continuity to the Malhotra name,' was about to be dissected and formalized. The Malhotras were coming, not for tea, but for the negotiation.

Her father, usually jovial and bustling, was quieter this morning, his brow furrowed with a mixture of excitement and seriousness. Her mother, ever the orchestrator, moved with a controlled energy, ensuring every cushion was fluffed, every antique polished, as if the perfect presentation could somehow soften the harsh edges of the impending conversation. Anya felt a strange detachment, as though she were an observer in her own life, watching the pieces move on a chessboard.

The doorbell chimed precisely at the appointed hour, a polite but firm declaration of arrival. Anya’s heart gave a familiar lurch. She watched from the corner of her eye as her parents hurried to greet their esteemed guests. The air immediately thickened with the scent of expensive perfume and the hushed murmurs of formal pleasantries.

This time, Devansh accompanied his parents directly into the main living room, his presence as imposing and contained as it had been at their mansion. He wore a crisp, light blue shirt, sleeves rolled up once at the forearms, revealing strong, capable wrists. Even in a slightly more relaxed attire, he exuded an aura of authority. He offered a polite nod to Anya, his dark eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment before shifting away. It was a practiced ease, a polite formality that allowed no warmth to penetrate. Anya, in turn, offered a small, hesitant smile, feeling the familiar blush creep up her neck.

The initial phase of the meeting was devoted to tea, sweets, and general well-being. The mothers exchanged recipes, discussing the best places to find organic vegetables. The fathers discussed the political climate, the fluctuating stock market. Devansh sat mostly silent, occasionally offering a succinct comment when directly addressed by his father, his gaze sweeping the room with an almost clinical efficiency. Anya felt his eyes on her at times, not lingering, but observing, as though she were a puzzle piece he was trying to fit into his grand design. It was unsettling.

After about twenty minutes of this social preamble, Mr. Malhotra cleared his throat, a sound that immediately drew all attention. "Now," he began, his voice calm and authoritative, "let us discuss the matters at hand."

Anya's stomach clenched. The pleasantries were over. The business was about to begin.

Mr. Sharma, Anya's father, leaned forward, his hands clasped before him. "Of course, Mr. Malhotra. We are here to ensure the best for our children, and for the families."

"Indeed," Mr. Malhotra replied. "Devansh is our only son, and his future, and the future of Malhotra Industries, rests heavily on this alliance. We seek stability, tradition, and above all, continuity." His gaze flickered to Anya, a clear emphasis on the last word.

Anya felt a chill. Continuity. It was the same word Devansh had used. It sounded less like a hope and more like a requirement.

Mrs. Malhotra then took over, her voice softer but no less firm. "Anya is a lovely girl, well-educated and from a respectable family. We are confident she will adapt well to our customs and traditions. However, there are certain expectations for the daughter-in-law of the Malhotra household." She paused, her eyes resting on Anya, a silent message passing between them.

"We expect that Anya, upon marriage, will dedicate herself fully to the management of the household," Mrs. Malhotra continued, her tone gentle but unwavering. "Our home is large, and there are many social obligations. We have staff, of course, but the mistress of the house holds overall responsibility."

Anya's heart sank. Full dedication to household management. It sounded like a polite way of saying her artistic ambitions, her volunteering, her very identity outside of being Devansh's wife, would be secondary, if not entirely discarded. She glanced at her mother, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod, a silent signal for Anya to remain calm, to accept.

"Devansh's career is, as you know, demanding," Mr. Malhotra interjected. "He travels extensively, often for weeks at a time. His wife must be self-sufficient and capable of managing affairs in his absence, ensuring the smooth running of both the domestic and social aspects of his life."

Devansh, who had been listening silently, finally spoke. "My schedule is non-negotiable. Business always comes first." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, a stark reminder of his world. Anya felt a pang. It was a subtle echo of the "my work demands significant time and travel. That will not change" from their garden conversation. This was less a conversation and more a reiteration of terms.

"We understand and respect that," Mr. Sharma assured them quickly. "Anya is a sensible girl. She will adapt."

Then, Mrs. Sharma, ever protective of her daughter, though within the confines of tradition, tentatively raised a point. "Anya has a keen interest in art. She studied Fine Arts, and she has a talent for it. We were hoping she might be able to continue her pursuits, perhaps even contribute to some of your family's charitable initiatives through her art?"

A silence descended. Anya held her breath, hope flickering faintly.

Mrs. Malhotra smiled thinly. "Of course, dear. Once she has settled into her new responsibilities, and if time permits, she is free to pursue hobbies. However, the primary focus must always be the family and the household. And naturally, the most important responsibility will be providing an heir."

The word "heir" hung in the air, heavy and inescapable. Devansh’s gaze, which had been passive, sharpened on Anya for a moment. It wasn't accusatory, but rather, a focused assessment, as though he was mentally ticking a box on a checklist. Anya felt a profound discomfort. It wasn't about love, companionship, or even personal happiness. It was about lineage, about a successor for his empire. The age gap, which had felt like a chasm earlier, now felt like a canyon separating their individual realities. He was 35, established, focused on the continuation of his name. She was 22, just beginning to discover her own path, and now that path was being rerouted, not by choice, but by family obligation and the demand for an heir.

"We are aware of the expectations regarding an heir," Mr. Sharma said, his voice firm, accepting. "Anya understands the importance of family."

Anya swallowed hard. She understood the importance of family, yes, but not in this cold, transactional way. She had always envisioned children born from love, from a bond between two people. Not as a strategic part of a business deal.

Mr. Malhotra then shifted the discussion to finances, property, and the intricate details of the dowry, though the term was carefully avoided, replaced by euphemisms like "gifts" and "contributions." The conversation became a blur of numbers, legal terms, and intricate family legacies. Devansh remained mostly silent during this part, occasionally interjecting with a sharp, precise question about a clause or a property deed, demonstrating his keen business mind even in personal matters. He wasn't just a CEO; he was a meticulous negotiator, leaving no stone unturned, ensuring the "contract" was ironclad.

Anya listened with half an ear, her mind drifting. She imagined herself in the vast Malhotra mansion, wandering its opulent halls, her canvases gathering dust in a forgotten corner. She pictured holding a baby, a tiny, innocent life, a product of this meticulously planned, passionless union. Would she be able to love it? Of course, she would. A child was innocent. But could she find love for the man beside her, the man who saw her as a means to "continuity"?

The contrast between her dreams and the reality unfolding before her was stark, almost unbearable. She wanted a partnership, a true companion. He wanted a manager for his household and a mother for his heir. The age difference suddenly seemed less about numerical years and more about vastly different life stages and priorities. He had lived, achieved, built an empire. She was still finding her voice.

An hour later, the discussion concluded. The terms were laid out, discussed, and implicitly agreed upon. There were no arguments, no raised voices, only polite affirmations. It was a negotiation flawlessly executed, a contract drafted with precision, securing the alliance between the two powerful families. Anya felt like a clause in that contract, an essential, yet impersonal, detail.

"Excellent," Mr. Malhotra declared, a rare, satisfied smile gracing his lips. "We are pleased. This alliance will benefit both families greatly."

Mrs. Malhotra turned to Anya, her smile now a little warmer, perhaps in anticipation of a new daughter-in-law. "Welcome to the family, dear. We look forward to having you."

Anya managed a faint smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Malhotra." The words felt heavy on her tongue.

Devansh, too, offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod in her direction. His eyes held no triumph, no warmth, just a quiet, almost resigned acceptance. He had secured his "continuity."

As the Malhotras rose to leave, there was a final round of formal goodbyes. Devansh shook her father's hand, exchanged a few more words with his own parents. He didn't offer to shake Anya's hand, nor did he linger. He was already moving on, his mind likely already back to the next big business deal.

When the front door finally clicked shut behind them, a profound silence descended upon the Sharma household, different from the one at the Malhotra mansion. This was not the silence of expectation, but the silence of finality.

Anya's mother immediately enveloped her in a hug. "Oh, Anya beti! It is settled! This is a wonderful opportunity! The Malhotras are such a respected family, and Devansh is so accomplished." Her mother's voice was filled with a mixture of relief and genuine happiness.

Her father nodded, a broad smile replacing his earlier apprehension. "Indeed. A very good match. You will want for nothing, my dear."

Anya tried to match their enthusiasm, but the words caught in her throat. She smiled, a fragile, trembling thing. She knew they meant well. They believed they had secured her future, her comfort, her safety. But at what cost?

She walked to her room, the silence of the house echoing her own inner quietude. She looked at her easel, still set up with a half-finished landscape. The vibrant colors suddenly seemed muted, dull. She thought of Devansh, his controlled demeanor, his detached gaze, his unwavering focus on business and lineage. He was a man of logic, of purpose, of immense power. And she was now inextricably linked to him, bound by a contract of convenience.

She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that love had no place in this transaction. It was purely business. And she was merely another asset, acquired for the purpose of ensuring the Malhotra legacy. The heir. The baby. That was her primary function. Everything else, her dreams, her desires, her very heart, seemed irrelevant in the face of such overwhelming pragmatism. Her life, as she knew it, was effectively over. A new, uncertain chapter was about to begin, one written not by her, but by the terms of a contract.