Episode 1: The Proposal

The air in the private wing of the Oberoi Grand was thick with the scent of lilies and cold-pressed ambition. Every detail, from the antique mahogany paneling to the crisp white linens on the table, screamed of old money and power, a neutral ground selected to hide the raw, jagged edges of the men who met there. For Aarav Singh Rathore, it felt like a gilded cage. He stood by a floor-to-ceiling window, the afternoon sun a pale, impotent wash over the Delhi skyline. He had not wanted to come here. He had not wanted any part of this.

He was a man built of sharp angles and controlled force, his jaw a hard line, his shoulders a testament to a life spent in conflict. The expensive charcoal suit he wore felt like a uniform for a war he had no heart to fight. Five years. It had been five years since the world had lost its color, since the warmth had leached out of everything he touched. He had built his syndicate into an empire, a fortress of steel and blood, and in doing so, he had become the monster everyone expected him to be. He had buried his heart and his past in the same grave as Isha. Love was a weakness, a liability, and a promise of pain. He would never make that mistake again. This marriage, this deal, was a necessary transaction, a cold-blooded alliance to strengthen his family’s position, to ensure their security. He had made his peace with that.

Behind him, his father, Jaiveer Rathore, a man of imposing stature and an unshakeable belief in his own authority, held court. Jaiveer’s voice, a low rumble, filled the room as he spoke with Rajeev Sharma, the patriarch of the other family. Across the room, Aarav’s mother, Aditi, a woman of soft smiles and gentle eyes, was making an attempt at conversation with Rajeev’s wife, Sarita. Aditi had a hopeful look in her eyes, a look that spoke of a dream for her son’s happiness that Aarav had long since given up on. He could feel her gaze on his back, a silent plea for him to at least feign interest. He couldn’t. The apathy was too deep, too ingrained.

Beside him, his younger sister, Anika, a bright splash of color in a pale yellow dress, chattered softly, trying to make conversation with him. "Bhaiya, isn't the view lovely? The Jantar Mantar looks so small from up here."

Aarav gave a noncommittal grunt. "It's a view."

Anika sighed, her youthful optimism struggling against the wall he had built around himself. "You could at least try to look a little less... grim. It's a big day for the families."

"It's a business deal, Anika. Nothing more." The words came out flat and emotionless, a well-practiced line.

Across the room, Myra Sharma was a study in stillness. She sat on a plush sofa, her hands resting in her lap, her posture perfect. She was a silent, unblinking sentinel, observing everything. Her father, Rajeev, was a man of quick, sharp movements, his ambition a palpable force. His voice was a cheerful counterpoint to Jaiveer’s steady drone as they discussed the logistics of the merger. Her mother, Sarita, sat beside her, her expression a mirror of Myra’s—calm, composed, and utterly unreadable.

Myra felt no excitement, no nervousness, just a profound sense of resignation. This was her destiny. She had known it since the day her brother had died. That day, a part of her had died with him, a part she had never been able to reclaim. She had watched her family unravel and then knit itself back together with the cold, hard thread of pragmatism. Her brother's betrayal had taught her a lesson no school could—that love, trust, and blood ties were all just vulnerabilities waiting to be exploited. Her own mind, a fortress of logic and analysis, was her only true defense. She had spent years studying the criminal underworld from an academic distance, learning its patterns and its weaknesses, all the while knowing that one day, she would have to step into it herself. This marriage was that moment. She was not a bride; she was a political pawn, a valuable asset to be traded. And she was prepared to play her part.

Her eyes scanned the room, absorbing every detail. She took in the way Jaiveer Rathore’s eyes held a shrewd glint, the subtle way Rajeev Sharma leaned in when he wanted to emphasize a point. And then her gaze settled on the man by the window. Aarav. The man she was to marry. She had seen his pictures, read the terse reports on his business dealings. The public facade was one of unyielding power, but she was a specialist in what lay beneath the surface. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the deep set sorrow in his eyes, the subtle clenching of his jaw. He was a man in pain, a caged animal. She wondered what had hurt him, what had made him so cold. It was a professional curiosity more than a personal one. They would be allies, and understanding him would be a critical part of their partnership.

The men finished their discussion, their handshake a silent, powerful seal on the deal. Jaiveer turned to his son. "Aarav," he said, his voice a quiet command. "Come and meet your future wife."

Aarav pushed himself away from the window, his movements slow and deliberate. He walked with a predator's grace, every step measured. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met Myra’s across the room. She felt a shiver, not of fear, but of recognition. This was it. The moment their separate worlds would collide.

Rajeev smiled, a broad, practiced grin. "Myra, my dear, this is Aarav Singh Rathore. Aarav, my daughter, Myra Sharma."

Aarav stopped in front of her. He didn't offer his hand. She didn't expect him to. Their eyes met, and in that silent, charged space, they had their first conversation. His eyes held a question: Are you ready for this? Her eyes gave him an answer: I was born ready for this. There was no warmth, no flicker of attraction, just a mutual, deep understanding. This was a necessity. A job.

He finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that sent a jolt through her. "Ms. Sharma."

"Mr. Rathore." Her voice was soft but steady, a calm counterpoint to his intensity.

The fathers, sensing the lack of typical courtship pleasantries, stepped in to fill the silence. Jaiveer clapped Aarav on the shoulder. "Good. You two should get to know each other. Perhaps a walk outside? The garden is quite beautiful."

It was a thinly veiled order. Aarav gave a curt nod. "If you would." He gestured toward the door leading to the terrace.

Myra rose, her movements fluid and graceful. The fathers returned to their discussion, the mothers continued their strained small talk, and the two of them walked in silence out onto the terrace. The air was warmer outside, but the tension between them was a tangible, icy blanket.

They walked side-by-side on the pristine, manicured lawn. The silence stretched on, a heavy, unspoken agreement. It was Myra who finally broke it. "A beautiful venue for a business transaction, wouldn't you say?"

Aarav stopped and turned to face her, his hands in his pockets. He didn't smile. He didn't even acknowledge the wryness in her tone. "It's necessary. I’m not here to pretend this is anything other than what it is."

"Nor am I," Myra responded, her gaze steady. "I understand the need for a united front. Our families require it. The rest... is irrelevant."

Aarav’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of surprise flickering in their depths. "You're a pragmatic woman."

"I have no other choice." Her words were blunt, honest. "My family has a history of sentimentality that has proven to be a fatal weakness. I have learned from their mistakes." The subtle reference to her brother’s death hung in the air, a ghost they both felt.

He understood. He understood completely. It was the same reason he had built his own emotional wall so high. It was a wall forged in tragedy. "Good," he said, the word a quiet approval. "Then we have an understanding. This is a partnership. We respect each other's territory. We support each other's decisions. And we keep our personal lives... personal."

"Agreed," Myra said. "No emotional complications. No foolish romanticism. Just a pact between two equals."

"Equals," Aarav repeated, the word sounding almost foreign on his lips. He had never considered anyone his equal. "I believe you've already proven your worth in a way that others have not. My father told me about your degree in criminology. He said you have a knack for finding flaws in a system."

"Systems are built by men. Men are flawed," Myra said simply. "It’s not magic, Mr. Rathore. It’s observation and a little bit of patience."

He found himself almost intrigued. Her composure was absolute. He had seen women of her world feign indifference, but hers was genuine, a deep-seated calm that could only come from years of self-control. He felt a sliver of curiosity about the woman who stood before him, but he immediately suppressed it. Curiosity was the first step toward caring, and caring was a risk he was not willing to take.

"I need your full cooperation," he said, his voice dropping to a low command. "If we are to present a united front, there can be no dissent, no hesitation. The world must believe we are a perfect match, a perfect alliance."

"The world will believe what we tell it to believe," Myra countered. "We are masters of our own narratives. I will be the obedient wife, you will be the doting husband. It is a performance we can both manage, I think."

Her words hit him with a jolt. Doting husband. The very idea was grotesque. It was an act he had no desire to perform, a lie he was not sure he could tell. But he saw the logic in her words. It was necessary to project an image of a flawless, united power couple.

"Then it is settled," Aarav said, his voice grim. "We get engaged. We get married. We secure our families’ positions. The rest of the world can believe whatever fairy tale they want to."

Myra nodded, her own expression as solemn as his. "Then let us go back in and play our parts."

They walked back toward the room, their silence now filled with a different kind of understanding. It was a silent agreement between two people who were both survivors, both products of a world that demanded a high price for power. They were not friends, not lovers, not even acquaintances. They were a pact, a solemn vow to endure this charade for the sake of their families. They were two broken halves of a shattered whole, but for the world, they would pretend to be a single, unyielding entity.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of formality. The fathers announced the engagement, and Aarav and Myra were made to stand side-by-side as their families celebrated the new alliance. They smiled for the cameras, a vacant, practiced expression on their faces. They accepted congratulations from their parents, and through it all, they never looked at each other directly.

Later, as they were leaving, Aarav’s mother, Aditi, hugged him tightly. "I'm so happy for you, my son," she whispered, her voice full of a genuine joy that made his heart ache. He gave her a stiff hug in return, unable to tell her the truth. That there was no happiness here, only a transaction.

Myra’s father, Rajeev, clapped her on the back, a rare show of emotion for him. "You did well, Myra. This alliance is a great victory for the family. You've made me very proud." She gave a small nod, the words a confirmation of her value, not an expression of love.

As they stepped into their separate cars, Aarav cast a last glance back at Myra. She was already inside her car, a dark silhouette against the car window. He wondered, for a fleeting second, what she was thinking. Was she as resigned as he was? Did she feel this same cold emptiness?

He didn't know. And he knew he wouldn't ask. Their agreement was to be partners in business, not in pain. The car pulled away, and the lavish, pristine building faded into the night. The engagement was set. The alliance was sealed. But in the quiet darkness of the cars, Aarav and Myra knew that this was just the beginning of a long, lonely journey. They were committed to a life together, but they were still a million miles apart.

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