“No one pays this much for one office.”
A strange smile touches his mouth. “You haven’t seen the office.”
Something about the way he says it makes me suspicious. Something about the number makes me deaf to suspicion.
Thirty lakhs. Forty-five lakhs in total. The figure pulses in my head.
Forty-five lakhs.
That is not luxury money to me. That is breath money. That is safety money. That is move-to-a-better-flat money. That is hire-help-and-grow-my-business money. That is stop-checking-my-account-before-ordering-dinner money. That is future money.
My fingers tighten around the pages. People who say money doesn’t matter have usually never lacked it. Money pays rent on time. Money buys exits. Money gives choices. Money lets you rest. Money lets you go looking for answers that grief buried years ago.
A private investigator. Records reopened. Names traced. Something—anything—about my parents beyond a file and silence.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “I’ll do it.”
The words leave my mouth before caution can stand up. Ajay’s smile widens. I dislike that smile immediately.
I haven’t even seen the damage and this is professionally stupid, but money blinds me because I clearly lack it.
“You can inspect it today.” Ajay comments as if reading my thoughts.
“I said I’ll do it.” Because I am many things, but not foolish enough to walk away from this kind of opportunity. He offers me a pen. I take it. For one second, I hover over the signature line. Not because of the work. Because of him. His office means proximity. More time. More conversations that begin in annoyance and end somewhere dangerous. More of those green eyes fixed on me like I am worth understanding. More chances for my heart to continue behaving like an idiot.
I should refuse. I should protect my peace. I should keep distance while distance is still possible. Instead, I sign.
My name cuts across the paper in one sure stroke.
Done.
Ajay gathers the file, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I’ll inform sir.”
“Don’t.” He pauses. I clear my throat. “I mean, there’s no need to dramatize routine paperwork.”
“Of course.” Again with that tone. I point toward the door. “You can go now.”
He inclines his head and leaves. The second the door clicks shut, silence rushes in. I stare at the empty doorway. Then at my hands. Then at the contract copy. Then back at the door. What just happened? I got manipulated. That is what happened.
Somewhere inside this polished little arrangement is Aryan Khanna, smiling like a man who has committed a crime and expects applause.
I know it. I feel it. And yet—I still signed.
Because money is practical.
Because work is work.
Because opportunities do not politely return later.
Because I am intelligent enough to separate business from emotion.
Because I am absolutely not thinking about seeing him again.
Because I am definitely not wondering what expression he’ll wear when I walk into his ruined office.
Because I am not curious whether he missed me too.
I drop my head into my hands. This is bad. Very bad. I used to be rational. Now I am a woman who panicked over a man being hurt and signed a major contract while thinking about his face.
