The glass walls of Rathore Towers stretched up into the grey-blue sky like a monument to wealth, ambition, and power. It was the kind of building that intimidated you the moment you stood before it—every inch of it sleek, polished, and perfect. Meera Desai took a deep breath as she stood at the base of it, clutching her portfolio like it might save her life.
She was just a girl from Jaipur, and this wasn’t supposed to be her world.
The receptionist, dressed in a tight black suit and red lipstick, barely looked at Meera before waving her toward the elevator. “Twenty-ninth floor. Mr. Rathore’s office. You’re expected.”
Meera’s heels clicked nervously as she entered the elevator, her heart hammering in her chest. Her kurti was smart and modern, but suddenly she wondered if it looked too ethnic for Mumbai’s corporate world. She had tied her thick black hair into a low bun to look more professional, but stray curls had escaped during the rickshaw ride, brushing against her cheek like an uninvited touch.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
She stepped into a hallway of silence and glass. A woman in a cream saree nodded at her and gestured to a massive darkwood door.
“Mr. Rathore will see you now.”
Meera’s breath caught as the doors opened.
Inside, the office was cavernous—sunlight poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting the marble floors and deep leather furnishings. A heavy scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, masculine and decadent.
And there, standing behind an obsidian desk, was him.
Aarav Rathore.
She had seen his face in magazines—India’s most eligible bachelor, the ruthless CEO of Rathore Group, the man who turned luxury into an empire. But none of those photos prepared her for the force of him in person.
He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders that filled out a tailored charcoal suit. His skin was bronze, his jaw angular and clean-shaven, his hair a perfect mess of dark waves. But it was his eyes that stole her breath: intense, almost predatory, like they were stripping her bare the moment they met hers.
“Miss Desai,” he said, his voice smooth and low, like aged whiskey. “You’re early.”
“I—yes. I didn’t want to be late,” she stammered, walking forward with all the grace she could muster.
He watched her like a lion watches a deer.
“Sit,” he said simply.
She did.
For a few long seconds, he said nothing, just studied her. The silence grew heavy, almost charged.
“I reviewed your portfolio,” he finally said, opening a sleek tablet. “You’ve worked on small-scale boutique interiors in Jaipur?”
“Yes. Mostly independent cafes and private residences.”
“And yet you applied to be the assistant to my lead designer. Curious.”
“I wanted a challenge,” she replied. “And to learn from the best.”
His mouth quirked upward, but it wasn’t quite a smile.
“You realize this isn’t Jaipur, Miss Desai. We don’t work at a leisurely pace, and we don’t decorate haveli courtyards with fairy lights and call it design.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I’m aware, sir. I believe I can adapt.”
He leaned back in his chair, watching her over steepled fingers.
“I don’t tolerate incompetence. Or fragility. I expect availability on demand. Long hours. Discretion. And complete loyalty.”
His voice held no room for argument.
Meera met his gaze. “Understood.”
Another long silence. Then, without breaking eye contact, he said, “You’re hired.”
Her mouth fell open. “I—just like that?”
“I make decisions quickly. And I always get what I want.”
The way he said it sent a chill down her spine.
“Report here tomorrow. Seven a.m. sharp.”
She stood, slightly dazed. “Thank you, Mr. Rathore.”
As she turned to leave, his voice came again—this time softer, but no less commanding.
“Wear something black tomorrow. You look good in it.”
She froze for a moment, then walked out without a word, her heart thudding so hard it hurt.
Outside, the Mumbai heat hit her like a wall, but it couldn’t chase away the cold electricity in her veins.
She should be ecstatic. She’d just landed a dream opportunity, a direct assistantship to one of India’s most powerful men. It could launch her career.
And yet all she could think about was the look in his eyes—like he saw her, really saw her. Not just her resume. Not her clothes.
Like he already owned a piece of her.
End of chapter 1...

To be Continued...