The first thing Rahul Malhotra noticed when he walked into Malhotra Mansion that evening was the smell.
Not the usual smell of imported lilies that his mother had insisted on before she left for Paris and never came back. Not the sterile, expensive scent of lemon and cedarwood the housekeeping staff maintained because Devyanshi had put it in the staff handbook under 'Approved Ambience Protocols'.
This was different. Warm. Rich. Human.
It was garlic. And butter. And cumin. And something else he couldn't name, but it made his stomach clench in a way that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with a memory he didn't have. A memory of a home.
The second thing he noticed was the laughter.
Deep, genuine laughter that echoed from the dining hall. A man's laugh. Vikram's laugh.
Rahul's footsteps faltered on the marble floor. In twenty-eight years of living in this house, he could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard laughter like that in the dining hall. Boardroom victories got a nod. Billion-dollar mergers got a rare, tight smile from his father before he died. His mother never laughed. She negotiated.
But this? This was the sound of a man who had forgotten he was Vikram, the perpetually nervous executive assistant, for a second. This was the sound of a man who was just... happy.
The third thing he noticed was her.
Isha.
She wasn't in the grey, shapeless uniform Devyanshi had assigned her. She was wearing a simple, dark green kurta that he had never seen before. It must have been her own. It brought out the gold in her skin, the same gold he had seen under the harsh lights of the auction hall and dismissed as cheap lighting.
Her hair was open, falling over her shoulders in soft waves. She wasn't wearing any jewelry, any makeup. She was just... Isha. And she was standing near the dining table, holding a white serving dish with blue flowers on the rim, and she was smiling.
Not the small, terrified, placating smile she gave him. Not the dead, empty smile she wore when the board members stared. A real one. One that reached her eyes and crinkled the corners and made her look seventeen again. The way she must have looked before the world taught her that smiling was dangerous. Before her brother died. Before the debts. Before him.
He, Rahul Malhotra, CEO of Malhotra Industries, a man who had closed deals that shifted economies, was jealous. Of his own employee. Over a girl he'd bought for 500 dollars at an illegal auction to prove a point to his board.
The absurdity of it made him want to laugh. Or break something expensive. Preferably something that belonged to Vikram.
"Having a party I wasn't invited to?" His voice came out sharper than he intended, cutting through their laughter like a blade through silk. The sound died instantly.
Vikram looked up, his expression cooling instantly back into the professional mask Rahul had hired him for five years ago. The change was so fast it was almost frightening. It was the mask of a man who knew exactly how much his job paid and exactly how many people depended on that paycheck. "Rahul. You're early. Dinner isn't for another hour. I thought you had the Singapore call."
"I live here," Rahul snapped, his eyes not on Vikram, but on Isha. She had frozen with the serving dish in her hands, her smile wiped clean. Good. She should remember who owned the house. Who owned her contract. "Since when do we take dinner suggestions from the help? Since when does the help cook in my kitchen and serve in my dining hall?"
Isha didn't flinch. That was new. The Isha from a week ago would have flinched. She would have dropped the dish. She would have stammered an apology. Now, she just set the dish down on the table with deliberate, careful calm and looked at Vikram, not at Rahul.
Asking for permission.
That small act of deference to Vikram was like a match to gasoline. It was a declaration. In this room, at this moment, Vikram's opinion mattered more than his.
"She made dal," Vikram said, his tone carefully neutral, but his eyes were watching Rahul too closely. Gauging his reaction. Like a man diffusing a bomb. "Said it was her brother's favorite. I mentioned I hadn't had a home-cooked meal in months. She offered. I thought I'd try it."
"Dal," Rahul repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. Like poverty. Like the slum auctions he pretended didn't exist. "You're eating dal. With the servant. At my dining table. On my mother's china." He gestured to the blue-flowered dish. It had been a wedding gift to his parents.
"Our dining table," Vikram corrected mildly. "And she's not eating. She's serving. Unless you have a problem with that too?"
Everything. He had a problem with everything. With the way Isha's kurta brought out the gold in her skin. With the way Vikram was looking at her—not with lust, but with interest. With curiosity. With respect. Like she was a person with a history and a brother who liked dal. With the way she was ignoring Rahul's presence like he was just another piece of expensive, useless furniture in the mansion.
"I want to talk to her," Rahul said abruptly, taking a step toward Isha. "In private. Now."
"No."
The word didn't come from Isha. It came from Vikram. Quiet. Final. Not a suggestion. An order.
Rahul actually turned to stare at him. He couldn't have heard that right. Vikram, who triple-checked emails before sending them, who apologized when Rahul was late to meetings. Vikram had just told him no. In his own house. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Vikram picked up his spoon and gestured to the chair across from him. The head of the table. His chair. "Sit. Eat. If you want to talk to my employee, you can do it when she's not on duty. After dinner. That is company policy, and it is the law."
My employee. Not your toy. Not the 500-dollar girl. Not the contract with legs. My employee.
The words were a slap. Vikram had just drawn a line in the marble floor with that spoon.
Rahul's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Since when do you care about the servants' duty hours, Vikram? Since when do you quote labor law to me in my own dining hall?"
"Since one of them started making more sense than my own boss," Vikram replied, and finally took a bite of the dal. He chewed, swallowed, and his eyebrows went up in genuine, unguarded surprise. "It's good."
He looked at Isha then, and his smile was soft. Proud. The kind of smile a teacher gives a student who finally solved the problem. "It's very good, Isha. Thank you. It tastes like... it tastes like someone cared when they made it."
Isha's cheeks turned pink. She ducked her head, a gesture of shyness Rahul had never seen from her, but he saw the small, pleased smile she couldn't hide. It was a smile of accomplishment. Of being seen.
That was it. That was the last straw. That smile didn't belong to him. He had paid for her body, her time, her presence. But that smile? That was freely given. To someone else.
Rahul crossed the distance to Isha in three long strides. He didn't touch her. He knew better now. The last time he grabbed her, she had looked at him like he was a monster. But he got close. Too close. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, close enough that he could see the rapid pulse in her throat, close enough to smell her. She smelled like cumin and soap. Not like his mother's lilies.
"You," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, a dangerous whisper, "are coming with me. Now. We are going to my study and you are going to explain why my employee is eating your food and looking at you like you hung the moon."
Isha's eyes flicked to Vikram for half a second. Seeking permission again. Seeking backup. Then back to Rahul. And she did something he didn't expect. Something that was worse than fear.
She stepped back. Not in fear. In dismissal. Like he was a rude guest at a party she was hosting.
"I'm in the middle of service, Mr. Malhotra," she said, her voice perfectly polite, perfectly empty. Customer-service empty. The voice she used on board members. "Mr. Vikram is waiting for his dinner. If you're hungry, the kitchen staff can serve you in your room. Or you can join us. There is enough dal."
Mr. Malhotra. Not Rahul. Not 'sir'. The distinction was deliberate. A knife slipped between his ribs and twisted. She had demoted him from a name to a title.
She was choosing. In a room with two men, she was choosing the older, calmer one. Because he, at least, wasn't trying to own her. He was just asking to eat her food.
"I'm not hungry," Rahul bit out. He was starving, but not for food. He was starving for that smile. For that look of deference she used to give him before he broke her.
"Then perhaps you should leave," Isha said, and turned her back on him. Turned her back on Rahul Malhotra and picked up the water jug to refill Vikram's glass. The sound of water hitting crystal was the loudest sound in the world. It was the sound of his authority evaporating.
Rahul stood there for one full minute. Sixty seconds. Humiliated. Powerless. In his own house. With his own employee and his own contract worker acting like he was the intruder.
Vikram didn't gloat. He didn't even look at him with triumph. He just continued eating his dal like nothing had happened, asking Isha if she had enough left for herself later, if she had eaten at all today.
And Isha answered him. Softly. Like they were the only two people in the room. "Yes, Mr. Vikram. I ate with the kitchen staff before service. Thank you for asking."
He had been erased. He had been replaced by a bowl of dal and a question about her well-being.
He turned on his heel and walked out. His footsteps didn't falter this time. They were measured. Controlled. The footsteps of a king leaving a battlefield he had just lost, determined not to let the peasants see him bleed.
He walked all the way to his study on the second floor, locked the heavy oak door, and then, and only then, did he pick up the crystal decanter of 50-year-old scotch from his desk and hurl it against the wall.
It shattered. The sound was satisfying. The smell of expensive alcohol filled the room.
Just like his control had shattered.
He sank into his leather chair, his head in his hands. He wasn't angry anymore. The rage had burned out too fast. He was afraid. Cold, clammy, terrified.
Because for the first time since the day he bought her at that auction to save her from a worse fate and to use her as a tax write-off, Isha Sharma had looked at another man and seen safety.
And she had looked at Rahul Malhotra and seen a cage. A gilded, expensive, inescapable cage.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Devyanshi. _Sir, the legal team is asking about the termination paperwork you requested this morning. Should I send the personal services contract voidance docs to Ms. Sharma for signature?_
Rahul stared at the word. _Voidance_.
He could do it. One signature and Isha would be free. Free to leave this house. Free to go with Vikram, who would probably rent a one-bedroom apartment and treat her like a queen. Free to be happy making dal for someone who said thank you.
His thumb hovered over the reply button. For a second, he considered it. He considered letting her go. It would be the decent thing to do. The human thing.
Then he thought of her smile. The real one. The one she gave Vikram. The one he had never earned, never seen, never deserved.
And his thumb moved. He deleted the draft. He typed one word.
_No.
Double the security on the perimeter. She's not leaving. Cancel the voidance.
He hit send.
He wasn't ready to lose yet. Not to his employee. Not to a bowl of lentils. Not to anyone.
Isha was his. Not his wife. Not his love. Not his friend. But his. His contract. His 500 dollar investment. His problem to solve. His responsibility. His mistake.
And Rahul Malhotra didn't abandon his investments. He didn't write off losses.
He broke them, or he fixed them. He dominated them, or he was dominated by them.
There was no third option. Not in his world.
He opened his laptop. The screen illuminated his face in the dark room. If Vikram wanted to play protector, fine. Let's see how well he protects her when Rahul starts playing with his life. Let's see how safe Isha feels when Vikram's sister's scholarship suddenly gets revoked. When his mother's medical bills suddenly get audited.
"Devyanshi," he said into his phone, his voice now completely calm. Ice cold. "New task. Get me everything on Vikram. I want his parents' address. His sister's college records. His bank statements. His mother's hospital. If he has a late library fine from ten years ago, I want it on my desk by midnight."
He ended the call and looked at the shattered crystal on his wall. The amber liquid was dripping onto his Persian rug.
The war wasn't over. It had just started.
And the dinner he wasn't invited to?
He was about to crash it. With a bulldozer....
Author's Note:
Hey my lovelies!💗
1.01K views?! I literally screamed when I saw it 😭🙏 This is all because of your love and comments. My phone is at 93%, but my heart is at 1000%.*
Let's talk about Ch-8: "The Dinner He Wasn't Invited To"
Isha finally put Rahul in his place today 🔥 That "Mr. Malhotra" was colder than ice. He thought money could buy everything... but Isha's smile? That's free. And she gave it to Vikram.
Rahul is NOT okay 💔 For the first time, he's jealous. For the first time, he's scared. Because Isha might be his contract, but she's not his. She never was.
Vikram though... my man 🥺 Eating dal and still looking like a king. He sees her. Really sees her. While Rahul only sees a 500 dollar investment.
Next chapter, Rahul goes full psycho mode. He's going to try and ruin Vikram's life. Can Isha stop him? Or will she watch him self-destruct?
Tell me in the comments:
1. Do you feel bad for Rahul or "he deserved it"?
2. Team Vikram or Team Rahul? 👀
3. Should Isha run or stay and fight?
Ch-9 "The Bulldozer" drops tomorrow at 9 AM. Rahul is coming to destroy everything 🔥
I love you all. Tell me how you liked the chapter before I sleep 🌙😘
Your writer, the 1.01K one ✨
Thank you for reading my page 💗 💗