Jealousy was a new emotion for Rahul Malhotra.
He had felt rage. He had felt contempt. He had felt boredom. He had felt the cold, sharp satisfaction of winning a deal that bankrupted a competitor. But jealousy? That gnawing, acidic, pathetic feeling that crawled under his skin and made him want to smash something that wasn't his? That was new.
And he hated it.
He hated that it had a name. Isha Sharma.
He hated that it had a face. Vikram's face, smiling over a bowl of dal.
For three days after the dinner incident, Rahul did not go home. He slept in his penthouse office on the 60th floor of Malhotra Tower. He took his calls from Singapore, Dubai, and London. He signed documents that moved billions. He fired a VP because the man's tie was crooked. He did everything a CEO was supposed to do.
And every night at 8 PM, his chest would tighten, because 8 PM was when Vikram left the office. 8 PM was when Vikram went back to Malhotra Mansion. Where Isha was.
On the fourth day, Devyanshi knocked and entered without waiting for permission, a privilege only she had earned after seven years. She placed a tablet on his glass desk. No words. Just a photograph.
Security footage. Time-stamped yesterday, 9:17 PM. Malhotra Mansion. The east garden.
Isha was sitting on the stone bench under the old banyan tree. The one his mother used to read under before she left. Vikram was sitting next to her. Not touching. Not even close. A respectful foot of space between them. Vikram was holding a small, tattered book. Isha was laughing. Not the customer-service smile. Not the dead smile. A real laugh, her head thrown back, her hand covering her mouth.
Vikram was reading to her.
Rahul stared at the photo until his eyes burned. He didn't ask how Devyanshi got it. He didn't ask why she showed it to him. He already knew.
Devyanshi was loyal. And loyal people eliminated threats before their boss had to ask.
"Cancel the Singapore trip," Rahul said finally, his voice like gravel. He pushed the tablet away without touching it. "I'm going home."
"Shall I inform the household staff, sir?" Devyanshi asked, her tone neutral.
"No. And call Tanya Oberoi. Tell her I'll pick her up at 8 PM. For dinner. At my place."
Devyanshi's eyebrow went up a fraction. The only sign of surprise she would ever show. "Ms. Oberoi, sir? The Oberoi Group heiress?"
"The one and only. Tell her to wear red. She looks good in red."
Tanya Oberoi. Daughter of Karan Oberoi, who owned half of Mumbai's hotels. Harvard-educated. Model-beautiful. Ruthless in boardrooms. She had been chasing Rahul for two years. She sent expensive wine. She showed up at his charity galas. She once sent him a contract titled "Merger: Personal and Professional" with her signature already on it.
Rahul had ignored her. Tanya was predictable. Tanya was safe. Tanya was a transaction he didn't need yet.
Until now.
Until he needed the world, and specifically two people in his mansion, to know that Rahul Malhotra did not get replaced. He did the replacing.
Isha heard the cars first.
Three of them. The low growl of Rahul's matte-black Maybach, followed by two security SUVs. She was in the kitchen, helping the cook prep for dinner. She froze, a knife in her hand, halfway through slicing onions.
He was back.
Her first instinct was fear. The old, conditioned fear that made her shoulders curl inward. The fear that remembered auction halls and cold eyes and the word "contract."
Her second instinct was new. It was anger. It was exhaustion. It was the memory of Vikram asking her, gently, "When was the last time someone asked you what book you like?"
She put the knife down. Slowly. Deliberately. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked out of the kitchen. Not to hide in her room. Not to make herself small. She walked to the main foyer.
She would meet him standing up.
Rahul walked in at 7:58 PM. He was not alone.
The woman next to him was everything Isha was not. Tall. Willowy. Dressed in a red silk dress that probably cost more than Isha's brother's entire year of college fees. Her hair was a perfect, glossy black waterfall. Her diamonds were real and loud. Her smile was practiced, sharp, and meant to cut.
Tanya Oberoi. Isha knew the name. Everyone in Mumbai knew the name.
Tanya's eyes swept the foyer, catalogued the marble, the art, the chandelier, and then landed on Isha. They did a slow, dismissive trip from Isha's plain cotton kurta to her bare feet to her lack of jewelry. Her smile didn't waver. It sharpened.
"Rahul, darling," Tanya said, her voice like honey poured over broken glass, "you didn't tell me you were running a charity shelter now. How quaint."
Rahul's hand settled on the small of Tanya's back. Possessive. Deliberate. His eyes were on Isha. Watching her. Waiting for her reaction. Waiting for the flinch. The hurt. The jealousy he was feeling.
Isha didn't give it to him.
She looked at Tanya. Then at Rahul. Then she did a small, perfect nod. The nod a staff member gives a guest. "Welcome to Malhotra Mansion, Ms. Oberoi. Will you be dining in tonight? I'll inform the kitchen to add a place setting."
Her voice was calm. Empty. Professional. The same voice she used on board members.
Rahul's jaw ticked. That wasn't the reaction he wanted. He wanted tears. He wanted a scene. He wanted proof that she cared.
"What is she?" Tanya asked, not even looking at Isha, talking about her like she was furniture. "A new maid? She's quite plain, Rahul. I thought you had standards."
"She's a contract worker," Rahul said, his voice flat. Cold. He was still staring at Isha. "A temporary asset. She manages some... personal errands."
Asset. Not person. Not name. Asset.
The word hit Isha, but she didn't let it show. Not here. Not in front of this woman. Not in front of him. She had cried over that word for months. She was done crying over it.
"Vikram is in the study," Isha said instead, addressing Rahul directly, ignoring Tanya completely. "He has the Q3 reports you asked for. Should I tell him you're home?"
The mention of Vikram's name was a bullet. Rahul's eyes went dark. Tanya felt the temperature drop and her predatory smile widened. She lived for this. Rich men fighting over women. Women fighting over rich men. It was sport.
"Vikram can wait," Rahul said. "Tanya and I are having dinner. In the main dining hall. The one with the blue-flowered china."
He was marking territory. Pissing on trees. The blue-flowered china was where Vikram had eaten dal. Where Isha had smiled.
"Of course, Mr. Malhotra," Isha said. Mr. Malhotra. Not Rahul. Never Rahul again. "I'll have it set up immediately."
She turned and walked away. Her back straight. Her steps measured. She didn't run. She didn't look back.
Tanya laughed, low and delighted. "Oh, Rahul. She's got spirit. I like her. Can we keep her? Like a pet?"
Rahul didn't answer. He was watching the spot where Isha had disappeared into the hallway. His hand, which had been on Tanya's back, had curled into a fist.
Dinner was a performance.
Tanya played her part perfectly. She laughed too loud. She touched Rahul's arm constantly. She told stories about their "college days" at Harvard, which were lies because Rahul had dropped out after one semester to take over Malhotra Industries when his father had the heart attack. She talked about the Oberoi-Malhotra merger, calling it "inevitable."
"Your father would have loved this, Rahul," Tanya said, sipping wine from a glass that cost more than Isha's monthly stipend. "Two empires becoming one. It's like a fairytale."
Rahul said nothing. He drank. He watched the doorway. He was waiting for Isha to come serve. To see them. To see him with a woman who belonged in this house, in this world, in his arms.
Isha did not come. She sent the kitchen boy to serve. A 17-year-old kid who was terrified of Rahul and spilled water on the tablecloth.
Rahul didn't yell. He didn't even notice. Because at 8:47 PM, Vikram walked past the dining hall.
He didn't stop. He didn't look in. He was carrying the same tattered book from the security photo. He was heading for the east garden.
Rahul stood up so fast his chair scraped against the marble. The sound was like a scream.
"Where are you going?" he snapped.
Vikram stopped. Turned. He saw Tanya. He saw Rahul's face. He put it together in one second. His expression didn't change. It was still calm. Still respectful. Still infuriating.
"To return a book, sir," Vikram said. "To the library. I was just finishing some notes."
"At 9 PM? In the garden?"
"The lighting is better for reading there, sir. The library lights are too harsh."
Lies. All lies. And both of them knew it.
Tanya looked between them, her eyes gleaming. "Rahul, darling, is he your gardener? He's quite bold, talking back like that."
"Vikram is my Executive Assistant," Rahul bit out. "And he's done for the night. Vikram, you're dismissed. Go home."
"I have the Singapore call notes to finish, sir," Vikram said evenly. "I'll be in the study if you need me. Goodnight, Ms. Oberoi."
He nodded to Tanya and walked away. He did not go to the study. He went to the east garden.
Rahul sat down. His knuckles were white around his wine glass.
"You okay, baby?" Tanya purred, running a red fingernail down his arm. "You seem... distracted. Is it the help? I can have my father call the agency. Get you a new one. A less... emotional one."
Rahul looked at her. Really looked at her. Tanya was beautiful. Tanya was rich. Tanya was willing. Tanya was everything his board wanted, everything his status demanded, everything that made sense on paper.
And he felt nothing.
Not the rage he felt when Isha called him "Mr. Malhotra."
Not the fear he felt when he saw Isha laugh for Vikram.
Not the jealousy that was currently eating him alive from the inside out.
He felt nothing. Tanya was a prop. A message. A distraction.
And it wasn't working.
"Let's go upstairs," Rahul said abruptly, standing again. "I'm done with dinner."
Tanya's smile turned triumphant. "Finally. I was wondering when you'd remember why I'm here."
Isha was in her room. The smallest room in the mansion, tucked behind the kitchen. It had a bed, a desk, and a window that looked out onto the east garden.
She wasn't crying. She had promised herself she was done crying over Rahul Malhotra.
She was reading. The same tattered book Vikram had been holding. _The God of Small Things_. Her brother's favorite. Vikram had found it in a used bookstore after she mentioned it once, offhand, two weeks ago. He had brought it to her yesterday. "Thought you might like it," he had said, and left before she could thank him.
She heard footsteps in the hallway. Two sets. Rahul's, heavy and angry. A woman's, light and clicking in heels.
They stopped outside her door.
Isha didn't breathe.
"She's in there?" Tanya's voice, curious and cruel. "The contract girl? Can I see her? I want to see what has you so twisted up, Rahul."
"She's no one," Rahul said. His voice was low. Dangerous. "And you're not here for her. You're here for me."
"Am I?" Tanya's laugh. "Because you've been staring at her door for five minutes. Not at me. At a door. With a contract worker behind it."
There was a silence. Then the sound of Rahul's hand hitting the wall next to Isha's door. Hard.
"Enough," he snarled. "My room. Now."
Their footsteps moved away. A door slammed upstairs. His room.
Isha exhaled. Her hands were shaking. Not with fear. With rage.
She looked out her window. Vikram was in the garden. Sitting on the stone bench. Alone. He wasn't reading. He was just sitting there, looking up at the stars. Like he was waiting. Or guarding.
Isha didn't know which.
But for the first time since the auction, since the contract, since she became an "asset," Isha Sharma felt something she hadn't felt in a year.
She felt protected.
Not by the man who owned her contract.
By the man who brought her a book.
And upstairs, Rahul Malhotra, with the most eligible woman in Mumbai in his bed, closed his eyes and saw only one thing.
Isha's face when she said "Mr. Malhotra."
Cold. Empty. Gone.
The replacement hadn't worked.
Because you can't replace something you never had in the first place....
Author's Note:
Hey lovelies! đź’—
Ch-9 done! Tanya is here and Rahul is a mess 🔥 Did the replacement plan work? Spoiler: No.
Isha chose a book over drama. Vikram chose the stars over a fight. And Rahul? He chose wrong.
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