From:
To:
“Mr. Oberoi. I’m Anika. Your brother paid me fifty thousand rupees to pretend I’m your fiancée for one week. You look like you hate the idea. Good. Because I hate you already. Where’s my room?”
Anika steps forward. For a moment, she sees the photograph of the woman on the table. Her expression softens—just a flicker. Then she hardens again.
“Family. It’s a word people throw around like confetti. But in this house, family is a contract. And I am the signatory.”
“The servants’ quarters are down the hall. You’ll fit right in.”
The camera pans across a cold, palatial living room. It’s museum-perfect: white marble, antique vases, not a speck of dust. But there’s no warmth. In the center of a long, mahogany table sits a single framed photograph of a woman with a gentle smile.
stands by the window, a glass of scotch in his hand. He doesn’t drink. He just holds it. His phone buzzes. A text from Rudra : “Bhai, we’re coming home. And we’re not alone.”
“You brought chaos into my house.”
“Mr. Oberoi. I’m Anika. Your brother paid me fifty thousand rupees to pretend I’m your fiancée for one week. You look like you hate the idea. Good. Because I hate you already. Where’s my room?”
Anika steps forward. For a moment, she sees the photograph of the woman on the table. Her expression softens—just a flicker. Then she hardens again.
“Family. It’s a word people throw around like confetti. But in this house, family is a contract. And I am the signatory.”
“The servants’ quarters are down the hall. You’ll fit right in.”
The camera pans across a cold, palatial living room. It’s museum-perfect: white marble, antique vases, not a speck of dust. But there’s no warmth. In the center of a long, mahogany table sits a single framed photograph of a woman with a gentle smile.
stands by the window, a glass of scotch in his hand. He doesn’t drink. He just holds it. His phone buzzes. A text from Rudra : “Bhai, we’re coming home. And we’re not alone.”
“You brought chaos into my house.”
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