Chapter 22
KAVYA
It had been four months since Saurav left for duty, and if I said I didn't miss his calls, I’d be lying.
The problem was, he didn't exactly call me. Once a week, his name would flash on Mr. Chauhan’s phone.
The conversations were clinical, lasting less than sixty seconds barely enough time to confirm he was still breathing.
Currently he was posted in Thiruvananthapuram.
Rajasthan to Kerala. He couldn’t have picked a spot further away if he’d tried. Maybe that was the point.
Lately, it felt like my feelings for Saurav were evaporating, like water on a hot Jaipur sidewalk.
I had fallen for a version of a man who no longer existed.
In his place was someone cold, distant, and if I were being honest, a bit cruel.
I tried to maintain my independence, but my interior design business had hit a brick wall.
The moment I started using the "Chauhan" surname, the orders stopped.
It was as if the name itself carried a "Do Not Touch" sign that terrified every vendor in the city.
Desperate and drowning in boredom, I finally accepted a job offer from my father-in-law: his personal assistant.
On paper, it was a dream. Seventy-five thousand rupees a month just to shadow him, take notes, and manage his schedule?
People would kill for that. If Saurav ever found out, he’d probably explode with "Chauhan Pride" or whatever ego-driven fuel he was running on these days, but I did it for Mr. Chauhan.
His health was a crumbling sandcastle. Between the diabetes and his fading memory, he needed a watchdog, not just an assistant.
Most days, I wasn't "reminding" him to take his pills; I was practically performing a wrestling maneuver to get him to swallow them.
But I loved the time we spent together. He was cheerful, kind, and positive, he was the only piece of the "Old Saurav" I had left.
Then came the meeting with the Sisodiyas.
I spent the entire car ride crossing my fingers, praying to every deity in the index that it wouldn't be that Abhiraj Sisodiya. Apparently, the gods were busy that morning.
"I’m glad to have you here, Chauhan," Abhiraj said, his voice like velvet over gravel. He shook my father-in-law’s hand before his eyes slid to me, a predatory glint in them. "And thanks for bringing your lovely daughter-in-law."
"She’s my PA now," Mr. Chauhan chuckled, oblivious to the lightning bolts I was shooting from my eyes at Abhiraj Sisodiya. He was the same man who had assaulted me at the party and pinned the blame on my father-in-law.
I waited for Abhiraj’s name to come up that night, ready to confront the truth in front of Mr. Chauhan. I had a mental script prepared: how he’d cornered me, how he’d behaved like a common thug. But disappointment washed over me when my father-in-law remained silent and simply took a seat.
Seeing my expression Abhiraj smirked and took his seat next to Mr. Chauhan. I glared at him with enough heat to melt lead. He didn't flinch. In fact, he looked amused, as if my death-stares were actually blowing him kisses.
"I assumed exactly the same," Abhiraj said, leaning back as if he’d just read my mind like a morning newspaper. "Please, have a seat, Ma’am."
The meeting began, and I prepared myself to be bored as I had never been in such kind of meetings before.
But instead, I was shocked. Abhiraj presented his new project: a massive shopping complex near a village in Udaipur.
But it wasn't just any mall. It was entirely reserved for women.
Shops, parlors, art galleries, all owned and operated by women to foster financial independence.
I stared at my notepad, my pen frozen. How could a man who treated women like playthings suddenly sound like a feminist crusader? He was not only a good businessman, but also a damn good actor.
Once the presentation ended, the room blurred into a hum of networking. Abhiraj didn't go to the other investors. He sat right next to me, grabbed a water bottle, and drained the whole thing in one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing rhythmically.
"I heard you’re an interior designer?" he asked out of blue, slamming the bottle down with a definitive thud.
"Yes..." I whispered, looking down at my notes, then around the conference room as everyone was busy talking about Abhiraj’s new project. Everyone seemed quite impressed by him.
"Can you design my new workplace? The main headquarters?"
My head snapped up so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. "You’re a millionaire. You can afford a designer from Milan. Why me?" I gave him the same look I once reserved for high school bullies.
"Because I like freshers," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You’re young. You have ideas that haven't been beaten out of you by corporate greed yet. Plus, if you design my office, every businessman in Rajasthan will see your work. It’s a launchpad, Kavya."
I looked at my notes again. He was playing a game. He wanted my father-in-law’s investment, and I was the bait. I glanced around the table, twelve partners, only four of whom were women. He was selling a dream to buy the room. He was pretending to be a good person which of course he was not.
"If you think I’m doing this for show, you’re wrong," he said, catching my skeptical look.
"I actually believe women deserve more than four walls and a stove. They deserve a stage. And I want to build it. I genuinely want women to grow and claim the space that has always been theirs whether it’s in art, in business, or in leadership.
I want them to stand tall, unapologetic, and unstoppable.
Because when women rise, the world rises with them. "
I raised an eyebrow, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "That’s rich, coming from you. You talk about empowerment, but you’ve spent half your life making sure people feel powerless beneath your thumb."
Abhiraj leaned back, his grin maddeningly calm. "Touché. But maybe I’m tired of being the villain in everyone’s story. Maybe I’m looking for a redemption arc."
"Or maybe you just want my father-in-law’s bank account," I shot back, crossing my arms.
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "You’re sharp, Kavya. I like that. But I don’t need his money. I need his daughter-in-law’s fire."
I scoffed. "You could hire ten designers better than me."
"Better? Maybe. But not braver. You’re looking at me like you’re ready to stab me through the throat with that cheap ballpoint pen. That’s the kind of energy I want in my office."
I rolled my eyes. "You’re ridiculous."
"And you’re stubborn," he countered smoothly. "Which makes this fun."
The air between us felt heavy, a strange mix of cold fury and something dangerously warm. He leaned closer, his scent was sandalwood and expensive cigars, clouding my judgment. "So, what do you say? Will you design my masterpiece, or will you keep glaring at me until I spontaneously combust?"
I couldn't help it. A short, bitter laugh escaped me. "You? Combust? Please. You’re too full of yourself to ever burn out."
He smirked, then suddenly tilted his head, his expression turning mock-serious. "Actually, I did almost combust once."
I frowned, caught off guard. "What?"
"Yeah," he said, deadpan. "Third year of university. I ate three bowls of extra-spicy rajma-chawal before a final exam. I nearly leveled the library. My old classmates still call it 'The Great Gas Crisis of 2015.'"
I blinked. The mental image of this high-and-mighty tycoon suffering from a legume-induced explosion was too much. A laugh burst out of me, it was unplanned, loud, and genuine. "You are absolutely insane."
"Insanely charming," he corrected, wagging his eyebrows like a cartoon villain. "See? I made you laugh. That’s a 'Phase One' victory."
I shook my head, still giggling despite my best efforts to stay angry. "You’re impossible."
"And yet," he said, his voice softening as he leaned back with a satisfied grin, "you’re still sitting here talking to me, Mrs. Chauhan."
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