{emotions? they’re for fools}

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“With due respect, Mr. Tripathi---” I paused, tapping my pen against the table with a rhythm sharp enough to drive nails through skulls, “---which is none, by the way, you can gracefully pick your ass and leave the meeting.”

The silence that followed was the kind I lived for. Heavy. Awkward. Deliciously humiliating. I could feel it wrap around the mahogany conference table like a velvet glove, squeezing the breath out of the overpaid morons sitting across from me.

I thrived on that silence. The way jaws clenched mid-chew of their ego, the way pens stilled halfway over their notes, the way eyes darted nervously between me and the poor bastard I had just gutted with words.

Tripathi — mid-fifties, double chin wobbling, puffed up like an overripe tomato, was already sweating through his expensive shirt. He attempted to glare at me. Attempted, being the operative word.

“Don’t forget, Miss Maheshwari,” he said, his voice trembling with poorly disguised anger, “I am one of the board members of Maheshwari Motors. I deserve respect.”

I leaned back in my chair, the CEO chair, my chair, crossing one leg over the other like a queen adjusting her throne. The leather creaked in perfect harmony with my movement. My eyes slid to him with exaggerated boredom.

“Oh?” I purred, tilting my head just slightly, as if considering his words. “Then do one thing, Mr. Tripathi---go buy some respect with your dividend shares and eat it with your dinner tonight.

Hmm?”

The man nearly choked on his pride.

From my left, Samarth Chauhan---the COO of the company, my right-hand man in boardrooms, and a certified pain in my ass---coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. His grin was infuriatingly boyish when I caught him.

I gave him a look sharp enough to slice diamonds. He only grinned wider. If he weren’t so damned efficient, he’d be jobless by now. Unfortunately, Samarth knew exactly how valuable he was to me, which made him far too comfortable grinning every time I verbally executed someone.

“Miss Maheshwari---” Tripathi sputtered again, cheeks reddening further.

I raised a hand. “Don’t. Don’t even finish that sentence, or I might start charging you for wasting my oxygen.”

A murmur rippled around the table. I knew what they were thinking. That I was cruel. That I was arrogant. That I was too sharp, too much, too everything.

And they were right.

Because being too much is exactly why I sat at the head of this table and they sat everywhere else.

I reached for the glass of water in front of me, took a sip, and deliberately let the silence stretch until Tripathi’s ears turned redder than the tie strangling his thick neck.

“Gentlemen,” I said finally, voice honey-smooth and lethal, “let me remind you one last time---this is my company. My grandmother built it, and I perfected it. You’re all here because I allow you to be. If that bothers you, the exit is at your right. Please, use it.”

I gestured casually toward the door, the diamond on my bracelet catching the light. A spotlight. Because, let’s be honest, everything I did deserved one.

The silence returned, tighter this time, filled with begrudging submission. No one moved. Of course they didn’t. No one ever did.

Satisfied, I leaned back, tugged a strand of hair behind my ear, and let the corner of my lips tilt into the faintest smirk.

And in that moment, staring at their lowered eyes and stiff postures, one thing was clear.

I was the storm they couldn’t weather, the fire they couldn’t douse. And they all knew it.

Tripathi finally dragged himself out of the room in silence, and I allowed myself the faintest smirk of satisfaction.

Waste of time.

The meeting continued---designing our upcoming prototype: an AI-powered automobile. A revolution in the making. Maheshwari’s didn’t just participate in industries---we redefined them. Automobiles, medicine, defence, aviation, robotics, education. You name it, and my empire had its claws in it.

An empire that began with my great-great-grandfather before India’s independence, when he forged Maheshwari Steel & Iron into the nation’s backbone. Successors carried the torch until my grandmother, Savitri Maheshwari, turned it into the multi-trillion-dollar colossus it is today.

Until last month, she sat in this chair. Now she was gone. And soon, legally, everything she left behind would be mine.

After adjourning the meeting, I stepped into my private elevator, the mirrored walls throwing my reflection back at me.

I paused. Tilted my head. Damn. Even after a twelve-hour workday and verbally assassinating a board member, I looked flawless. My black hair fell sleek and sharp against my shoulders, my amber-brown eyes gleamed like molten gold---my favourite inheritance from my mother.

I smirked at myself, adjusting my blazer ever so slightly. “Honestly, Aaradhya, you’re wasted on this world,” I muttered under my breath. If there was anyone who could intimidate me, it was… well, also me.

Weakness had no place in this tower. But confidence? Oh, I had it in obscene amounts. And why shouldn’t I? If I didn’t obsess over myself, who else in this miserable world deserved the privilege?

With that, I tucked back a strand of hair and gave my reflection one last approving glance before the elevator pinged open.

My floor---the twenty-ninth---was sacred. Private. Only my team and my secretary had access here. But as I passed through his cabin, I noticed it was empty. Odd.

I walked into my office, tossed my blazer on the chair, and let my gaze sweep over the Mumbai skyline glittering beneath me. Beautiful. Almost as beautiful as me. Almost.

Memories tugged at the edges of my mind---childhood laughter, my mother’s soft voice---but I shoved them back where they belonged. No cracks in the ice. Not here.

A knock at the door. A server entered, carrying a tray with a Chai Tea Latte Milkshake---the only sweet thing in my diet, and always arriving precisely when I needed it most.

Of course.

He wasn’t here, but his presence lingered in this little ritual.

Aditya Batra.

My personal secretary. My shadow. My occasional headache. My… okay, fine, lifesaver at times. Seven years of putting up with me. Twenty other assistants had tried before him, and all had failed spectacularly. But not Aditya.

He was out somewhere on office work, yet he still managed to read my moods like a fortune teller. Honestly, the man must have a sixth sense.

I smirked, sipping the shake. Exactly right. Always exactly right. I’d tried half of Mumbai’s cafes to replicate this taste and failed. Every time I asked him, he’d smile that irritatingly mysterious smile. One day, I’d catch him red-handed.

The thought amused me. Aaradhya Maheshwari, heiress of an empire, reduced to spying on her secretary for milkshake intel. Iconic, really.

Whatever!

Before I could drown in thoughts, another knock came---this one heavier, deliberate.

“Come in,” I called, adjusting my posture.

The door opened to reveal Shlok Kulkarni, my grandmother’s lawyer, a man I had known since childhood. Late forties, hair peppered with Gray, always dressed like a bank vault---solid, proper, utterly by the book. He entered with his assistant trailing behind, carrying a leather briefcase that screamed serious paperwork.

“Hello, Miss Maheshwari,” Mr. Kulkarni greeted politely, extending his hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm, but I didn’t miss the cautious glint in his eyes. People always seemed a little… careful with me, like they were handling fire. Smart people, at least.

“Mr. Kulkarni,” I returned, shaking his hand before gesturing to the couch area. “Please, sit.”

“Oh Aaradhya, what’s with the formalities? Call me Uncle, the way you used to.”

I offered him a tight-lipped smile. “Old habits die hard.” And some habits---like keeping people at arm’s length---were never meant to die.

The assistant busied himself with placing the briefcase on the table. A server appeared like clockwork, setting down water and juice before vanishing again. I didn’t touch either. My patience was already thin, and the sound of my heel tapping against the marble floor echoed louder with each passing second.

Kulkarni smiled knowingly. “Shall I read the will for you in simple terms?”

“Please do,” I said, folding my arms. Legal jargon was fine---I understood it well enough---but today, I wanted the truth stripped bare, no frills.

He cleared his throat, straightening like a schoolteacher. “As per Mrs. Savitri Maheshwari’s will, you are the sole heir of her empire.”

Relief rushed through me, even though I’d already known it. Of course it was me. Who else? My grandmother had trusted me with the company long before her passing. Still, hearing it aloud---the confirmation---was like slipping into silk gloves that had always been waiting for me.

A smirk tugged at my lips, sharp and satisfied. “Naturally.”

But then he hesitated.

And I didn’t like hesitations.

“But…”

I arched a brow, a silent warning. That word carried the weight of a guillotine.

“But in order to inherit her wealth and the company, you must be married before you turn thirty. Otherwise, everything will transfer to her son-in-law---your father, Mr. Prakash Singh.”

For the first time in years, I felt my blood freeze.

The room seemed to shrink, air compressing into a suffocating silence. I leaned forward, snatched the will from his assistant’s hands, and scanned the dense legal script myself.

There it was. Cold. Unforgiving. Real.

Marriage.

The word alone felt like a slap.

I read it again, slower, as though repetition would make it vanish. It didn’t. My grandmother---my Nani---had written it down in ink. A clause binding me to the one thing I had sworn never to let chain me.

My lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Only my thoughts, colliding like a storm.

No. No, this can’t be happening. Nani would never do this. She knew me. She raised me. She trusted me. Marriage?

I laughed, but it was humourless, sharp, almost deranged. “You’re joking.”

Kulkarni’s face remained infuriatingly calm. “I’m afraid not.”

I dropped the will onto the table, my fingers curling into fists. Images of my father filled my head---his greed, his incompetence, his smirk when he realized the empire he had no hand in building might be handed to him on a golden platter. Rage simmered in my veins, scorching hotter than shock.

No.

I would rather set fire to this entire building than let Prakash Singh touch a single brick of it.

And yet---marriage?

I pressed my fingers to my temples, exhaling sharply. “This is absurd. Out of the question. There has to be a loophole.”

“There isn’t,” Kulkarni replied gently, as if soothing a child throwing a tantrum. His tone grated on me. “Your grandmother was quite firm. She believed marriage would provide stability.”

Stability. The word tasted like poison. I didn’t need a husband to be stable---I was stability incarnate.

I glanced at my reflection in the glass wall opposite us, my amber-brown eyes glinting under the fading sun. Strong. Unbreakable. Unreachable.

“Honestly, Aaradhya,” I muttered inwardly, “if anyone deserves to be married to you, it’s — you.”

The thought almost made me laugh. Almost. Because in that moment, the reality was sinking in.

Two months.

That’s all I had before my thirtieth birthday. Two months to find a husband.

And not just a husband---one who could stand beside me in this empire without toppling over under its weight.

My milkshake sat on the desk, forgotten now, the sweetness turning bitter on my tongue. I hated that I suddenly longed for another sip, for the comfort it brought---a comfort that always, always came from one man. The one person who somehow knew me better than anyone dared to.

Aditya Batra.

Even his absence gnawed at me now, like the universe was mocking me.

“Two months,” I whispered to myself, the words tasting like a curse. “How the fuck am I supposed to find a groom in two months?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered, as the sun dipped lower behind the skyline, painting the city in gold and fire.

And for the first time in years, I---the unshakable, untouchable Aaradhya Maheshwari---felt cornered.

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