Chapter 2: The First Glimpse

The air in the grand drawing-room of the Malhotra mansion hung heavy with anticipation, a thick, palpable silence that pressed down on Anya's chest. It was an old-money silence, woven from generations of wealth and expectation, far removed from the comfortable hum of her own family home. Outside, the Delhi sun beat down, but within these walls, a hushed, almost reverent cool pervaded, maintained by unseen central air conditioning. Anya clutched the delicate silk of her dupatta, the fabric a soft, unfamiliar barrier against the tremor in her hands. Her mother, seated primly beside her on the plush velvet sofa, offered a reassuring, yet firm, squeeze to her knee.

"Remember, Anya beti," Mrs. Sharma had whispered moments earlier, adjusting a stray strand of Anya’s hair, "be polite. Be graceful. Smile. This is important."

Important. The word felt like a mountain she was expected to climb. Important for whom? For the family name, for the alliance, for the Malhotra empire. But what about for Anya Sharma, the girl who dreamed of painting vibrant canvases, not of being a quietly agreeable wife in a grand, gilded cage?

The room itself was a testament to the Malhotras' status. Ornate Persian rugs, so thick they swallowed the sound of footsteps, covered the marble floor. Walls adorned with classical European art stared down at her, their subjects’ gazes as impersonal as the porcelain vases filled with exotic, scentless flowers. A crystal chandelier, hundreds of teardrop prisms, dripped from the high ceiling, catching the light and refracting it into tiny rainbows that danced mockingly on the polished surfaces. This wasn't a home; it was a museum, or perhaps, a stage. And she was about to make her debut.

Anya adjusted her cream-colored salwar kameez, chosen for its understated elegance and traditional appeal. Her mother had insisted on minimal makeup, accentuating her naturally large, dark eyes with kohl, and a soft pink on her lips. She had twisted her long, dark hair into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, a style that felt far too mature for her twenty-two years. She felt less like herself and more like an exhibit, meticulously prepared for inspection.

The murmur of voices from the hallway grew louder, then hushed abruptly as the doors to the drawing-room swung inward. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out everything else.

First, Mr. and Mrs. Malhotra entered, their expressions a mixture of grave courtesy and subtle appraisal. Mrs. Malhotra, impeccably dressed in a heavy silk sari, offered a stiff smile. Mr. Malhotra, stoic and commanding even in leisure, nodded curtly to her father. Then, he entered.

Devansh Malhotra.

Anya’s breath hitched. She had seen photographs, of course. Glossy magazine spreads, newspaper articles detailing his business triumphs, his face always sharp, intelligent, distant. But pictures, she realized, were poor imitations of reality.

He was taller than she’d imagined, his frame lean but powerful beneath the crisp fabric of his charcoal suit. The suit itself was clearly bespoke, fitting him with an effortless precision that spoke of wealth and tailored excellence. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight, emanating an almost regal bearing. He walked with a quiet confidence, his movements economical, not a single wasted gesture.

His face, in person, was more striking, more intense. Dark, intelligent eyes, the color of rich coffee, were set deep beneath strong brows. A finely sculpted nose, a firm jawline dusted with the faintest shadow of stubble, and lips that were thin and unsmiling completed the picture. His hair was meticulously styled, dark and slightly swept back, revealing a high, intellectual forehead. There was an undeniable gravitas about him, an aura of authority that seemed to pull all the oxygen from the room. He looked every bit the CEO, the man who commanded boardrooms and headlines.

He was also, undeniably, older. Not just by the thirteen years that separated them according to their horoscopes, but in the subtle lines etched around his eyes, the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth that suggested a life of serious decisions and weighty responsibilities. He carried himself with the weariness of someone who had seen much and bore its marks, a stark contrast to Anya’s own youthful, unmarred countenance. He exuded an experience, a worldliness that Anya, despite her university degree and quiet dreams, could scarcely fathom.

He greeted her parents first, a polite nod to her father, a brief, respectful inclination of his head towards her mother, his voice a low, resonant baritone that sent a strange shiver down Anya's spine. It wasn’t an unpleasant shiver, just an unexpected tremor.

Then, his gaze, cool and appraising, settled on Anya.

For a terrifying moment, she felt like a specimen under a microscope. His eyes, devoid of overt curiosity or warmth, seemed to take in every detail – her simple attire, her carefully arranged hair, the slight tremble of her hands. She met his gaze for a fleeting second, trying to project composure, but her heart was galloping. She quickly dropped her eyes to her lap, a blush creeping up her neck.

"Anya," Mrs. Malhotra introduced, her voice a little too bright, "this is Devansh."

He offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod. "Namaste, Anya." His voice was smooth, devoid of inflection, a formal greeting that held no emotion.

"Namaste," Anya managed, her voice a barely audible whisper, her throat suddenly dry. She clasped her hands tighter in her lap, feeling the silk of her dupatta crumple.

The small talk began, orchestrated by the mothers. Mrs. Malhotra inquired about Anya's studies, her interests. Mrs. Sharma, in turn, praised Devansh's business acumen, his philanthropy. It was a well-rehearsed dance of pleasantries, each word measured, each compliment returned.

Anya found herself answering questions about her art, her love for sketching, her volunteer work at a local orphanage. She tried to sound enthusiastic, intelligent, but the words felt hollow in the vastness of the room, under the piercing gaze of Devansh, who sat opposite her, silent and observant. He hadn't asked a single question directly of her yet. He merely listened, occasionally shifting in his seat, his gaze unwavering.

She stole glances at him. He had a way of looking without staring, a quiet intensity that was unnerving. His hands rested on his knees, long fingers, strong and unadorned. There was a faint scent of expensive cologne, clean and subtle, that reached her.

Finally, Mr. Malhotra cleared his throat. "Devansh, why don't you and Anya have a moment to yourselves? Perhaps a walk in the garden?"

Anya's breath hitched again. Alone? With him? She hadn't anticipated this. Her mother’s earlier instructions about "conversation topics" suddenly seemed inadequate. What does one talk about with a CEO who scrutinizes you like a quarterly report?

Devansh's eyes flickered to his father, then back to Anya, a hint of something unreadable in their depths. He rose smoothly, his height suddenly more imposing. "Of course, Father." His tone was polite, dutiful, but she detected no enthusiasm.

He gestured towards the large French doors that led to a manicured garden. "Shall we?"

Anya rose, her legs feeling a little unsteady. "Yes," she murmured, trying to keep her voice even.

As they stepped onto the stone pathway, the humidity of the Delhi summer hit her, a stark contrast to the chilled air indoors. The garden was breathtaking – meticulously sculpted hedges, vibrant bougainvillea spilling over trellises, and the scent of jasmine heavy in the air. Yet, even amidst such beauty, the tension between them was palpable.

They walked in silence for a few long, agonizing moments. The crunch of their shoes on the gravel path was the loudest sound. Anya tried to think of something, anything, to say. Her mind felt utterly blank. She was acutely aware of his presence beside her, the slight rustle of his suit fabric, the controlled rhythm of his footsteps.

Finally, Devansh broke the silence. His voice, though still formal, was slightly less clipped now that they were out of earshot of their families. "I understand you have an interest in art." It wasn't a question, more of a statement derived from the earlier conversation.

"Yes," Anya replied, grasping onto the topic like a lifeline. "I... I enjoy sketching. Landscapes, mostly. And sometimes portraits."

"And your studies?" he continued, his gaze fixed on the perfectly trimmed hedges ahead. "You completed your degree recently?"

"Yes, I did. In Fine Arts. I graduated last year." She hesitated, then added, "I was planning to pursue a master's, perhaps." The word 'was' hung in the air, weighted with the implication of her current situation.

He nodded slowly. "And now?" His voice was neutral, but Anya felt a prickle of annoyance. Was he testing her? Or merely stating the obvious?

"Now," she said, trying to infuse her voice with a modicum of composure, "my family feels it's time for me to... settle down." The words felt bitter on her tongue.

He finally turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers for a beat longer than before. There was a flicker – was it understanding? Or just a detached assessment of her discomfort? "Arranged marriages are a tradition," he stated, not as a defense, but as a fact. "They serve a purpose."

"For families, yes," Anya responded, surprising herself with her boldness. "But what about for individuals?" She immediately regretted it, fearing she sounded too rebellious, too ungrateful.

He paused, his gaze thoughtful, analytical. "Individuals often find their purpose within the framework of family, Anya. Compromise is a part of life. And of business."

Anya looked away, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the sun. Business. That was what this was to him. A transaction, a merger. Not a union of two people.

They walked past a rose garden, the heady scent a jarring contrast to the sterility of their conversation. He stopped by a marble fountain, its water trickling softly, the only other sound besides their measured breaths.

"What are your expectations?" he asked, turning to face her fully now. His arms were crossed over his chest, a posture that felt both closed off and powerful.

Anya’s mind raced. What was the correct answer? To say "love" felt naive, even foolish, in this context. To say "a comfortable life" felt mercenary. "I... I expect respect," she said, choosing her words carefully. "And... a home. Not just a house, but a home." She looked at him directly, trying to convey the depth of her unspoken longing for something genuine, something warm, even within the confines of this arrangement.

He considered her words, his expression unreadable. "Respect is fundamental," he acknowledged. "A home requires mutual effort." He paused, then added, "My work demands significant time and travel. That will not change."

It was a warning, stark and clear. He was laying out the terms. His career came first. Their marriage, if it happened, would fit around it.

"I understand," Anya said, her voice small. She did understand. He was being upfront, at least. No false promises.

"And you?" she ventured, needing to hear something, anything, from him beyond the practicalities. "What are your expectations, Devansh?"

His eyes, which had been fixed on her, shifted slightly, looking past her shoulder, as if searching for an answer in the distant trees. "Stability," he said, his voice softer, almost reflective, a rare glimpse of something beyond the CEO persona. "A partner who understands the demands of my life. Someone who can manage a household, represent the family. And..." he hesitated, then his gaze returned to hers, piercingly direct, "someone who can bring continuity to the Malhotra name."

Continuity. She knew what that meant. An heir. A baby. The thought sent a jolt through her. She was barely out of university, contemplating art school, and he was talking about an heir as casually as one might discuss a business acquisition.

The age gap suddenly felt like a gaping canyon between them. He was thinking of lineage, of future generations, of solidifying his empire. She was still thinking of freedom, of self-discovery, of a life yet to be truly lived. He was a finished book, bound and published; she was merely on the first chapter.

"I see," Anya managed, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

He seemed to sense her discomfort, though he didn't comment on it. Instead, he inclined his head towards the mansion. "Perhaps we should return. Our families will be waiting."

The walk back was just as silent as the walk out, but now, a new weight settled between them. The initial awkwardness had been replaced by a chilling clarity. He was precise, pragmatic, and entirely focused on what this marriage meant for his life, his legacy. He saw her as a suitable component in his meticulously constructed existence.

As they re-entered the drawing-room, the air inside felt even heavier than before. Their parents looked at them expectantly, smiles hovering on their lips, eager to read something, anything, in their children's faces.

Devansh offered another brief, almost imperceptible nod to Anya, then turned to his father. "We had a pleasant discussion, Father." His voice was calm, controlled, giving nothing away.

Anya merely offered a small, polite smile, mirroring his composure, though her insides were churning. She had glimpsed Devansh Malhotra, the man. And what she saw was a powerful, reserved, and utterly pragmatic individual. The kind of man who would never inspire the sort of vibrant, passionate love she had always dreamed of.

The meeting concluded with more polite goodbyes, promises to discuss things further, and the exchange of knowing glances between the parents. As Anya and her parents finally left the Malhotra mansion, stepping back into the humid Delhi air, she felt a profound sense of resignation settle over her. The first glimpse had confirmed her deepest fears. This wasn't a love story waiting to unfold. This was simply a matter of fate, and obligation. And her heart, she was certain, would remain untouched.

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