Chapter 3: A Contract of Convenience

The following Sunday felt less like a day of rest and more like a day of reckoning. Anya sat at the polished dining table in their own, smaller, but no less elegant home, picking at her breakfast. The aroma of her mother's special parathas usually brought a smile to her face, but today, it seemed to cling to her, heavy and unappetizing. The pleasant discussion Devansh had alluded to, that 'pleasant discussion' where he saw her as 'continuity to the Malhotra name,' was about to be dissected and formalized. The Malhotras were coming, not for tea, but for the negotiation.

Her father, usually jovial and bustling, was quieter this morning, his brow furrowed with a mixture of excitement and seriousness. Her mother, ever the orchestrator, moved with a controlled energy, ensuring every cushion was fluffed, every antique polished, as if the perfect presentation could somehow soften the harsh edges of the impending conversation. Anya felt a strange detachment, as though she were an observer in her own life, watching the pieces move on a chessboard.

The doorbell chimed precisely at the appointed hour, a polite but firm declaration of arrival. Anya’s heart gave a familiar lurch. She watched from the corner of her eye as her parents hurried to greet their esteemed guests. The air immediately thickened with the scent of expensive perfume and the hushed murmurs of formal pleasantries.

This time, Devansh accompanied his parents directly into the main living room, his presence as imposing and contained as it had been at their mansion. He wore a crisp, light blue shirt, sleeves rolled up once at the forearms, revealing strong, capable wrists. Even in a slightly more relaxed attire, he exuded an aura of authority. He offered a polite nod to Anya, his dark eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment before shifting away. It was a practiced ease, a polite formality that allowed no warmth to penetrate. Anya, in turn, offered a small, hesitant smile, feeling the familiar blush creep up her neck.

The initial phase of the meeting was devoted to tea, sweets, and general well-being. The mothers exchanged recipes, discussing the best places to find organic vegetables. The fathers discussed the political climate, the fluctuating stock market. Devansh sat mostly silent, occasionally offering a succinct comment when directly addressed by his father, his gaze sweeping the room with an almost clinical efficiency. Anya felt his eyes on her at times, not lingering, but observing, as though she were a puzzle piece he was trying to fit into his grand design. It was unsettling.

After about twenty minutes of this social preamble, Mr. Malhotra cleared his throat, a sound that immediately drew all attention. "Now," he began, his voice calm and authoritative, "let us discuss the matters at hand."

Anya's stomach clenched. The pleasantries were over. The business was about to begin.

Mr. Sharma, Anya's father, leaned forward, his hands clasped before him. "Of course, Mr. Malhotra. We are here to ensure the best for our children, and for the families."

"Indeed," Mr. Malhotra replied. "Devansh is our only son, and his future, and the future of Malhotra Industries, rests heavily on this alliance. We seek stability, tradition, and above all, continuity." His gaze flickered to Anya, a clear emphasis on the last word.

Anya felt a chill. Continuity. It was the same word Devansh had used. It sounded less like a hope and more like a requirement.

Mrs. Malhotra then took over, her voice softer but no less firm. "Anya is a lovely girl, well-educated and from a respectable family. We are confident she will adapt well to our customs and traditions. However, there are certain expectations for the daughter-in-law of the Malhotra household." She paused, her eyes resting on Anya, a silent message passing between them.

"We expect that Anya, upon marriage, will dedicate herself fully to the management of the household," Mrs. Malhotra continued, her tone gentle but unwavering. "Our home is large, and there are many social obligations. We have staff, of course, but the mistress of the house holds overall responsibility."

Anya's heart sank. Full dedication to household management. It sounded like a polite way of saying her artistic ambitions, her volunteering, her very identity outside of being Devansh's wife, would be secondary, if not entirely discarded. She glanced at her mother, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod, a silent signal for Anya to remain calm, to accept.

"Devansh's career is, as you know, demanding," Mr. Malhotra interjected. "He travels extensively, often for weeks at a time. His wife must be self-sufficient and capable of managing affairs in his absence, ensuring the smooth running of both the domestic and social aspects of his life."

Devansh, who had been listening silently, finally spoke. "My schedule is non-negotiable. Business always comes first." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, a stark reminder of his world. Anya felt a pang. It was a subtle echo of the "my work demands significant time and travel. That will not change" from their garden conversation. This was less a conversation and more a reiteration of terms.

"We understand and respect that," Mr. Sharma assured them quickly. "Anya is a sensible girl. She will adapt."

Then, Mrs. Sharma, ever protective of her daughter, though within the confines of tradition, tentatively raised a point. "Anya has a keen interest in art. She studied Fine Arts, and she has a talent for it. We were hoping she might be able to continue her pursuits, perhaps even contribute to some of your family's charitable initiatives through her art?"

A silence descended. Anya held her breath, hope flickering faintly.

Mrs. Malhotra smiled thinly. "Of course, dear. Once she has settled into her new responsibilities, and if time permits, she is free to pursue hobbies. However, the primary focus must always be the family and the household. And naturally, the most important responsibility will be providing an heir."

The word "heir" hung in the air, heavy and inescapable. Devansh’s gaze, which had been passive, sharpened on Anya for a moment. It wasn't accusatory, but rather, a focused assessment, as though he was mentally ticking a box on a checklist. Anya felt a profound discomfort. It wasn't about love, companionship, or even personal happiness. It was about lineage, about a successor for his empire. The age gap, which had felt like a chasm earlier, now felt like a canyon separating their individual realities. He was 35, established, focused on the continuation of his name. She was 22, just beginning to discover her own path, and now that path was being rerouted, not by choice, but by family obligation and the demand for an heir.

"We are aware of the expectations regarding an heir," Mr. Sharma said, his voice firm, accepting. "Anya understands the importance of family."

Anya swallowed hard. She understood the importance of family, yes, but not in this cold, transactional way. She had always envisioned children born from love, from a bond between two people. Not as a strategic part of a business deal.

Mr. Malhotra then shifted the discussion to finances, property, and the intricate details of the dowry, though the term was carefully avoided, replaced by euphemisms like "gifts" and "contributions." The conversation became a blur of numbers, legal terms, and intricate family legacies. Devansh remained mostly silent during this part, occasionally interjecting with a sharp, precise question about a clause or a property deed, demonstrating his keen business mind even in personal matters. He wasn't just a CEO; he was a meticulous negotiator, leaving no stone unturned, ensuring the "contract" was ironclad.

Anya listened with half an ear, her mind drifting. She imagined herself in the vast Malhotra mansion, wandering its opulent halls, her canvases gathering dust in a forgotten corner. She pictured holding a baby, a tiny, innocent life, a product of this meticulously planned, passionless union. Would she be able to love it? Of course, she would. A child was innocent. But could she find love for the man beside her, the man who saw her as a means to "continuity"?

The contrast between her dreams and the reality unfolding before her was stark, almost unbearable. She wanted a partnership, a true companion. He wanted a manager for his household and a mother for his heir. The age difference suddenly seemed less about numerical years and more about vastly different life stages and priorities. He had lived, achieved, built an empire. She was still finding her voice.

An hour later, the discussion concluded. The terms were laid out, discussed, and implicitly agreed upon. There were no arguments, no raised voices, only polite affirmations. It was a negotiation flawlessly executed, a contract drafted with precision, securing the alliance between the two powerful families. Anya felt like a clause in that contract, an essential, yet impersonal, detail.

"Excellent," Mr. Malhotra declared, a rare, satisfied smile gracing his lips. "We are pleased. This alliance will benefit both families greatly."

Mrs. Malhotra turned to Anya, her smile now a little warmer, perhaps in anticipation of a new daughter-in-law. "Welcome to the family, dear. We look forward to having you."

Anya managed a faint smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Malhotra." The words felt heavy on her tongue.

Devansh, too, offered a brief, almost imperceptible nod in her direction. His eyes held no triumph, no warmth, just a quiet, almost resigned acceptance. He had secured his "continuity."

As the Malhotras rose to leave, there was a final round of formal goodbyes. Devansh shook her father's hand, exchanged a few more words with his own parents. He didn't offer to shake Anya's hand, nor did he linger. He was already moving on, his mind likely already back to the next big business deal.

When the front door finally clicked shut behind them, a profound silence descended upon the Sharma household, different from the one at the Malhotra mansion. This was not the silence of expectation, but the silence of finality.

Anya's mother immediately enveloped her in a hug. "Oh, Anya beti! It is settled! This is a wonderful opportunity! The Malhotras are such a respected family, and Devansh is so accomplished." Her mother's voice was filled with a mixture of relief and genuine happiness.

Her father nodded, a broad smile replacing his earlier apprehension. "Indeed. A very good match. You will want for nothing, my dear."

Anya tried to match their enthusiasm, but the words caught in her throat. She smiled, a fragile, trembling thing. She knew they meant well. They believed they had secured her future, her comfort, her safety. But at what cost?

She walked to her room, the silence of the house echoing her own inner quietude. She looked at her easel, still set up with a half-finished landscape. The vibrant colors suddenly seemed muted, dull. She thought of Devansh, his controlled demeanor, his detached gaze, his unwavering focus on business and lineage. He was a man of logic, of purpose, of immense power. And she was now inextricably linked to him, bound by a contract of convenience.

She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that love had no place in this transaction. It was purely business. And she was merely another asset, acquired for the purpose of ensuring the Malhotra legacy. The heir. The baby. That was her primary function. Everything else, her dreams, her desires, her very heart, seemed irrelevant in the face of such overwhelming pragmatism. Her life, as she knew it, was effectively over. A new, uncertain chapter was about to begin, one written not by her, but by the terms of a contract.

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