Aayat's POV

The morning sun hadn't even cleared the glass towers when my office was already flooded with voices. Investors, lawyers, assistants all talking at once, all waiting for me to make a decision that would decide whether they sank or swam.

I let them argue for a few minutes, their words clashing against each other like badly tuned instruments, then raised a hand. Silence fell instantly.

The boardroom had grown tense, the kind of tension that made everyone's stomach tighten. Mr. Deshmukh, one of the loudest investors, leaned back in his chair, smirk curling over his lips as he said,

"So the rumors are true. You married Mihir Raghuvanshi... just to get the land back. Very smart move, Mrs. Raghuvanshi."

The room stilled, some of the junior associates nervously shifting in their seats, but I didn't flinch. Not even slightly.

I tilted my head, let my gaze land on him like a laser. My voice was calm, almost casual, but every syllable was sharp.

"Wow. Such a dumb view," I said, letting the words sink in slowly. "You actually think I married him for this?"

The smirk on his face faltered.

I leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table, voice dripping with sarcasm and cold amusement. "Oh... please. Don't tell me you've forgotten something very important: people can marry whom they love. Imagine that. Shocking, right?"

His mouth opened, like he wanted to protest, but I cut him off before he could.

"Or... maybe," I continued, smirk curling now on my own lips, "you want to know if your wife cheated on you while you were sitting here playing king of the boardroom? That's the look on your face. I see it. Scared of what reality might show you."

A silence heavier than steel fell.

Mr. Deshmukh's color shifted, and he looked around, suddenly aware that the room was watching. His bravado vanished.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the words linger like a fine, lethal blade. "Now, Mr. Deshmukh, perhaps you should focus on your spreadsheets instead of my personal life. Because here's the thing: I married Mihir Raghuvanshi because I wanted to, not because some outdated, narrow-minded view told me I had to. Clear?"

He swallowed hard, nodding. That smirk he had? Gone.

I straightened, smoothing my saree. "Good. Now that we've cleared that little... misconception, let's talk about something actually relevant: saving the hotel and your investments."

The room exhaled, tension breaking. I smiled faintly to myself. Let them gossip. Let them underestimate. That was their mistake.

Because Aayat Raghuvanshi definitely didn't need anyone to tell her how clever or not she was.

The silence in the room stretched like a taut wire. Mr. Deshmukh's smirk had vanished completely, replaced by an awkward tightness. He had expected shock, maybe a hint of embarrassment, but not the sharp, unflinching response he'd just received.

I let the pause linger just long enough to make everyone uncomfortable, then leaned back slightly, voice calm but commanding. "Now that we've cleared that little... misconception, let's focus on matters that actually concern this boardroom."

I tapped the table once, sharp and deliberate. "The land issue. The illegal declaration. And how we protect both your investments and the reputation of Nobel Estate group of hotels."

Mr. Mehra, our senior legal consultant, cleared his throat. "Ma'am, the opposition has filed an objection, claiming procedural errors. If we don't respond quickly, it could stall the project indefinitely."

I met his gaze steadily. "Then we don't stall. Prepare the counter-petition, draft every supporting document, and submit it immediately. I want the filing on the desk by tomorrow morning. Any delays, and I will know exactly whose incompetence caused it."

Another investor, hesitant but clearly curious, spoke up. "Mrs. Raghuvanshi, with this marriage to Mihir Raghuvanshi, your position politically is stronger. But do you think it will actually help in reclaiming the land?"

I let out a soft, controlled laugh, cold and precise. "Do I think it will help? I don't think, I know. Mihir Raghuvanshi is not just a politician. He is a man with influence, resources, and connections that can make sure the right doors are opened at the right time. The rest," I said, tapping my finger on the file, "is just paperwork, law, and persistence. That is something I can control."

Mr. Deshmukh opened his mouth again, probably to challenge me, but I cut him off with a sharp glance. "If anyone here wants to speculate about my motives or my personal life, please leave. This boardroom is for decisions, not gossip."

Heads bowed, pens scribbling furiously. The subtle tension shifted, everyone suddenly aware that no rumor or insinuation would get past me.

I leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the faces around the table. "We are not here to debate headlines. We are here to save our hotels, protect the land, and reassure investors that Noble Estate operates with integrity. If anyone here wants to focus on anything else," I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in, "this is not the place for it."

Silence fell. The meeting moved on, but the atmosphere had changed. I didn't need anyone to know the marriage was a contract. They already assumed a story that suited their imaginations. And that assumption? It worked in my favor.

Because what they didn't know would give me the leverage to control everything.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my gaze sweep over the room one last time. The whispers had died, pens had stopped scribbling frantic notes, and even Mr. Deshmukh's earlier smirk was gone, replaced by a careful, tight-lipped expression.

I tapped the file on the table once, sharply, and said, "This meeting is adjourned. Actions, not gossip, will be what determines the future of Noble Estate. Make sure you all remember that."

The words hit harder than any argument could. Heads nodded silently, chairs scraped back, and the room emptied with a newfound respect, mixed with a little fear.

I exhaled, letting the tension in my shoulders ease just slightly. Meetings like these drained more than energy. They drained patience. And yet, it was necessary. Every investor, every legal consultant, every assistant had to know exactly who they were dealing with.

Once the last of them left, I pushed my chair back and stood. My heels clicked against the polished floor as I walked toward my cabin. The quiet hum of the office was almost a relief after the storm of the boardroom.

Inside my private space, I closed the door behind me and let myself slump slightly against the polished wood. I removed my blazer and draped it over the back of the chair, loosening the knot of my saree at the waist.

Finally, alone, I allowed myself a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The city skyline glimmered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, indifferent to the chaos of headlines, legal battles, and boardroom theatrics.

I walked over to my desk, picked up the file on the land case, and flipped through the pages again. Every map, every deed, every government clearance, but also every legal objection, every line written by the opposition. The fight wasn't over. Not even close.

And yet, for the first time that morning, I allowed a faint, satisfied smirk. They had underestimated me. They had doubted me. And I had reminded them exactly why no one could do that and survive.

The cabin was silent, except for the faint hum of the AC and the distant sound of traffic far below. I sank into my chair, fingertips brushing over the edge of the desk, thinking about the work ahead. Every petition, every investor briefing, every press release had to be executed with precision.

Because the land wasn't just a piece of property. The hotel wasn't just a business. And I wasn't just Aayat Mihir Raghuvanshi. I was the CEO, the strategist, the one who refused to lose.

I picked up the phone on my desk, scrolling through my calendar, already planning the next moves. Meetings, legal consultations, press statements. Nothing could wait. Not for fatigue, not for frustration, and certainly not for anyone else's assumptions.

The storm outside and inside was far from over. But in that quiet cabin, I allowed myself one thought: I was ready.

I was in my room when I heard the noises, shouts, raised voices, the unmistakable clamor of someone demanding attention. My brow furrowed. Curious, irritated, and instinctively alert, I stepped out and followed the sound to the hotel lobby.

And there they were.

Mrs. Kapoor, my biological mother, standing at the reception, voice sharp and theatrical, flinging accusations at the front desk. Beside her, the man I immediately recognized, her husband, stood with that smug, self-satisfied expression.

I didn't hesitate. He was hers, yes, but they were in my space, my hotel, and no one got to treat it like their personal playground and insult my staff. I strode forward, heels clicking decisively against the marble floor, and stopped directly in front of them.

Mrs. Kapoor spun toward me, eyes narrowing, and then broke into that venomous smirk I knew so well. "Well, well, well... look who decided to come out and play," she said, voice dripping with mockery. "Mrs. Raghuvanshi herself, managing this little empire of hers. I must say... your marriage, your political stunts, even your little hotel, oh, it's all just adorable. Really. Truly."

I froze for a fraction of a second, not from fear, but from fury. Then I squared my shoulders. "I don't know what game you think you're playing, Mrs. Kapoor, but you are trespassing, mocking, and making a scene in my hotel. I will not tolerate it."

She laughed, sharp and loud, circling me like a predator. "Oh, come now! You married Mihir Raghuvanshi the CM, climbed the ladder, played your little games... and here you are, bossing people around. Tell me, does it feel as satisfying as you imagined, dear?"

I opened my mouth, but before I could respond, her husband, chimed in, voice smooth, almost amused:

"Really, Aayat, don't be so defensive. Your mother has a point. You have made a lot of noise about being the CEO, about running your little empire, and yet here we are. Watching. Curious."

My jaw tightened. Both of them, mocking me openly, thinking their connection to my past gave them the right.

I stepped closer, voice low, cold, and unyielding. "Enough. Both of you. I don't care what past ties you believe give you leverage. This is my hotel, my staff, my rules. You will not mock me. You will not interfere. You will leave. Now."

Mrs. Kapoor's eyes widened in faux shock, but the smirk never left her lips. Her husband looked like he wanted to argue, to defend her further, but the edge in my voice made him pause.

"You think your words intimidate me?" I said, taking another step forward, heels echoing against the floor. "No. You think your little alliance here scares me? Wrong. Leave, before I make you leave, with security and consequences you won't like."

There was a long, tense pause. Mrs. Kapoor opened her mouth, probably to hurl another insult, but I didn't give her the chance. I gestured to the staff, voice firm: "Escort them out. And make it clear: they don't, ever, gets in here without my permission."

As the staff moved, guiding them toward the exit, I watched their expressions, the fake outrage, the simmering humiliation, the shock at finally encountering authority that would not bend.

Once the doors closed behind them, I let out a slow breath. The lobby was silent again, and the city outside continued on, oblivious to the storm that had just passed.

But I knew one thing: they had underestimated me, and I would not make that mistake twice.

I closed the door behind me and let out a long, shaky breath. My heels clicked softly against the floor as I kicked off my shoes and sank into the chair by the window. Silence stretched around me, heavy, oppressive.

For a moment, I didn't move. I just sat there, staring out at the city, letting my thoughts settle into the corners of memory.

I wondered, why had my father left? Why had he to go this early? when the world seemed so much bigger and scarier than it should have been? The questions had never really left me, not fully.

I thought about the times we had been happy, the rare afternoons when it had just been him and me, laughter spilling freely, the kind of warmth that made you believe everything in the world would always be okay.

I missed that. I missed him.

And then the anger and the ache twisted together, bitter and sharp, because my mother, she had loved me, truly, but she had also moved on. Or at least tried to.

And now, as the memories bubbled up, a strange realization hit me, sudden and jarring. Tej Kapoor, Mrs. Kapoor's husband, the man who had stood beside her today, smug and mocking, his surname. Kapoor.

The consonants. The name. The same surname as my father.

I felt my pulse quicken, a chill running down my spine. Could it really be? A coincidence? Or something more deliberate?

The thought hung there, heavy and unsettling, like a shadow across the memories of my childhood. Questions spiraled in my mind, impossible to answer. Had my mother deliberately married someone with the same name? Was it just a cruel twist of fate? Or worse, had she engineered something even deeper?

I leaned back in my chair, silent, letting the storm of emotions crash inside me, loss, longing, anger, confusion. The happy family I remembered, the love I had once known, it all felt distant now, a fragile illusion shattered by the presence of these two in my hotel, in my life.

And yet, I also felt a spark of something else. Resolve. The need to protect what I had built, to control what I could control, and to never let anyone, no matter their name, their connections, or their history, undermine me again.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the quiet settle, but the thought of that shared surname lingered, insistent and unnerving, refusing to let me forget.

I pressed a tissue to my eyes, wiping away the stubborn tears I hadn't even realized had fallen. Enough. I told myself. Enough thinking, enough dwelling on what had happened, on my mother, her husband, the memories, the loss. I couldn't afford to let it consume me.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples, and glanced at the clock. Hours had slipped by while I was buried in files, legal notes, and strategy plans. My eyes widened when I saw the time: 12:30 a.m.

It hit me, I had to go home. Now.

Pulling my bag together, I forced myself to leave the hotel behind, shutting the office door on the chaos, the memories, the mockery. The night was quiet as I stepped outside, the city lights reflecting off the streets like scattered diamonds.

I reached our mansion and paused as I noticed the lights in the hall were still on. Curious, I stepped inside, and there he was.

Mihir. Standing at the table in the hall, papers and plans spread out in front of him, the glow from the lamp highlighting his focused expression. He looked up as I approached, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"How are you?" he asked quietly, voice calm but carrying that subtle edge of concern. "How was your day?"

I froze for a split second, his question pulling me back to the hotel lobby, Mrs. Kapoor's mocking laughter echoing in my mind, the cold, smug look of her husband beside her. The sharp words, the confrontation, the sting of everything I had endured, it all rushed back.

But I didn't let it show. Not here. Not to him.

I straightened, took a deep breath, and smiled faintly. "It was... long," I said, voice steady, composed. "The usual."

He nodded, eyes searching mine briefly, probably sensing the tension, but he didn't press.

I walked past him, carrying myself with all the control I could muster, forcing my mind to stay in the present. I would not let my past, my mother's cruelty, or any lingering doubts steal my composure. Not in front of Mihir. Not now.

I set my bag down, smoothing my saree, and said lightly, "I'm going to get some rest. It's been... a long day."

He gave a small, understanding nod. "Alright. Try not to work too late."

I smiled faintly again, keeping the calm, strong exterior in place, even as my mind replayed every moment from the hotel. Every insult. Every smirk. Every glance from my stepfather.

I didn't speak about it. I didn't need to.

Because for now, I would be strong. I would be calm. And I would survive whatever came next, just like I always had.

I had just collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up with me. The hotel chaos, the confrontation with my mother and her husband, the relentless work, it all pressed against me like a weight I couldn't shake.

The door creaked open, and Mihir stepped in, carrying a tray neatly arranged with food. The aroma was tempting, but I shook my head, faintly, almost automatically.

"I... don't have an appetite," I murmured, voice soft, tired.

He didn't respond immediately. He just set the tray carefully on the bedside table and sat down beside me. "Aayat," he said gently, but firmly, "you will eat. You need to eat."

I blinked, caught off guard by the insistence. "I... really don't—"

"No arguments," he interrupted smoothly. "You need to keep your strength. That's an order my witch."

I stared at him for a moment, then, silently, I surrendered as I didn't have the energy to argue. Slowly, I picked up a spoon, letting him guide me, letting the warmth of the food remind me that I could take care of myself, even if for a moment, someone else was insisting.

Minutes passed in quiet companionship. I ate. Slowly. Carefully. Mihir said nothing more, just let me move at my own pace, which was strangely comforting.

When I had finished, he leaned back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "See?" he said softly. "Everything... everything is slowly getting on track. You don't need to worry so much. The hotel, the investors, the land... we'll manage it. Step by step."

I glanced at him, lips pressing into a small, tired smile. His words were calm, steady, exactly what I needed, though I didn't let myself show how much.

Then, almost casually, he added, "And... thank you, Aayat. For agreeing to this marriage. For... everything. It's not easy, I know, but it matters."

I froze for a heartbeat, feeling the weight of his words. Agreement, obligation, survival, everything tangled in that simple sentence. I didn't respond immediately. Instead, I leaned back into the pillows, keeping my face calm, composed, unreadable.

"Mm," I murmured finally, faint, neutral, hiding the swirl of thoughts and emotions beneath the surface.

He nodded, seeming satisfied with my acknowledgment, and let the quiet settle between us. I stared at the ceiling, thinking of the hotel, Mrs. Kapoor , Mr. Kapoor, and the countless obstacles still ahead.

And yet... for the first time that night, the chaos didn't feel completely overwhelming. Somehow, having him here, calm, steady, insisting I care for myself, keeping things in order, made the world feel just a fraction less heavy.

I didn't say anything more. I didn't need to. I just let the calm wash over me, silently vowing to remain strong, no matter what came next.

The last bite was gone. I set the spoon down and leaned back slightly, letting out a quiet exhale. Mihir watched me with that familiar calm, the kind of quiet attention that never felt intrusive, just steady and grounding.

"You ate well my witch," he said softly.

I looked at him, tilting my head. "Did you eat terrible human?"

"Yes. At the office. Quick Dinner."

"Okay," I murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. Silence settled comfortably between us for a moment, only the faint hum of the city outside filtering through the windows.

Then Mihir's voice cut through the quiet, calm but deliberate. "Aayat... how are you related to Tej Kapoor?"

I froze. The words hit me like a thunderclap. Tej Kapoor, Mrs. Kapoor's husband, the man who had met me in morning alongside her. My mind raced. How could he possibly know him? Did Mihir know more than I had realized?

I opened my mouth to respond, curiosity and wariness warring inside me. But as I began to speak, a shudder passed through me, sudden, involuntary, and sharp.

"I... I... I" stammered, my voice barely more than a whisper.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Any guess who actually TEJ KAPOOR is?

AND YES TELL ME HOW WAS THE CHAPTER??????

To be continued

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