"I wish for you, love," he said slowly, savoring each word. "To marry me"
"I will, Mr. Agnivanshi," she responded, her tone steady, but with an underlying determination. "But only if you agree to
some of my terms."
×------------×-------×...
I dropped her off at her house, watching as she stormed inside with her sister, moving with the grace of a vixen. Those long, cascading hair... how they would feel wrapped around my hand, her slender legs around my waist. Ahh, get rid of those thoughts, Amrit.
I drove away, heading to my office. As soon as I walked in, the bustling atmosphere fell silent. Everyone was engrossed in their work, yet their eyes were fixed on me, searching for any mistake to tarnish my reputation. I knew many among them were spies, planted to gather any shred of information they could about the enigmatic persona I had crafted for myself. Yet, I allowed them to remain, almost relishing in their futile attempts to unravel the mystery that surrounded me.
The boardroom was a stark contrast to the chaos of my thoughts. As I entered, all eyes turned to me, assessing, calculating. I took my seat at the head of the table, exuding confidence despite the storm brewing within.
“Begin," I said, my voice low and commanding.
The meeting commenced with discussions of financial projections and strategic alliances, topics that held little interest compared to the memories that flickered in my mind. It was seven years ago in Rajasthan, amidst the backdrop of a bustling tourist site, where I saw her for the first time.
*******
**Flashback:**
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the majestic fort where tourists roamed like tiny ants on its walls. I had been in Rajasthan for a critical meeting regarding shipments of guns and ammunition, an operation that demanded discretion and efficiency.
During a brief respite, I decided to visit one of the state's renowned tourist destinations—a sprawling palace that echoed with tales of valor and opulence. As I wandered through its intricately carved corridors, I caught a glimpse of movement in a secluded courtyard.
There she was, adorned in a vibrant orange Rajasthani poshak that draped gracefully around her slender frame. Her long hair tied in a loose brain with some hair strands peeking out from her odhni[dupatta]. She stood by a traditional kitchen (rasoi), her hands deftly maneuvering pots and pans with a skill that spoke of familiarity and expertise.
"Aree mai karlesun kaki, the aaram karo," she said softly, her voice carrying a soothing cadence as she gently urged an elderly woman to rest while she took charge. [I will do it, you rest aunty]
Mesmerized by her effortless grace and the serene confidence with which she moved, I found myself drawn closer, unable to tear my gaze away. Her eyes, adorned with kohl, held a depth that hinted at untold stories and a spirit that refused to be confined by conventional expectations.
As she stirred a rich curry over the open flame, the aroma of spices mingled with the faint scent of jasmine that adorned her hair. The sunlight kissed her skin, casting a soft glow that seemed to illuminate her from within, like a queen amidst her domain.
Her laughter, as she exchanged banter with the elderly woman, rang clear and melodious in the courtyard, momentarily dispelling the weight of my clandestine mission. It was a rare moment of tranquility in a world dominated by shadows and intrigue.
I watched her from a distance, captivated not just by her physical beauty but by the strength of character that radiated from her every gesture.
******
Back in the present, the boardroom buzzed with intense deliberation, mymind, however, kept veering towards memories of miss sharma, a distraction I couldn't afford.
"Sir, what shall we do about the European merger proposal?" one of the executives asked, snapping me back to the present.
I leaned back in my chair, my expression inscrutable. "It's feasible, but we need to renegotiate the terms to favor our position," I replied coolly, my voice cutting through the room like a knife.
Late into the evening, I remained in the dimly lit office, staring out at the city skyline. Whem a sudden ping on my phone broke the silence. It was a message from an unknown number—a photograph. The image displayed a familiar poshak, draped elegantly over a chair, with a note attached: *Remember Rajasthan?*
My pulse quickened. Someone knew about that encounter, about her. The lines between my carefully compartmentalized worlds began to blur…
Her poshak
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Kitchen(rasoi)
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