Her Deviant Husband | [✓]

Chapter 15

Athira's pov.

Rudra Shekhawat.

The name alone was enough to make my blood boil. For a completely different reason than Reyansh Sehgal.

This prick was a spoiled, entitled, second-generation asshole who just happened to own a prime piece of land I needed for my project.

He is the kind of man who likely believed his reflection deserved applause every time he walked past a mirror. And now, here I was, subjecting myself to his whims, all because that stupid land.

He'd already canceled on me five times.
Five. Times.

Each time with some pathetic excuse that ranged from "urgent personal matters" to "something came up."

Something came up?
Sure, Rudra, I'm sure your manicure appointment or yacht party was absolutely crucial to the survival of the universe.

And today—on the sixth attempt to meet—he'd finally deigned to grace me with his presence. Only, in true Rudra Shekhawat fashion, he had to pull another stunt.

I'd been halfway to the conference room, when his assistant had called.

"Mr. Shekhawat would prefer to meet in the Starbucks at the lobby," she'd said in that robotic tone she always used, as though this was a perfectly reasonable request and not a deliberate slap to my professional dignity.

"Starbucks?" I'd repeated, incredulous. "In the lobby?"

"Yes, ma'am," she'd replied, unfazed. "He's waiting for you there."

Of course, he was.
Rudra Shekhawat, the King of Full-of-Shit, couldn't possibly be bothered to step into an actual conference room.

Why meet in a professional setting when you could sip overpriced lattes surrounded by people?

I adjusted my suit jacket as I strode toward the café, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor in a pace that matched my irritation.

At least I looked the gorgeous.
The blush pink complemented my skin tone perfectly, the slim-cut trousers elongated my legs, and the gold accents on my belt and earrings tied the whole look together. My makeup was flawless—a soft, dewy finish with a bold pink lip. And I'd been blessed with the best hair genes so it was perfect to begin with anyways.

And now all of that effort I put into myself was about to be wasted on on this waste of space.

I approached the café, my irritation hit a new high.

There he was, lounging in a corner booth with the air of someone who thought the world revolved around him.

His suit—navy, because of course it was—was tailored to perfection, and his hair was styled with just the right amount of effort to look careless. He was scrolling through his phone, completely ignoring the everyone around him.

I resisted the urge to stomp over like a storm in heels and instead approached with the my best smile like my morals demanded. Barely.

"You really know how to make an impression, don't you?" I said as I slid into the seat opposite him, my tone sugar-laced sarcasm.

He looked up, smirked, and set his phone down as if he'd just noticed me.
"Good afternoon, Athira."

"Oh, it's a fantastic afternoon," I shot back, crossing my legs and setting my bag on the table. "Nothing screams professionalism quite like a meeting at Starbucks."

His smirk deepened. "I thought you'd appreciate the change of pace."

"Change of pace?" I repeated, leaning forward slightly. "Is that what we're calling your inability to stick to a schedule?"