Aarti Chauhan had learned a few hard lessons by the age of twenty-two.
Not every charming man is what he seems. Crisp white kurtas often conceal deep insecurities. And if fairy godmothers existed, hers had certainly forgotten her address.
Most of the time, a girl needed to rescue herself.
This afternoon was one of those times.
The sprawling Thakur haveli stood before her, dominating the rural landscape with its grandeur. Elegant. Enormous. Terrifying.
Intricate jharokhas adorned its facade, and its towering entrance gates seemed to mock her audacity.
She swallowed hard. She could do this. Once, she'd walked miles through scorching fields to reach the nearest town, with nothing but the hope that she could build a better life. She had refused to bow to desperation, had found work as a seamstress, and made a new life for herself in the city. Now, five years later, she would rather endure any hardship than return to the her father's oppressive household.
Compared to all that, what was knocking on the door of a zamindar's haveli?
Nothing. Nothing at all. All she had to do was straighten her spine, walk through the rustic gates, climb those steep stone steps-there were only a few-and ring the ancient brass bell on the massive wooden door.
Good afternoon. I am Aarti Chauhan. I am here to see the mysterious, reclusive Thakur of Haveli. No, we aren't acquainted. No, I don't have a visiting card. I don't have anything at all, really. I may not even have a place to stay tonight if you don't let me in.
Oh, good heavens. This would never work.
***
From his study desk, Karan heard an unfamiliar ringing sound. Could it be a doorbell?
There it came again.
It was a doorbell.
Worse, it was his doorbell.
Damned rumors. He hadn't even been back in Shahpura for a few weeks. He had forgotten how fast gossip spread in small towns. He didn't have the time or patience for busybodies. Whoever it was, his assistant would send them away.
He picked up his pen and resumed writing his latest letter to his unreliable accountants.
I don't know what the devil you've been doing for the past year, but the state of my business is deplorable. Sack the head of the marketing department immediately. Tell the managers I need to see the all the sales for the past month.
And there's one other thing that requires urgent attention.
Karan hesitated, the pen held suspended above the paper. He couldn't believe he was actually going to write the words down. But much as he dreaded it, it had to be done. He wrote:
I need a wife.
He supposed he should clarify his requirements: someone of childbearing age, respectable lineage, in urgent need of money, willing to share a bed with a man who had more scars than charm.
In short, someone desperate.
God, how depressing. Better to leave it at that.
I need a wife.
Karan's personal assistant, Rahul, appeared in the doorway. "Sir, I regret the interruption, but there's a young woman who insists on seeing you. She's wearing a red wedding lehenga."
Karan stared at Rahul. He glanced back at the words he had just written. Then he looked back at Rahul.
"Well, that's uncanny." Perhaps his accountant's incompetence wasn't as bad as he thought. He dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair, propping his boots up on the desk. "By all means, show her in."
A young woman in red entered the room.
Karan's boot slipped off the desk. He reeled backward, nearly tipping over. A stack of papers fell from a nearby shelf, scattering across the floor like leaves in the wind.
He was blinded.
Not by her beauty-though he supposed she might be beautiful. It wasn't possible to judge. Her lehenga was a garish monstrosity of bright red, gold threadwork, and intricate embroidery.
Good Lord. He wasn't accustomed to being in the same room with something even more repulsive than his own appearance.
He propped his right elbow on the arm of his chair, raising his fingers to his brow to conceal the scars on his face. For once, he wasn't protecting a servant's sensibilities or even his own pride. He was shielding himself from... from that.
"I apologize for the intrusion, Thakur Sahab," the young woman said, her gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the Persian rug beneath her. "But you see, I am in desperate need of payment."
Karan blinked, distracted for a moment by the sheer absurdity of her entrance. "Payment?"
"Yes," she said. "I am a seamstress. I stitched this lehenga"-she gestured toward the wedding attire-"for the soon-to-be Thakurain."
Soon-to-be Thakurain. His ex-fiancée, Annika. The lehenga was meant for their wedding, which, of course, never happened.
"When your engagement was called off, she never paid for the lehenga. The materials were purchased, but I was never compensated for my labor. I attempted to contact both of you, but my letters went unanswered. So I thought if I showed up like this"-she gestured to her lehenga-"I would be impossible to ignore."
"You were correct on that score," Karan muttered under his breath, the sheer gaudiness of the lehenga almost more than he could bear. "Good God, it looks like a wedding dress for a circus."
"I understand it's... unconventional," she said, "but I take pride in my work. I spent months on this lehenga. Please, I need to be paid now."
Karan shifted in his chair, growing more curious about this woman who had dared to intrude upon his solitude.
She wasn't what he expected at all. She was thin but strong, with a sharp, determined gaze that matched the willfulness of her actions.
"And you expect me to pay you," Karan said, eyeing her critically, "for the pleasure of staring at that monstrosity, Miss-?"
"Aarti Chauhan," Her lips pressed into a thin line. "It doesn't matter what I think of it. I'm merely a craftsman. This lehenga represents my time, my skill, and my livelihood. And right now, I'm in desperate need of Five hundred, three rupees, or I risk losing my home."
"Five hundred, three rupees?" Karan raised an eyebrow. "My, my, how the mighty have fallen."
"Yes," she said simply, holding out her hand. "Please, Thakur Sahab. I need my money."
Karan crossed his arms and regarded her carefully. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't recognize the rules of this little game you've decided to play. Most would be shaking in their boots at the prospect of confronting a man like me. Yet, here you are, offering no apology for your audacity. Are you certain you're just a seamstress?"
She stared at him unflinchingly, no trace of fear in her eyes. "I'm certain."
"Well, I see you've been cut from a different cloth than most. Tell me, what's your story? Why does a seamstress come barging into a powerful man's home, demanding payment for a wedding lehenga?"
Her gaze shifted slightly, and Karan could tell there was more to her than she was letting on.
"I'm not your regular seamstress," she said slowly. "My father is a government school teacher in a small village. I was brought up with propriety and respect, but life doesn't always go as planned."
Karan watched her, intrigued despite himself. "Yet, here you are, standing in my office, asking for payment for a wedding lehenga that wasn't even used."
At last, he saw a flash of uncertainty in her demeanor. She touched the spot behind her earlobe, a nervous habit, perhaps. "Sometimes life takes an unexpected turn."
"Now that is a grave understatement."
Fortune was a heartless witch, Karan thought, always ready to exact her toll without warning. And didn't he know it well.
He turned in his chair and reached for a lockbox tucked behind the desk.
"I am sorry." Her voice softened, surprising him. "The loss of your fiancée must have been a blow. I've heard Miss Kaushal was quite admired."
He counted the notes into his hand. "If you spent even a moment with her, you'd know that isn't the case."
"Perhaps it's for the best that you didn't marry her, then."
"Yes, it was excellent foresight that I scarred myself before the wedding. What bad luck it would have been if I'd waited until afterward."
"Scarred?" She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "If Thakur Sahab will forgive me saying so, it cannot be that bad."
He snapped the lockbox shut. "Annika Kaushal wanted to marry wealth and status, and I offered her both. Even then, she left me. It's that bad."
He stood, turning his right side toward her, offering her an unfiltered view of the damage. The room was purposefully shadowy, with heavy silk curtains blocking most of the sunlight. But scars like his needed no light to tell their story.
The right side of his face and body was a chaotic canvas of burns and scars. Skin that had been spared by the flames had later fallen victim to the surgeon's blade and the merciless grip of infection. From his temple to his collarbone, the disfigurement was a raw testament to the horrors he'd endured on the battlefield.
The young woman went silent. To her credit, she didn't recoil, faint, or look away-a reaction he rarely received.
"How did it happen?" she asked quietly.
"The war. A mission gone wrong. Next question."
After a moment, she said, "May I have my money, please?"
He extended his hand, the money balanced in his palm.
She reached for it.
He closed his hand over the notes. "Once you give me the lehenga."
"What?"
"If I'm paying you for your work, it's only fair that I receive the red wedding lehenga in return."
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "What would you, of all people, do with a lehenga?"
"That's none of your concern," he said with a shrug. "Perhaps I'll use it as a curtain or gift it to one of the cows. Who knows?"
She glared at him, her hands curling into fists. "This isn't a joke, Karan Singh Rathore."
The sound of her addressing him by his full name struck him like a whip. No one dared to speak to him with such boldness. He leaned forward, his voice low and commanding. "I don't joke, Miss. If you want your payment, I expect what I'm paying for in return."
She stood her ground, her face flushing with indignation. "Fine."
***
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