Aaryan Mehta
INT. MEHTA ENTERPRISES – BOARDROOM – MORNING
The room is glass, cold, clinical—like most of my life.
I sit at the head of the table. Vihaan's voice drones in the background about projections and acquisition plans, but I'm not listening. I'm staring at the woman who just walked in through the double doors.
SAANVI KHANNA.
Not in red silk this time.
Black pencil skirt, white shirt, hair in a low knot.
Minimal. Professional. Lethal.
She doesn't know I asked for her.
Not yet.
Her eyes scan the room—pauses for a millisecond when she sees me. But she doesn't flinch.
That alone makes her dangerous.
VIKAAR (mid-40s), the operations head, tries to introduce her.
She waves it off, coolly. "Let's just get started."
She sits opposite me.
Exactly where I want her.
---
INT. BOARDROOM – LATER
Everyone's gone. Just me and her now.
She gathers her files, pretending not to notice I'm watching.
Pretending she doesn't feel it.
"You're efficient," I say.
"Or maybe everyone else is just slow," she replies without missing a beat.
Bold. Again.
"Tell me, Ms. Khanna," I lean forward, elbows on the table, voice low, "Do you know why you're here?"
She looks up. "To consult your company's rebranding strategy."
I shake my head. "That's the official reason. The real one is simpler."
A pause.
I slide a file toward her.
She doesn't open it. Just looks at me.
"Your father's company is failing," I say flatly.
"I'm aware."
"You need an investor."
She stiffens—but only slightly. Her poker face is good.
I continue, voice calm, calculated. "I'll save your father's legacy. I'll invest. Publicly. Fully. Under one condition."
Silence.
She stares.
Then speaks, slowly: "You want equity."
"I want you."
Pause. A breath.
"What?"
"As my brand ambassador," I say smoothly. "For my new luxury line. We launch in 45 days. I want your face, your name, your curated presence."
She exhales. "That's ridiculous. I'm not a model. And we've barely met."
"But they know you. They follow you. Your face sells articles, Saanvi. I want it to sell legacy."
"And if I say no?"
I lean back.
"No deal. Your father's empire burns. And you… will be the face of failure, not luxury."
Her jaw tightens.
She doesn't care about her father.
But she cares about his legacy. And more than that—she cares about not losing. I can feel it.
She opens the file.
Inside: a full contract.
Her name already printed. The brand aesthetic already curated for her.
She reads in silence.
Then—"You did all this before even asking?"
"I don't ask."
She stands. File in hand. "You're arrogant."
"Only when I'm right."
She turns to leave.
I let her get halfway to the door.
Then—
"I know about the loan."
Her steps pause.
"I know about the missing 14 crores your father tried to hide in the books. I know you used your own assets to keep the press quiet. You're not here just for work. You're here to survive."
Silence.
I see her shoulders tense.
When she turns, her eyes are colder than before.
"So this is a trap."
I smile. "No. It's an opportunity. You just didn't ask for it."
INT. SAANVI'S APARTMENT – NIGHT
She's pacing.
The file is on her coffee table. Her phone rings. It's her father. She doesn't pick up.
Flashbacks flicker:
Boardroom shame.
Her father yelling at staff.
Debt notices.
Her being called "the pretty face" with "no spine."
She opens the file again. Reads.
On the last page:
"No intimacy. No obligation. Just image. Just control."
She frowns. That last line doesn't sound like a contract. It sounds like a challenge.
She bites her lip.
Whispers to herself:
"Who the hell is he really?"
INT. AARYAN'S PENTHOUSE – SAME NIGHT
I sit by the piano.
The old one. My mother's.
I press a single key.
The echo is dull. Just like me.
Vihaan enters, holding a whisky glass. "She'll sign."
"She already has."
Vihaan smirks. "You really want her broken, don't you?"
"No."
I sip my drink. Let the burn settle in.
"I want her loyal."