Chapter 5: The Dubai Proposal
The scent of his cologne clung to her skin, a phantom imprint on her collarbone where his fingers had traced the metrics slide on her laptop screen. The conference room felt cavernously empty now, the sterile hum of the AC too loud. Anya stared at her own reflection in the dark glass of the wall, seeing the flushed woman, the slightly swollen lips, the blouse she’d just re-tucked with trembling hands.
Dubai.
The word hung in the air, more intimate than any touch. A business summit. A justification. A gleaming alibi wrapped in desert heat.
Her phone buzzed on the polished table. Sam. The screen flashed a photo of them laughing at a friend’s barbecue, his arm slung around her shoulders, both of them squinting in the sun. A lifetime ago, last weekend.
She swiped to answer, her voice carefully sanded to normalcy. “Hey, you.”
“Hey! You still buried alive? I was thinking of ordering that Thai place you like. Raincheck on the movie?”
His voice was easy, warm. It felt like a physical blow. She saw the half-eaten room service club sandwich from the Grand Hyatt, the tangle of sheets, Sid silencing his wife’s call.
“Actually,” she said, the word tasting of metal, “might be even later. Sid just dropped a big one. The Al-Jabr presentation for the Dubai summit. I’m leading it.” She injected a sliver of genuine pride into the lie. It was real work. It was also cover.
“No way! Dubai? Anya, that’s huge!” His delight was instantaneous, uncomplicated. “When?”
“Two weeks. It’s a whirlwind. Just a few days.” She picked at a microscopic flaw in the table’s veneer. “Lots to prep.”
“My superstar. Thai place can wait. Celebrate when you’re done tonight? I’ll get a bottle of that prosecco you pretend to like.”
She closed her eyes. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”
They hung up. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. The thrilling secret now had edges that cut. She gathered her laptop, her notes, the empty mug of cold tea. As she left, she caught a last glimpse of the chair Sid had leaned against, his weight tilting it back. A ghost in the machinery.
Across the office, in the corner suite, Sid stood at his window, the city’s grid laid out before him like a circuit board. The familiar buzz of control was slow to return. His skin still buzzed from the conference room, from the electric feel of her under his touch, the sharp intake of her breath when his hand found its way past fabric.
His own phone sat on his desk, a black slab of consequences. He’d texted Priya after the conference room: Heads-down on Dubai prep. May be late. Don’t wait up. A mirror of Anya’s call. A synchronized dance of deception.
Her reply had been a simple heart emoji. Followed by: Vikram’s parent-teacher conference is Thursday at 4. You said you’d try.
His son’s name was a bucket of cold water. He saw the boy’s serious face, the way he concentrated over his homework, so unlike Sid’s own restless energy. Thursday. He’d be in Dubai on Thursday. The logistics of his life, once a masterfully managed campaign, now felt like a house of cards in a gust.
He turned from the view, his eyes landing on the contract for the Dubai summit. It was real business. Substantial. Anya was the best person to present the creative. That part wasn’t a lie. It was the fusion that terrified him—the absolute truth of her talent welded to the screaming truth of his desire. He couldn’t untangle them. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
The intercom on his desk chirped. “Sid, line two. It’s the hotel in Dubai confirming the booking details for the delegation.”
He sat down, the leather chair sighing under him. “Put them through.”
A cheerful voice on the other end ran through options. Main hotel for the team. Superior rooms. Conference facilities.
“And for yourself, Mr. Khurana? We have your usual suite available.”
He saw the digital render of the Grand Hyatt bed. He felt the weight of a silent phone. He thought of Anya in a conference room just like this one, her eyes wide, saying Which hotel?
“Book the suite,” he said, his voice even, CEO-calm. “And…” He paused, the precipice yawning. He calculated flight schedules, separation from the team, plausible deniability. “I’ll need an additional room. A deluxe. On a separate floor. Book it under the corporate card but list it as private.”
“Of course, sir. Any name for the second reservation?”
The air in his office was perfectly climate-controlled, yet he felt a bead of sweat trace a path down his spine. He looked at the door, as if he could see through it, across the bullpen, to where she was sitting.
“Sharma,” he said, the word final. “Anya Sharma.”