Chapter 7: The Rival's Gambit
He was draped across her lap on the oversized velvet sofa, a king in his domain of lazy Sunday afternoon. Her fingers traced the shell of his ear, down the line of his jaw. He was narrating a story about his college friend’s disastrous attempt at stand-up comedy, making his voice squeaky and ridiculous, and she was laughing—a deep, unfettered sound that filled the high-ceilinged room. He loved that sound. It was a reward. He reached up, pulling her face down to his, and they were kissing, a slow, syrupy thing flavored with the cardamom chai they’d been drinking.
His phone buzzed on the cushion beside his head. He ignored it, chasing her lips. It buzzed again. And again.
“Someone is desperate,” Safa murmured against his mouth, her hand sliding into his hair.
With a groan, he broke the kiss and grabbed the phone. The screen flashed with a name that sent a jolt through his relaxation: Qamira Al-Rashid.
“Shit,” he muttered, the lightness gone from his voice.
“Who?” Safa asked, her playful tone sharpening.
“The rival. The Iraqi one. From the pitch event.” He sat up, dislodging himself from her lap. “She must have heard about the Patel Pharmacies deal closing.”
“Don’t answer it.”
“I have to. It’s business.” He swiped to answer and put the phone on speaker out of habit—a habit born of lazy days sharing music and podcasts with Safa. “Qamira. This is a surprise.”
“Don’t ‘Qamira’ me, you little shit.” The woman’s voice was a crackling whip, sharp with a cultured Arabic accent. “Patel Pharmacies? Really? You undercut my bid by what, fifteen percent? What are you running, a charity or a business?”
Amartya felt his face grow hot. Safa went perfectly still beside him, her eyes locked on the phone.
“It was a competitive bid, Qamira. My platform offered a better logistical solution for their rural branches. It’s not just about price.”
“Don’t patronize me with your jargon,” she spat. “I know your type. Pretty boy with a slick presentation and no real depth. You think this is a game? You think you can waltz in with your ‘artisanal’ fairy dust and steal contracts from people who’ve been building for years?”
Her words were acid, each one designed to erode. Amartya opened his mouth to retort, but a warning pressure on his thigh made him glance at Safa. Her face was a calm mask, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the sofa cushion. She shook her head minutely, her eyes blazing. Stay quiet, her look said.
He swallowed. “It’s a free market, Qamira. Patel made his choice.”
A harsh, humorless laugh echoed from the speaker. “He chose a cheap, flashy option. It won’t last. And when it crumbles, don’t come crawling to me for advice. Although,” her tone shifted, dipping into something colder, more personal, “you probably wouldn’t. Too proud. Too naive. It’s almost pathetic.”
The word hung in the perfumed air. Pathetic.
Amartya stared at the phone, his breath tight in his chest. Before he could form a response, a low click sounded. She had hung up.
The silence that followed was deafening. The golden light streaming through the windows felt suddenly oppressive. The faint, ever-present scent of Safa’s perfume and yesterday’s curry turned cloying.
He let out a shaky, forced laugh. “Wow. She’s… intense. Probably just salty she lost.” He turned to Safa, expecting her to share in his deflection, to offer one of her soothing reassurances.
Safa was not looking at him. She was staring at the spot where the phone had lain, her chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. When she finally turned her head, the calm on her face was gone, replaced by a chilling stillness. Her dark eyes were black pools of pure, unadulterated fury.
“She,” Safa said, her voice dangerously quiet, “called you pathetic.”
“It’s just trash talk. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything.” Safa stood up in one fluid, furious motion. “She does not get to speak to you that way. She does not get to touch you with her ugly, jealous words.” She began pacing, the hem of her silk dress swirling around her calves. “Who does she think she is? Some Iraqi hag with a spreadsheet and a bad attitude? She knows nothing. Nothing about your work. Nothing about your heart. She is a bug. A noisy, insignificant bug.”
“Safa, come on, it’s okay—” He reached for her hand.
She snatched it away. “It is not okay!” The shout echoed off the marble. “She abused my baby. My strong, brilliant, beautiful baby.” Tears, hot and sudden, welled in her eyes, but they were tears of rage, not sadness. “I want to break her phone. I want to pour her expensive coffee on her stupid, tailored suits. I want her to look at you and see a king, and know she is nothing but dust beneath your feet.”
Her passion was a physical force in the room. It should have been overwhelming, maybe even frightening. But watching her—this beautiful, furious creature vibrating with indignation on his behalf—something warm and possessive uncoiled in Amartya’s gut. The sting of Qamira’s words melted away, replaced by the awe of being so fiercely claimed.
He stood up and caught her mid-pace, his hands settling on her waist. “Hey,” he murmured, pulling her close. “Look at me.”
She struggled for a second, then collapsed against him, her body tense. “I hate her,” she whispered into his shoulder, her voice thick.
“I don’t care about her.” It was suddenly, perfectly true. He tilted her chin up. Her cheeks were wet. He wiped a tear away with his thumb. “I only care that you’re upset.”
He kissed her forehead, then the corner of her mouth. He felt her anger begin to thaw, its energy shifting, transforming. He traced the line of her spine, down to the base. His hand slipped to her thigh, his fingers sliding beneath the silk of her dress, feeling the warm, smooth skin of her leg.
A shiver ran through her.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his other hand cupping the back of her head. “Forget her,” he breathed between kisses. “She’s not here. You are.”
Safa made a small, hungry sound and kissed him back with a desperate intensity, as if trying to scrub the echo of Qamira’s voice from the air itself. Her hands fisted in his shirt. The taste of salt from her tears mixed with the cardamom on her tongue.
Then, with a strength that still surprised him, she pushed him back just enough to look at him, her eyes glazed and dark. “You’re hungry,” she stated, her voice husky.
He was, but not for food.
She took his hand and led him, not towards the bedroom, but to the kitchen. The stainless steel appliances gleamed under the downlights. She turned, backed against the massive induction hob, and pulled him into her, kissing him with a bruising need. His hands ran up her thighs, lifting her, and he sat her on the cold, polished quartz countertop.
For a minute, they lost themselves there, in the clinical brightness of the kitchen, a tangle of breath and grasping hands. Then Safa broke away, breathing heavily. She pushed him gently back, just a step.
“Sit,” she commanded, her voice regaining its familiar, melodic composure.
He leaned against the opposite counter, watching as she slid off. She opened the fridge, pulled out potatoes, a bottle of honey, chillies. Her movements were swift, precise, an act of violent grace. The knife thudded against the cutting board as she diced potatoes into perfect, thin batons, each slice a sharp punctuation in the quiet.
He didn’t speak. He just watched her conjure order from chaos, revenge from rage. The oil hissed in the pan. The aroma of frying potatoes filled the air, soon joined by the sweet, sharp sting of honey and the fiery kick of green chillies. The scent was a weapon, banishing the last ghost of the phone call.
A few minutes later, she turned off the flame. She took a single, perfectly glazed golden baton, blew on it, and walked to him. Placing one hand on his chest, she brought the honey chilli potato to his lips.
“Open.”
He obeyed. The flavor exploded—crunchy, sweet, searingly spicy. It was comfort and fire, all at once.
“Good?” she asked, her eyes searching his.
He couldn’t even speak. He just nodded, his mouth full.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She took his hand and led him back to the counter, patting the spot next to the pan. “Sit here.”
He hoisted himself up onto the cold quartz, his legs dangling. She stood between them, feeding him another piece, then another, her fingers sometimes brushing his lips. With each bite, the world righted itself. Qamira’s voice faded into a meaningless buzz. The apartment, with its marble and perfume and this woman, was the only reality.
He ate until the pan was nearly empty. She licked a stray drop of honey from her own finger, never breaking eye contact.
“All better?” she whispered.
“All better,” he said, pulling her close, his chin resting on her stomach. The anger was gone, dissipated into the steam of cooking oil and the certainty of her touch. Outside, the city carried on, oblivious. Inside, he was fed, cherished, and utterly, completely hers. The rival, the insults, the competitive world beyond their door—it all felt like a faint, unimportant dream.