Chapter 6: Claiming What's Hers
The scent of biryani had been replaced by jasmine and ozone. Amartya’s penthouse terrace, three hundred feet above the pulse of the city, was a living piece of the night sky. Dozens of pillar candles flickered in glass hurricanes, their light catching the gold thread in Safa’s navy skirt as she leaned against the railing, her shoulder just brushing Amartya’s arm. The soft hum of curated jazz, the clink of crystal, the murmur of fifty happy, curated voices—it was all a perfect, harmonious machine. Amartya had built the evening effortlessly, his laughter a warm current moving through the crowd, making everyone feel seen. But his attention, like a compass needle, kept swinging back to Safa.
She was telling him about a logistics bottleneck in Rotterdam, her hands sketching shapes in the air, when the harmony fractured.
“Amartya. There you are.”
The voice was smooth, a blade sheathed in honey. They turned in unison.
Katerina Volkov stood three feet away, a vision in emerald silk the exact shade of her eyes. The dress was a mirror of Safa’s style—cinched waist, sleek skirt—but cut just a fraction tighter, the neckline just a whisper lower. Her smile was a surgical instrument, precise and aimed directly at him. The candlelight seemed to bend towards her, greedy.
Before Amartya could form a sentence, she closed the distance. Her arms went around his neck, her perfume—that same cloying, expensive scent from the coffee shop—engulfing him in a cloud. It was a hug that lasted a beat too long, possessive and performative. Over her shoulder, he saw Safa’s posture go rigid, her smile freezing into something carved from ice.
“Katerina. Hi,” Amartya said, his voice careful as he gently extracted himself.
“You throw a wonderful party,” she said, her hand lingering on his bicep. Only then did she let her gaze drift to Safa. The acknowledgement was slow, deliberate. “Safa. What a surprise. I didn’t know you moved in these circles.”
The insult was velvet-lined. These circles implied Amartya was a tier above, and Safa was a guest who’d slipped past the ropes.
Safa’s own smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Amartya’s circles are surprisingly… inclusive. As long as you have something to contribute besides a perfume budget.”
Katerina’s laugh was a soft, tinkling bell. “Still so fiercely protective of your territory.” She turned back to Amartya, her entire body angling to exclude Safa. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation. Your water project in Rajasthan. The numbers are fascinating, but the scaling model has a potential flaw in the third-phase distribution. I had some thoughts.”
She was good. She’d done her homework, found a genuine point of entry. Amartya felt a flicker of professional interest, immediately followed by a cold wash of suspicion. He saw Safa’s knuckles whiten where they gripped her clutch.
“Oh?” he said, keeping his tone light, non-committal.
“Mhmm. It’s a simple fix, really. I’d love to show you the projections. Maybe we could steal away for ten minutes? The library here is stunning, I’ve heard.” Her eyes were wide, full of pure, intellectual enthusiasm. It was a masterclass in seduction by spreadsheet.
Safa made a small sound, almost inaudible. A sharp intake of breath. Amartya didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on Katerina, his own smile easy and unwavering.
“That’s a kind offer,” he said, his voice clear and carrying just enough to include the few nearby guests who were pretending not to listen. “But I’m afraid Safa and I already have the solution locked down. Her team in Kabul actually pioneered the distribution workaround you’re talking about. It’s brilliant. She’s probably the only reason the project is viable past phase two.”
He felt, more than saw, Safa’s sudden stillness beside him. Katerina’s perfect smile didn’t slip, but it hardened at the edges, like glaze on ceramic.
“Is that so,” she said, her voice cooling by a degree.
“Absolutely. I lean on her expertise constantly.” He finally glanced at Safa, letting every ounce of genuine admiration show in his face. “Honestly, half the things I get credit for are just me implementing her ideas better.”
Safa’s frozen expression thawed. A real warmth flooded her eyes, pushing back the jealousy, the fear. She straightened her spine, a queen reclaiming her dais.
Katerina watched this silent exchange. Her gaze flicked between them, calculating. The prey wasn’t isolated. It was a united front. The realization didn’t anger her; it sharpened her focus. A challenge was more interesting than a concession.
“Well,” she said, her tone shifting back to one of polished concession. “Then I’m clearly a step behind. I should do better research.” She raised her empty champagne flute in a tiny, graceful salute. “Another time, perhaps.”
She leaned in again, this time just brushing a cold, perfumed cheek against Amartya’s. Her whisper was for him alone, a ghost in his ear. “You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for. This is fun.”
Then she was gliding away, a flash of emerald dissolving into the kaleidoscope of guests.
The air around Amartya and Safa felt suddenly, violently quiet. The music and chatter rushed back in like a tide. Safa was staring at the space where Katerina had stood, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was a little too fast.
“Hey,” Amartya said softly, turning to face her fully. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. “You okay?”
She blinked, as if waking up. Her eyes found his, wide and a little shocked. “You… you didn’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Praise me like that. In front of her. It was… strategic.”
“It wasn’t strategy,” he said, his voice dropping, earnest. “It was truth. Your work is brilliant. I do rely on you. The only thing strategic was saying it out loud so she could hear.”
A tremor went through Safa. All the fierce defensiveness drained out of her, leaving something raw and vulnerable underneath. Without a word, she stepped into him, pressing her face against his chest. Her arms slid around his waist, holding on tight. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart through the thin layers of their clothes.
He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the curious glances from across the terrace, cradling the back of her head. “She’s just noise, Safa,” he murmured into her hair, which smelled of saffron and night air, a clean contrast to the perfume now staining his jacket. “Loud, annoying, well-dressed noise.”
Safa let out a shaky laugh against his shirt. “She wants you.”
“She wants a trophy. There’s a difference.” He leaned back, cupping her face, forcing her to look at him. The candlelight danced in her dark eyes. “You hearing me?”
She nodded, a single, firm movement. She was regaining her ground, the moment of public weakness passing. But her arms around him didn’t loosen. It was a claiming, an answer to Katerina’s performance. This was real. This was hers.
“Good,” he said. He brushed his thumb over her lower lip, a whisper of a touch. “Now, can we please go back to having a nice party? I ordered these miniature rose gulab jamuns and I haven’t had a single one.”
She laughed again, this time clear and whole. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he said, kissing her forehead, “are stuck with me.” He kept his arm around her shoulders as they turned back to the party, a solid, unbreakable line of two against the glittering, hungry dark.