Chapter 1: The Proposal Under the Stars
The rooftop air hummed with expensive perfume, distant traffic, and the low thrum of curated house music. City lights stretched below like spilled constellations, glittering against the velvet sky. Amartya leaned against the cool glass railing, not seeing the view. His fingers drummed a silent, frustrated rhythm on the smooth surface. The spreadsheet projections on his phone screen blurred. Not enough. Never enough. Starting his own eco-apparel line felt like trying to climb a glass mountain barefoot. And the seed funding? A joke. A very unfunny joke.
"Meri jaan! There you are!"
The voice, warm honey laced with possession, sliced through his thoughts. Hande materialized beside him, radiating the kind of effortless elegance only serious money could buy. Her emerald silk dress clung strategically, the neckline dipping just enough to draw the eye. Her dark hair was swept into a chic knot, emphasizing sharp cheekbones and eyes that glittered with undisguised adoration beneath expertly applied kohl. She slid her arm through his, the contact possessive. "Hiding from the party? Or just plotting world domination?" She laughed, a light, musical sound that somehow felt heavy on Amartya’s shoulders. Her gaze swept his face, lingering. "You look tired, my lion. Come, sit. Let me get you a drink. Something strong." She gently tugged him away from the railing, her body angled to block his view of the crowd.
He resisted, just slightly. "Hande, I'm fine. Just... thinking." He tried to disengage his arm, but her grip, delicate yet firm, tightened.
"Thinking requires fuel, habibi," she insisted, her thumb tracing a small circle on his bicep. Anxiety flickered in her eyes, quickly masked by a dazzling smile. "You work too hard. It worries me. You need taking care of." She leaned in closer, her expensive perfume – jasmine and oud – enveloping him. "Stay right here. Don't move a muscle. I'll be back with champagne."
Before he could protest again, she was weaving through clusters of guests towards the bar, a determined sway in her hips. Amartya sighed, rubbing his temple. Hande’s intensity was a constant. Flattering sometimes, stifling often. Her desire to marry him, whispered fervently whenever they were alone, felt like a velvet cage. Beautiful, soft... impossible to escape without shredding the velvet.
He’d barely regained his breath when another presence arrived. Brighter, louder.
"Well, well, look who escaped Hande's protective custody! Mr. Grumpy Pants himself!"
Tuba. She arrived with a whirlwind of laughter and the scent of orange blossoms and something sharper, spicier. Her dress was a vibrant cobalt blue, short and playful, showing off legs that seemed to go on forever. Her dark curls tumbled freely, framing a face alive with mischief and an equally potent possessiveness simmering just beneath the surface. She held two champagne flutes already, expertly avoiding a waiter. "Caught you brooding," she declared, shoving one flute into his hand before he could refuse. "Bad for the complexion, ya amar. Makes wrinkles." She tapped her own smooth forehead.
Amartya accepted the glass, a reluctant smile touching his lips despite himself. Tuba’s nicknames were absurd, but they were funny. Her energy was infectious, even when it felt like a different kind of undertow. "Just planning, Tuba. Not brooding."
"Planning looks suspiciously like brooding from here, Captain Serious," she teased, stepping deliberately into the space Hande had vacated, her shoulder brushing his. Her gaze, sharp as obsidian, scanned his face. "You need fun. Less spreadsheets, more..." She gestured vaguely towards the dance floor, "...bad decisions. Preferably involving me." Her smile was dazzling, but her eyes held the same anxious intensity as Hande’s, the same desire to anchor him to her side.
He took a sip of champagne. The bubbles fizzed uselessly against his frustration. "Bad decisions are expensive," he muttered.
"Good decisions are boring," she countered instantly, leaning closer. Her voice dropped, intimate, conspiratorial. "Seriously, though. That supplier giving you grief again? I know people. Let me help. A tiny loan, just to smooth things over? No strings, I promise." Her fingers brushed his wrist. Lightly. Insistently.
"No," Amartya said, firmer this time, pulling his hand back slightly. The refusal was reflexive. Absolute. "I've told you. Both of you. I do this myself."
Tuba’s smile faltered for a nanosecond, the possessiveness flaring into something harder. Resentment? Then the bright mask snapped back. "Stubborn as a baby camel, habibi! Fine. Suffer nobly." She laughed, but it sounded tight. "Just promise you'll save one dance for me? Before Hande monopolizes you all night?"
Before he could answer, Hande reappeared, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly as she took in Tuba’s proximity. She carried a single, perfectly poured flute of champagne. "Tuba! Keeping my lion company?" Her voice was sweet, lethally so. She smoothly inserted herself between Tuba and Amartya, forcing Tuba to take a half-step back. Hande pressed her glass into Amartya’s other hand, ignoring the one Tuba had already given him. "For you, meri jaan. The Krug. I know it’s your favourite."
Amartya now held two flutes. He felt like a ridiculous centrepiece.
"Generous, Hande," Tuba purred, her eyes glinting with challenge. "But ya amar here was just telling me how parched he was. He practically inhaled the one I brought." She gave Amartya a pointed look, daring him to contradict her.
Hande’s smile didn't reach her eyes. They flickered towards the glass in his left hand, then back to Tuba. "Well, he can never be too hydrated. Especially when he works so hard." She turned her full attention to Amartya, placing a cool hand on his cheek. Her touch was possessive. "You are looking peaky. Maybe you should sit down? There’s a quiet sofa over by the ferns." She subtly tried to steer him away.
"Actually," Tuba interjected brightly, stepping around Hande to link her arm through Amartya’s free one again, mirroring Hande's earlier hold, "I was just about to introduce Amartya to Rafiq. You know Rafiq? Tech VC? Might be useful for that app idea he’s been noodling on." She beamed at Hande, the picture of innocent helpfulness. "Networking! Important for ambitious young entrepreneurs, right?"
Hande’s jaw tightened. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken rivalry, the facade of friendship stretched thin. Amartya felt like a bone caught between two beautiful, territorial wolves. He stood trapped in their competing embraces, a flute of expensive champagne in each hand.
"I'm fine standing," he managed, his voice tight. "And I'm not... noodling on an app. It's integrated supply chain software. For sustainability."
"Details, habibi, details!" Tuba waved a dismissive hand, squeezing his arm. "Point is, Rafiq is right there." She nodded across the terrace. Hande’s grip on his other arm tightened in response, her nails pressing lightly through his shirt sleeve.
"Rafiq can wait," Hande stated coolly, her eyes locked on Tuba. "Amartya needs a moment. He's overwhelmed. Look at him." Her thumb stroked his cheek again. "My poor, hardworking lion."
"Maybe he's overwhelmed by being smothered," Tuba shot back, her voice losing some of its playful edge. "He is capable of breathing on his own, you know."
The polite mask slipped further. Amartya could see the raw jealousy, the fierce, anxious need burning in both their gazes now, directed as much at each other as at him. Their conflicting pulls threatened to tear him apart right there on the lush rooftop. He wanted to shout. To shove them both off. To disappear. The city lights below seemed suddenly dizzying.
He took a deliberate step back, finally breaking their holds. Champagne sloshed precariously in both glasses. "Excuse me," he muttered, his voice rough. "I need some air."
"Amartya, wait—" Hande reached for him, her anxiety naked now.
"Ya amar, don't be like that!" Tuba protested, stepping forward.
But he was already turning away from the glittering tension, pushing through the crowd towards the quieter edge of the terrace, near the elevator lobby. He needed space. Silence. To not be fought over like a prize. He leaned against a pillar, closing his eyes, the cool concrete a relief against his back. The music faded slightly. He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to reclaim his thoughts, the spreadsheet figures swimming back into focus. Profit margins. Material sourcing. The impossible loan…
His phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. Reluctantly, he pulled it out, half-expecting another frantic text from one of them. The light from the screen illuminated his face. The notification wasn't from Hande or Tuba.
It was a bank alert.
He stared. Blinked. Rubbed his eyes. The numbers on the screen didn't make sense. He read the notification again, then a third time. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the distant thud of the bass. His carefully constructed world of struggle, of scraping by, tilted violently on its axis. This changed everything. How? Why? The champagne flutes felt suddenly weightless in his hands, forgotten. The sounds of the party, the lingering scent of jasmine and orange blossom, Hande and Tuba... it all faded into a distant hum.
He was still staring, frozen, at the glowing screen when the elevator doors nearby slid open with a soft chime.