“Two crores for one night. That’s my final offer, Mr. Mehra.”
Rudra Singhania’s voice cut through the hospital room like a blade.
He didn’t look at the dying man on the bed.
His eyes were fixed on me.
Ira Mehra.
22 years old.
College dropout.
And as of ten seconds ago, for sale.
“Please,” my father wheezed, the oxygen mask fogging.
“She’s my daughter. Don’t—”
“Your daughter or your life, Mr. Mehra.” Rudra checked his diamond Rolex.
“The surgery costs two crores. You have two minutes to decide. Either I pay and I own her for tonight, or you die in the next hour. Choose.”
My legs went numb.
Two crores.
The exact amount we needed for dad’s heart transplant.
The amount the loan sharks said they’d take my kidney for if we didn’t pay by midnight.
I looked at Rudra Singhania.
Mumbai’s most ruthless billionaire.
28 years old.
Face like a Greek god carved from ice.
Heart like the Arctic.
Rumor was he didn’t have one.
“What… what do you want exactly?” My voice shook.
He finally looked at me.
Really looked.
His eyes were black, empty, and they dragged over my cheap kurti like I was dirt.
“My grandfather is dying. His last wish is to see me married. I need a wife for his funeral next week. The media will be there. The board members will be there. If I show up single, I lose my inheritance. Fifty thousand crores.”
He stepped closer.
His cologne was expensive and suffocating.
“So I buy you. One week. You pretend to be my loving fiancee. You cry at the funeral. You hold my hand. You fool everyone. In return, your father lives. After seven days, I give you divorce papers and ten lakhs for your trouble. We never see each other again.”
“And… and the ‘one night’ you mentioned?” My cheeks burned.
A cruel smile touched his lips.
“That was to test you. To see if you’d sell yourself to save him. You would. That makes you perfect. Desperate women keep secrets.”
He pulled out a contract.
The heading read: *Fake Fiancee Agreement*.
“But there are rules, Miss Mehra.” He pointed with his pen.
“Rule 1: No one can know this is fake. Not my family, not the media, not even your father. Rule 2: No physical contact beyond what’s necessary for photos. No kissing, no touching, no sleeping in the same room. Rule 3: If you break a rule, the deal is off. Your father dies. You get nothing. Understand?”
I stared at my father’s gray face.
At the machines keeping him alive.
At the debt collectors waiting outside.
I had no choice.
I took the pen.
**Seven Days Later – Singhania Mansion**
The funeral was over.
I had played my part.
I cried on cue.
I held Rudra’s hand while cameras flashed.
His grandfather was buried with full honors, believing his grandson had finally found love.
Now I stood in Rudra’s penthouse, the divorce papers on the glass table between us.
“It’s done,” I whispered.
“My father is in recovery. Thank you for—”
“Don’t thank me.” Rudra loosened his black tie, his eyes dark.
“This was business. Sign the divorce and take your money. My driver will drop you.”
I picked up the pen.
My hand froze.
Because on the table, next to the divorce papers, was a pregnancy test.
Two pink lines.
Positive.
Rudra saw it.
His face went deathly still.
“What is that?”
“I… I don’t know,” I lied.
My period was late.
I had bought the test this morning, just to be sure.
I hadn’t expected…
“When?” His voice was lethal now.
“When did you—”
“We didn’t!” I stood up, panicking.
“We never… you said no contact! Rule 2! I followed it! I swear!”
“Liar.” He was in front of me in one second, caging me against the window.
Mumbai’s skyline glittered behind him.
“The funeral was six days ago. We’ve been in the same house for a week. You tell me how you’re pregnant, Ira.”
“I’m not!” Tears spilled.
“Maybe the test is wrong! I don’t know! We never even shared a room!”
He stared at my face, searching for a lie.
His jaw was clenched so hard I thought it would snap.
“Rule 2,” he growled.
“No baby. No attachments. No complications.”
He grabbed the divorce papers and ripped them in half.
“The deal is changed,” he said, his eyes burning into mine.
“You’re not going anywhere. Not until I know whose baby that is. And if it’s mine…”
He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear.
“Then God help you, Ira Mehra. Because no one leaves Rudra Singhania. Especially not the mother of his child.”
My blood ran cold.
I had sold myself to the Devil for seven days.
Now he was keeping me forever.
**[To be continued…]**
New journey begins here