DIVYA
The incessant ringing at the door jarred me from the heavy fog of sleep, a low groan escaping my lips before I could stop it. My head throbbed in protest, pounding like a dull hammer against my skull, the weight of exhaustion pulling me back into the mattress. For a moment, I thought about ignoring the sound, hoping that whoever it was would just leave. But the sharp chime echoed again, louder this time, more urgent, slicing through the comfortable haze of my dreams.
I cracked one eye open, the pale morning light slipping through the blinds, too bright, too harsh. My body felt leaden, aching from the remnants of last night's rainstorm. I wiped at my nose with the back of my hand, only to find it damp again. Great-my nose hadn't stopped running since I'd made the genius decision to get wet in rain with him.
I shivered at the memory, though not because of the pleasant warmth it used to bring. No, I was shivering because my body had betrayed me. The chill from the rain had sunk deep into my bones, leaving me wrecked in the aftermath.
The doorbell screamed again.
"Ugh," I muttered under my breath, throwing off the covers that had tangled around me during the night. My body felt stiff, as if every muscle had been wrung out and left to dry, and my throat... God, my throat burned like fire. I tried to swallow but winced. Every breath I took came out in uneven, ragged gasps, my lungs thick with the remnants of the night air.
Why now? Why today of all days, when my body felt like it had been hit by a freight train?
I stumbled to my feet, my vision swimming for a second before it focused. The room spun, and I pressed a palm to my forehead, which was hot, burning with fever. It felt like someone had taken a bat to the inside of my skull.
Each step toward the door was a reminder of how badly I'd overestimated my tolerance for cold weather and underestimated Mother Nature's wrath.
As I shuffled across the room, I tried to gather my thoughts, but the night before kept intruding-his smile, the way we'd run across the road careless and wild, hand in hand in rain It had been so perfect. I know he hated rain but still he got wet with me because I loved rain.
And now, this was my reward-a dripping nose, a pounding head, and the sense that my body had turned against me.
The doorbell rang once more, persistent and shrill, jolting me back to the present.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming," I croaked, my voice hoarse and barely audible. The words scraped my throat like sandpaper. I reached the door, every nerve in my body protesting the movement, but somehow, I forced my hand to the knob and turned.
As the door swung open, I squinted against the brightness outside. The person on the other side was just a blur to me-my eyes too foggy, my mind too sluggish to register them fully. The cold air rushed in, making me shiver even harder, and I cursed under my breath.
"What do you want?" I rasped, though the sound came out more pitiful than menacing.
Whoever stood in front of me didn't respond right away, but I could sense their hesitation, their eyes scanning my face-probably taking in the pale, sickly version of myself that I barely recognized. I sniffled, wiping at my nose again, and prayed to whatever gods there were that this encounter would be quick.
Because all I wanted was to crawl back into bed, shut the world out, and let this miserable cold run its course.
The moment my vision cleared, I froze. The man standing at my door looked awfully familiar. His blonde hair, cropped neatly above his strong jawline, and the way his muscular frame filled the doorway-it all triggered something in my foggy mind. He was tall, easily six feet.
Before I could form a single question, he thrust his phone toward me. I blinked, startled, but took it hesitantly, sniffling as I pressed it against my ear.
"Hello?" I rasped, my voice a weak whisper in the stillness. For a moment, there was nothing, just the faint crackle of the line. Then, I heard it-the voice that made my knees weak every time.
"Divya." His deep, gravelly tone sent a shiver down my spine. Even over the phone, Raghav's voice had the power to unravel me completely.
"Raghav..." I breathed, his name barely a whisper.
"Good morning, Divya," he said, the warmth in his voice barely masking the authority that always simmered beneath the surface. "Trent will give you a small bag. It has cold medicine, so make sure you take it, alright? I don't want you getting worse. Please rest. I'll call you later. I'm a little busy right now."
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, burning at the unexpected tenderness in his words. He was always so busy, always in control of his world, yet somehow, he still found time to check on me. To care for me. My family never showed such concern, and yet, here was Raghav, a man who barely had a minute to spare, making sure I had what I needed.
"Okay," I whispered, my voice cracking, and with that, he hung up. I stared at the phone in my hand for a beat longer, trying to process the quiet kindness behind his gesture.
When I finally handed the phone back to Trent, I noticed the paper bag in his hand. Of course-he was carrying it the whole time. I remembered now that he had accompanied us on the trip to Boston. Raghav's trusted man.
"Please, come in," I offered, stepping aside. Trent gave me a small, awkward smile before stepping into the living room. I shut the door behind him, the soft click sounding louder in the quiet of the house.
I turned to see him standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
"Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some coffee?" I asked, trying to be polite, despite the exhaustion still gnawing at me.
"No, I'm fine, ma'am. Please, just take your medicine," he said, his tone formal, placing the paper bag gently on the coffee table.
I gave him a small smile. "Come on, Trent. Don't be so stiff. You're in my house for the first time-I can't let you leave without at least having a coffee. Sit, relax. It'll only take a moment," I insisted, heading into the kitchen before he could argue.
I worked quickly, heating the milk and preparing two cups of coffee. My movements were automatic, a welcome distraction from the heavy ache in my body. Once the coffee was ready, I arranged it on a tray with a few cookies and carried it back into the living room.
Trent had finally settled on the sofa, looking a bit more relaxed than before. I placed the tray on the coffee table and handed him a cup.
"Thank you," he said, his formal tone slipping just a bit as he accepted the cup.
I settled into the armchair opposite him, taking a sip of my own coffee, the warmth spreading through me. But Trent's expression remained serious, his brows furrowed.
"Ma'am, please... take the medicine. The boss will be upset if you don't," he said, almost apologetically.
I chuckled softly. "Alright, alright," I muttered, reaching for the paper bag. Inside, I found cold medicine, a small box, and a thermos. I looked up, confused.
Trent cleared his throat. "The boss figured you wouldn't have had breakfast yet, so he packed sandwiches for you. The thermos has a herbal drink... made by Nandini Aunty for your cold."
I blinked, surprised at the level of thought Raghav had put into this. The sandwiches, the drink-he knew me too well. A warmth spread through my chest, though this time it wasn't from the coffee.
I took a small bite of the sandwich, savoring the simple but comforting taste, and washed it down with coffee before swallowing the medicine. By the time I was done, Trent had finished his coffee too, but he still made no move to leave. The silence began to feel a little awkward.
"Is there something else?" I asked cautiously.
"Yes, ma'am. Please drink the herbal drink," Trent insisted, sounding almost desperate.
I smiled. "I'll have it later."
"No, ma'am," he said quickly, shaking his head. "The boss was very clear-he wants you to drink it now."
I laughed softly at his earnestness. "Is Raghav really that scary?"
Trent's serious expression didn't falter.
Sighing, I opened the thermos and took a sip. The herbal drink was bitter, the taste lingering unpleasantly on my tongue, but I swallowed it in one go, making a face as I finished.
"Happy?" I asked, setting the thermos back down.
Trent smiled, a bit more relaxed now. He stood, dusting off his pants. "Thank you, ma'am. Please take care of yourself. The boss won't be happy if you don't."
With a final polite nod, he left, and the quiet of the room settled back around me. I leaned back against the sofa, my body already feeling better after the medicine. Raghav's thoughtful gesture hung in the air, his care wrapping around me like a blanket.
Did he love me? He'd never said the words, but his actions spoke volumes.
They always had.
I glanced at my phone, wondering when he would call again. I couldn't wait to thank him.
Feeling more energized, I headed toward my bedroom, deciding that a quick shower would be the perfect refresh before tackling the day. Maybe I should rest, but the thought of being stuck at home another day felt suffocating. The gallery needed me, and I had some paperwork to finish. A few hours wouldn't hurt, right?
After a warm shower, I dressed quickly-opting for a white Peter Pan collar blouse paired with beige trousers and white heels. Simple, but polished. I added a few accessories, giving myself a final look in the mirror before grabbing my keys and heading out.
I stepped into the elevator, the soft hum of it descending as I mentally ran through the tasks for the day. When the doors slid open, I made my way through the quiet garage, the echo of my heels the only sound. I reached my car-my baby-and slid into the driver's seat. The engine purred to life, and with a steady breath, I pulled out of the garage, heading toward the art gallery.
As soon as I stepped into my art gallery, the familiar scent of fresh paint and varnish greeted me, mingling with the subtle musk of the old wood floors beneath my feet. The gallery was quieter than usual for an afternoon, with only a few visitors wandering between the displays. Still, there was an energy in the air-a buzz that hadn't been there before. I couldn't help but smile to myself.
Ever since I won the award, people had started paying more attention. Word had spread, and my once modest gallery had suddenly become the talk of the art world. It was strange-seeing people actually lingering in front of my pieces, discussing them in hushed tones, the way they used to do with works of far more famous artists. My heart swelled with a mix of pride and disbelief. Popularity, even in this subtle form, was still new to me.
I walked through the main hall, my heels tapping lightly against the floor, my eyes scanning the room, mentally noting what still needed to be done. A few of the frames looked slightly off-center, the lighting could use a minor adjustment near the sculptures-small details that most people wouldn't notice, but I did. I always did.
As I neared my office, I slowed my pace, soaking in the familiar sights-the rich hues of the artwork that lined the walls, the soft hum of low conversations from the guests. I felt grounded here. This was my space, my world.
But just as I was about to push open the door to my office, I caught sight of movement in my peripheral vision. I barely had time to react before Nancy, my secretary, came running toward me, her face lit up with excitement. She nearly skidded to a stop in front of me, her eyes wide, her breath coming in quick bursts as if she had sprinted across the gallery.
"Divya!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of breathless urgency and bubbling excitement.
I raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by her energy. Nancy was usually the picture of calm, always collected. Something must have happened.
"What's going on, Nancy?" I asked, curiosity tugging at the edges of my voice.
She grinned, almost bouncing on her feet. "There's an investor waiting for you in your office!"
I blinked. An investor? I hadn't scheduled any meetings today.
"Mr. Scott," she continued, her words tumbling out in a rush. "He's the son of the billionaire... you know, the conglomerate family? Scott Enterprises? He's here to see you!"
My breath caught in my throat. Scott. That name echoed in the back of my mind, familiar in a way that made my pulse quicken. A son of a billionaire-the Mr. Scott? As in, part of the family that seemed to own half the city? Why on earth would someone like that be interested in my gallery?
I glanced at the door to my office, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settling in. My heart thudded, a strange mix of nerves and anticipation bubbling up inside me. This wasn't just any visitor. This was someone with the kind of power and influence that could change everything.
For a moment, I just stood there, processing Nancy's words, my mind swirling with possibilities. Why was he here? What did he want? And what did this mean for the future of my gallery?
Nancy watched me expectantly, her eyes shining with excitement, as if she already knew this meeting could be monumental.
"Well... I suppose I shouldn't keep him waiting," I finally said, though my voice wavered slightly with the weight of the moment.
Nancy beamed, practically vibrating with energy. "You'll be amazing," she whispered as I reached for the door handle, offering me an encouraging smile.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open, the hinges creaking slightly as it swung wide. Inside, the soft light of the afternoon spilled through the tall windows, casting warm golden hues across the room. My office felt both familiar and foreign, as if the presence of this unexpected guest had shifted the atmosphere entirely.
There, standing by my desk with an air of relaxed confidence, was Mr. Scott. His posture was casual, yet something about him radiated power. He was tall, with sharp features and an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, he looked like he belonged in boardrooms, not art galleries. But the way he stood, his gaze already assessing the space, I could tell he was someone who knew exactly what he wanted-and how to get it.
"Ms. Divya," he said, his voice smooth as he turned to face me fully. "Thank you for seeing me."
I swallowed, forcing a smile as I stepped into the room. My heart raced, but I knew one thing for sure: whatever this meeting was about, it was going to change everything.
As we both settled into the chairs opposite each other, the tension in the room shifted slightly, though I still felt the weight of his presence. Henry Scott-the Henry Scott, heir to one of the most powerful conglomerates in the country-was sitting in my modest office. My heart was still racing from the shock of it all, but I forced myself to keep calm, to focus.
A few moments later, the door quietly creaked open, and Nancy entered with a tray of refreshments balanced expertly in her hands. She moved gracefully across the room, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor. With practiced ease, she placed the tray on the table in front of us, the clink of porcelain barely audible. Offering a polite, almost imperceptible nod, she straightened up and gave us both a small, subtle bow before quietly excusing herself, leaving the room with the same quiet efficiency she had arrived with.
He leaned forward slightly, a confident but easy smile playing on his lips. "I'm Henry Scott," he said smoothly, his voice carrying a kind of effortless authority. "I've been following your work for some time now, Ms. Divya. You're making quite a name for yourself."
A flicker of surprise passed through me. He's been following my work? The thought that someone like him, someone with access to the best artists in the world, would take interest in my gallery felt surreal. I didn't know what to say, so I simply nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral.
"I've seen the impact you've made, especially after winning that award," he continued. "There's something fresh about your art-something unique that resonates. It's rare to find that, and even rarer to see an artist with the kind of potential you have."
I blinked, stunned by his praise. A flush of excitement bloomed in my chest, followed quickly by disbelief. Is this really happening?
Henry leaned back, his fingers tapping the armrest of the chair as he spoke. "That's why I'm here. I believe your gallery could expand, reach a wider audience. And I'd like to help you make that happen. An investment, of sorts. I see great potential in what you're doing."
I couldn't stop the rush of exhilaration that flooded through me. The idea of an investor of his stature backing my gallery-my work-was more than I ever imagined. It felt like a dream coming true, a golden opportunity that could propel me to heights I had only dared to dream of.
But as quickly as the excitement came, a creeping doubt began to take root in the back of my mind. Why would someone like him, with access to all the world's finest galleries and artists, be interested in me? Why invest his money, his time, into my small gallery when he could be working with far more established names? The doubt settled in my stomach, gnawing at the edges of my initial thrill.
It felt too good to be true.
I shifted in my seat, forcing myself to meet his gaze. His eyes were sharp, calculating. There was something about the way he spoke-too polished, too perfect. The whole thing began to feel... off, like a painting with colors that didn't quite blend. I needed time to think. This was an opportunity, yes, but also a risk. I couldn't let myself be swept away by the allure of his offer without understanding the full picture.
"I... I appreciate your offer, Mr. Scott," I began carefully, measuring my words. "It's incredibly generous of you, and I'm truly honored that you see such potential in my work. But..." I hesitated, glancing down at my hands before looking back at him. "I think I need a little time to think it over."
Henry's smile didn't falter, but I could see a flicker of something in his eyes-disappointment, maybe, or perhaps annoyance-but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He nodded, all professionalism. "Of course, Ms. Divya. I understand completely. Take all the time you need. I want you to feel comfortable with any decision you make."
His tone was polite, even reassuring, but I still couldn't shake the unease building inside me.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek black business card, embossed with his name in silver. "Here's my card," he said, holding it out to me. "If you have any questions, or if you're ready to discuss further, don't hesitate to reach out."
I took the card, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should in my hand. His name-Henry Scott-stood out boldly against the stark black background, a reminder of the power he wielded. I nodded again, managing a polite smile.
"Thank you," I said softly, slipping the card into my pocket. "I'll be in touch."
Henry stood gracefully, adjusting his suit jacket before offering me one final smile. "I look forward to hearing from you, Ms. Divya," he said, his tone smooth and professional. With that, he turned and made his way to the door, leaving me standing there, still trying to process everything that had just happened.
The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly, the room felt quieter, the air heavier. I sank back into my chair, staring at the empty space where Henry had just been. The card felt like it was burning a hole in my pocket, a reminder of the decision looming before me.
I should've been over the moon-someone like Henry Scott wanting to invest in my gallery was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And yet, all I could think about was why. Why would he be interested in me, in this gallery, when he had access to so many other ventures, far grander and more lucrative? What was he really after?
The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I felt. Something wasn't sitting right with me.
I pulled the card out of my pocket, running my fingers over the raised letters of his name. An investment like this could change everything-but at what cost?
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