Contracted by the CEO:12 Months of Lies

The glass office on the 42nd floor felt like an icebox. Meher clutched her father’s hospital bills in one hand and Vidyut Sinha’s contract in the other. Her knuckles were white. Independent. Proud. Intern. None of those words mattered when the due date was tomorrow. She had been an intern at Sinha Industries for six months. Making coffee. Filing papers. Staying invisible. That was her plan. Stay small. Stay safe. Send every rupee to Srinagar for her father’s ICU bills. Until today. “Twelve months,” Vidyut’s voice cut through the silence. Cold. Ruthless. CEO. She looked up. Vidyut Sinha, 29, youngest billionaire in Delhi. Storm-gray eyes that never blinked. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Black suit, no tie. He didn’t sit. He didn’t offer her water. He owned the room. Meher had seen him in board meetings from the corner, taking notes. He never looked at interns. Today he looked only at her. “Your father needs 8 lakh for surgery,” he said, sliding a file across his black marble desk. Hospital logo. Overdue stamp in red. “You need money. I need a wife.” Meher’s throat went dry. “A... wife?” “Marry me for one year,” he said, pushing the contract forward. 20 pages. Legal terms. Her name already printed. Meher Qureshi. “You get money for his surgery. I get a wife for my board meetings. My ex left. Shareholders think I’m unstable. A marriage fixes the stock price.” He finally sat. Leather chair. Power in every movement. “No love. No feelings. Separate rooms. We part after 12 months with 50 lakh compensation. Sign today, or I find someone else.” Meher’s heart pounded. Intern salary was 18k per month. Couldn’t cover one day in ICU. Pride couldn’t buy medicine. Independence didn’t mean much when the alternative was her father’s last breath. She opened the contract. Clause 3: No public arguments. Clause 7: Attend all family events. Clause 11: No physical intimacy unless agreed by both parties. Her eyes, the color of winter snow, lifted to his. “And if I refuse?” “Then your father dies,” Vidyut said, no emotion. Just fact. “And you stay independent, but broke. Delhi hospitals don’t wait for pride, Miss Qureshi.” The word ‘Miss’ felt like a slap. He knew her full name. He’d researched her. Meher thought of her father’s weak smile on video calls. “Beta, don’t worry.” Of her mother selling bangles to pay for injections. Of her own hands shaking while holding coffee for executives who never said thank you. The pen on his desk was Mont Blanc. Heavy. Expensive. Like him. Her hand shook as she picked it up. This was not love. This was survival. This was a contract between a ruthless CEO and an intern with no options left. She signed. Meher Qureshi. The ink bled slightly. Like her heart. Vidyut took the contract, checked the signature, and rang a bell. His secretary entered instantly. “Register the marriage. Court wedding tomorrow, 10 AM.” Meher stood. Legs felt like water. “Mr. Sinha,” she said quietly, “for twelve months, you own my name. Not my heart.” For the first time, Vidyut’s storm-gray eyes flickered. Something almost like surprise. Then it was gone. “We’ll see, Mrs. Sinha.” Outside, Delhi traffic roared. Ambulances. Honking. Life moving fast. Inside, a contract marriage began. And Meher wondered which was colder - the glass office, or the man who owned it. She was an intern. She was independent. She was married. God help her. ------------------------------------------ "So guys did you like it " Hope you enjoy this story Thank you