Rain glazed the city in silver, blurring headlights into long streaks of gold as if the night itself were crying. From the thirty-ninth floor of the Alistair Tower, the world below looked small, controllable—exactly how Armaan Khanna liked it. People, deals, risks, outcomes—everything could be calculated. Everything could be bought.
Except mistakes.
And tonight, he was about to make one.
Inside his glass-walled office, the air smelled of leather, coffee, and money. The kind of money that made governments bend and men lose their morals. Armaan stood with one hand in his pocket, staring at the city. His reflection in the window looked sharp and unforgiving—tailored charcoal suit, steel-gray eyes, jaw clenched from years of never trusting anyone. At twenty-nine, he was already called ruthless in business magazines. The youngest acquisition king in Mumbai. The man who never lost a deal.
"Sir," his assistant Vikram said carefully from behind the desk, "the auction is starting."
Armaan didn't turn. "Patch it through."
The lights dimmed automatically. A projection appeared on the wall—numbers, contracts, coded profiles. It wasn't an ordinary auction. It was an exclusive underground bidding system used by the ultra-rich to acquire discreet "assets." Usually companies, patents, rare art.
Sometimes… people.
Armaan hated this part of the world. But tonight he needed something specific.
A live-in caregiver.
His grandmother's condition had worsened. Alzheimer's. She refused hospitals, refused strangers. Armaan had tried agencies. Nurses kept quitting. She only trusted someone "gentle," someone "kind." Words that didn't exist in his world.
So Vikram had found a private agency promising "long-term domestic placements." Expensive, discreet, permanent contracts. He didn't ask too many questions. He didn't want to.
"Lot 47," the automated voice announced.
A blurry profile appeared. Female. Twenty-three. Educated. Contract transferable. Code: GH-4721.
"Suitable for domestic and personal assistance."
"Starting bid: ten lakh."
Armaan exhaled. Too easy.
"Bid fifteen," he said flatly.
Numbers climbed. Someone countered.
Twenty. Twenty-two.
Armaan hated losing. "Thirty."
Silence.
"Sold."
The screen blinked green.
Vikram relaxed. "Done, sir. She'll be delivered tomorrow morning with paperwork."
Delivered.
The word scratched something inside him, but he ignored it.
It was just a contract. Just help for Dadi. Nothing more.
Nothing personal.
He didn't know that across the city, at that exact moment, someone else was crying herself to sleep, completely unaware her life had just been sold with the click of a button.
Meher Ansari had never imagined silence could feel so loud.
The small dorm room smelled of old paint and damp clothes. Rain tapped the broken window. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed. Or maybe half-unpacked. She didn't know anymore.
The orphanage director's voice still echoed in her ears.
"We can't afford your college fees anymore, Meher. You're twenty-two. We've done enough. This agency offers work. Live-in job. Good salary. Just sign."
She had signed without reading.
Because where else would she go?
No parents. No relatives. No savings. A degree she hadn't finished.
The contract looked official. Legal. Words too big to understand. "Placement." "Permanent service." "Guardian transfer."
It sounded like a job.
It had to be a job.
Right?
"Tomorrow morning, they'll pick you up," the director had said, avoiding eye contact. "Be grateful. Rich people are generous."
Grateful.
Meher hugged her knees, staring at the cracked ceiling. She didn't want charity. She just wanted a normal life. A small job. Maybe finish college. Maybe a tiny apartment with yellow curtains.
Nothing grand.
Nothing scary.
But tomorrow, strangers were coming.
And her heart wouldn't stop racing.
The next morning the rain stopped, leaving the world washed and raw.
A black luxury car stopped outside the orphanage gate.
Meher swallowed.
Two men stepped out in suits.
Not uniforms. Not social workers.
Suits.
One held a folder.
"Meher Ansari?" he asked.
Her name sounded wrong in his mouth.
"Yes…"
"Come."
No smile. No explanation.
She carried her one small bag like it was her entire existence—which, technically, it was.
The car interior smelled expensive. Cold leather. No one spoke during the drive. The city changed outside the window—from crowded streets to quiet, rich neighborhoods lined with trees and silence.
Then she saw it.
The tower.
Glass. Steel. Too big. Too beautiful.
This wasn't someone's home.
It was a palace.
Her hands started trembling.
"Where… where am I working?" she whispered.
"Khanna Residence," the driver replied.
She didn't know that name.
But everyone else did.
Upstairs, Armaan reviewed emails when Vikram entered.
"She's here, sir."
Armaan checked his watch. Efficient. Good.
"Bring her in."
The door opened.
And for the first time in years, Armaan Khanna forgot what he was about to say.
Because the girl standing there didn't look like an "asset."
She looked terrified.
Too small for the oversized kurta she wore. Hair tied messily. Big dark eyes scanning the room like a trapped animal searching for an exit. She clutched her bag so tightly her knuckles turned white.
This wasn't what he expected.
Where was the professional nurse profile?
Why did she look like a college student?
He frowned. "Is this the right person?"
Vikram checked the file. "Yes, sir. GH-4721."
Armaan's jaw tightened.
Something felt off.
He stepped closer. She stepped back.
"Relax," he said automatically, voice colder than intended. "You're here for work. Nothing else."
Her voice shook. "What… what kind of work, sir?"
He paused.
Why didn't she know?
"You signed the contract."
"I—I thought it was a housekeeping job."
A strange silence filled the room.
Armaan took the file, flipping through pages quickly.
Then he saw it.
Small print.
"Full guardianship transfer. Client ownership clause."
Ownership.
His stomach dropped.
This wasn't a caregiver contract.
This was human trafficking dressed in legal language.
He had just bought a person.
By mistake.
Anger surged through him—at the agency, at Vikram, at himself.
But the worst part?
She was looking at him like he was a monster.
"Please," she whispered, "I'll work hard. Just… don't send me somewhere bad."
Something cracked inside his chest.
No one had ever looked at him with fear like that.
Deals feared him. Competitors feared him.
But this?
This felt wrong.
Deeply wrong.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
"You're not staying here as property," he said finally.
She blinked. "What?"
"You'll work here. Help my grandmother. You'll be paid. And you're free to leave whenever you want."
She stared like she didn't believe him.
"Really?"
He nodded once.
She smiled.
A small, fragile, hopeful smile.
And damn it—he wasn't prepared for how that smile hit him.
Like sunlight breaking through clouds he didn't know existed.
For the first time in years, Armaan Khanna felt something unfamiliar.
Not control.
Not power.
But responsibility.
And maybe…
Trouble.
Because mistakes weren't supposed to change lives.
Yet somehow, this one already had.