Arun Sharma's office was quiet. The fan turned slowly. He poured two glasses of water, not whisky.
"Shakuniya," he said. "You are a problem. A fast-moving problem. Sharma Industrials is a large ship. We cannot turn quickly. If we tie ourselves to your little boat, you will capsize us with your chaos."
Rajendra sipped the water. Waited.
"But my daughter," Sharma continued, "she sees speed as an opportunity. She is young. She believes in your… vision." He said the word like it tasted strange. "She wants to invest her own money. Not the company's money. Her personal trust. From her mother's side."
Shanti sat still, her face a mask. Rajendra saw the tension in her jaw.
"She wants to buy into your MANO company. Be a shareholder. Sit in your meetings." Sharma looked at his daughter, then back at Rajendra. His eyes were hard. "Let me be clear. I am not giving you my company's backing. I am letting my daughter spend her inheritance on your gamble. The Sharma family—the real family, my uncles and cousins in Delhi and Jaipur who have the ears of ministers and old royal lines—they will not lift a finger for you. You are a Shakuniya. A mill-owner caste. Businessmen. Not one of us."
It was a brutal, honest drawing of the line. Money was one thing. Social and political lineage was another. Arun Sharma was giving Rajendra access to the first, but making damn sure he understood he would never get the second.
Shanti spoke, her voice tight. "It's my money, Father. My choice."
"It is," he agreed, his voice softening just a fraction. "And if you lose it all, you will come work in the factory accounts department and learn what real business is."
He turned back to Rajendra. "So? Do you want her money or not?"
"I want her mind," Rajendra said simply. "The money is the price for it. Fifteen percent. And the title of Chief Strategy Officer. She works for it."
Sharma looked at Shanti. She gave a sharp nod. "Yes."
"Fine," Sharma sighed, as if closing a bad deal. "Fifteen percent. But remember, Shakuniya. In this country, a name opens more doors than money ever will. You have her money now. You will never have our name."
The meeting ended. As they walked out of the air-conditioned office into the Mumbai heat, Shanti let out a long breath.
"Well. That was pleasant."
"He's protecting his family," Rajendra said. "I get it."
"He's protecting his caste," she corrected, bitterness edging her voice. "But it doesn't matter. We have what we needed."
They got into his car. "Where to, boss?" the driver asked.
"Just drive," Rajendra said.
They drove in silence for a while, watching the city blur past.
"He's wrong, you know," Shanti said finally, not looking at him.
"About what?"
"About you just having my money." She turned to him. "You have me. And I'm a Sharma. That counts for something, even if the old men in Delhi don't like it."
It was the first time she had placed herself firmly on his side, against her own family's hierarchy. It was a bigger risk than her money.
"So, Chief Strategy Officer," he said, lightening the mood. "Your first job. Our film shoot in Kashmir is getting shaken down by local officials for extra 'fees.' I need it cleared. Cleanly. No MAKA stuff."
She thought for a moment, pulling out a small address book. "Give me the district name. I know a man in the Tourism Ministry. He owes my father a favor. Well, now he owes me a favor."
She made a call from the car phone, speaking in crisp, clear Hindi. She didn't plead. She stated. "This is Shanti Sharma. The MANO Pictures shoot in Pahalgam next week. There seems to be a misunderstanding with the local permits. Please have it sorted by tomorrow. Yes. Thank you."
She hung up. "Done. They'll call it a 'prestige project for Indian cinema.' No bribes."
"Efficient."
"That's why you pay me the big fifteen percent," she said, a small, real smile touching her lips.
He smiled back. "Best investment I ever made."
Back at the mill, Rajendra gave Elena Volkova her task: find a classic tragic love story recording.
"Why this?" she asked, her cool eyes searching his.
"Client request. Just get it."
She nodded, a businesswoman accepting an assignment. He watched her leave, still unsure if she was an ally or a spy.
His System buzzed. Pixel-Lord was complaining about the junk data. Rajendra offered him some old film soundtrack records as a bonus to shut him up. Pixel-Lord agreed.
Then, an urgent request from Vex. He needed a 'funerary dirge.' Vocal only. He was pre-paying 50 VC. It was an emergency order.
Rajendra called Ganesh. "Find the saddest old man singing about death you can. On tape. Today."
Ganesh came back with a spool from a dying musician in Bhendi Bazaar. Rajendra sent it through the System. Vex's payment came instantly. His message was simple: "Gratitude. It is… sufficient."
The transaction felt heavy. He was selling sadness as medicine.
Later, Prakash Mehra called. The Kashmir permits were cleared, just as Shanti said. The shoot was on.
He called Shanti to tell her. "It worked. The shoot is on."
"Good. See? Sometimes you just have to know who to call."
"Remind me to get your little black book."
"Over my dead body," she laughed. "A girl has to have some secrets."
The easy flirtation was new. It felt good. Real.
He hung up, looking at the stack of blueprints on his desk—superconductors from Vex, hydroponics from the Mad Scientist. Tools to build a future