The rickshaw stopped before a palatial structure that looked less like a residence and more like a monument carved out of power itself.
The Khan estate rose into the evening sky, its centre crowned by an amber – tinted glass pavilion that caught the dying light and glowed loke molten metal. Tall glass panels framed by bold pillars reflected the gardens below—acres of symmetrical lawns, manicured hedges, and flowerbeds blooming in perfect geometric patterns.
A grand fountain stood at the heart of the entrance courtyard, water dancing in rhythmic arcs as if choreographed. Wide pathways unfurled around it like threads of silk, leading to a massive arched doorway framed in gold.
Palm trees lined the edges, their shadows long and still, the entire space so perfectly arranged that even nature seemed disciplined here.
Nothing about the estate felt warm.
Everything felt imposing.
A place where wealth wasn't just displayed—it commanded.
I stepped out, clutching my cloth bag a little tighter. Meera had mentioned the engagement was still three months away, but today I was here to meet their butler, finalize the floral designs, and collect the advance payment.
Still… standing at these gates made me feel like I was crossing into another world. A world that did not belong to people like me.
The guard—broad-shouldered, built like he could snap a person's bones with his bare hands—scanned the permission slip in my hand…, spoke briefly into his radio, and only then did the gates part with a heavy metallic groan.
I walked forward, the pathway so smooth it reflected the faint outlines of the sky.
Everything smelled faintly of sandalwood, jasmine, and new polish—so different from the scent of damp soil and street smoke that clung to my shop.
A tall man in a perfectly crisp tailored suit waited at the entrance – dignified, composed, his posture straight as a ruler. His eyes, sharp yet calm, assessed me with quite professionalism.
"Miss Chaaya?" he asked.
I nodded.
"This way. The master is away, but I have your schedule and the initial payment."
He gestured for me to follow him inside, the soft echo of our footsteps filling the vast hall.
The butler handed me a slim folder. Inside were payment details, a tentative timeline, and a list of the floral arrangements they expected. I skimmed through it, then glanced up.
"Who should I speak to directly about the theme and finer details of the ceremony?" I asked.
The butler gave a polite nod. "Miss Sara would like to handle those herself. Please follow me."
There was a subtle warning in his tone—not rudeness, just the kind of caution that lived in places built on power.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and followed him deeper into the estate, through a hallway lined with chandeliers and portraits of stern-faced men from the Khan lineage. The polished floor mirrored each step we took, amplifying the silence.
At the end of the corridor stood double doors. They opened to reveal a lavish sitting room where a young woman lounged on a velvet sofa, phone in hand, diamonds flashing at every movement.
Confidence clung to her like perfume—heavy, expensive, and deliberate.
She didn't look up when we entered.
"Is this the florist?" she asked, her tone sharp and bored at the same time.
"Yes, Miss," he replied before excusing himself.
I stepped forward. "Hello. I'm Chaaya. Meera and I will be working together on your engagement décor."
Sara's eyes flicked up briefly, glancing over my plain cotton kurta and worn sandals before returning to her phone. She gave a small, almost dismissive hum.
"Can you even meet the least of my expectations?" she said coolly, her gaze finally locking on mine. "I don't care how long you've been stringing marigolds for street stalls. This event will be the talk of the city, and I won't tolerate mediocrity."
A faint smile tugged at my lips—not one of amusement, but of quiet confidence.
"Miss Sara," I said evenly, "if your expectations can be met by anyone, I wouldn't be standing here. I don't need diamonds to prove my worth. Just tell me what you envision, and I'll make it better than you imagined."
The air between us stilled for a moment. Sara's brow arched, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, though her smirk quickly returned.
"We'll see," she said simply, turning back to her phone.
By the time I left the estate, dusk had dipped the sky in veil of darkness. The envelope of cash in my bag felt heavier than it should have. I stopped by the landlord's office, dropped the payment on his counter, and endured his greedy smile without a word.
At least the children wouldn't be frightened tonight.
For the next few days, the shop turned into my refuge and my battleground. Buckets of rare blooms—moon orchids, violet hydrangeas, soft-pink lotuses—lined every inch of the floor. I worked long into the nights, arranging, sketching, planning every detail for the event of the century theme. Meera and I had envisioned for the hall.
The theme was not about love or sentiment. It was about power—cold, breathtaking, and deliberately excessive. The hall Meera and I planned would bloom with rare white phalaenopsis orchids cascading like frozen waterfalls, their petals gleaming under crystal chandeliers. Black calla lilies would rise in the centerpieces like shadows carved into elegance, surrounded by ivory garden roses imported at obscene prices. Gold-dusted palm leaves would arc over the aisles, catching light and throwing it back like shards.
Everything had to look monumental. Untouchable. The kind of beauty meant to be admired from a distance, not felt.
For days the shop overflowed with these impossible flowers. Buckets of orchids and lilies crowded the floors, each stem demanding the precision of a jeweler. My fingers burned from trimming, wiring, and arranging them, but I didn't stop. Work was easier than sleep. Easier than thinking.
At least the children could rest without fear tonight. And as long as my hands were busy shaping grandeur meant for the wealthy, I could lose myself in petals and shadows instead of worries. The rest—the ceremony, the rich, and everything waiting beyond it—would come soon enough.