Aaryan Mehta
INT. PRIVATE PHOTO STUDIO – EVENING
Minimal lighting.
Marble floors. High-gloss surfaces. One single chair. One low table with water, some untouched grapes, and that file again—her contract.
Saanvi walks in, bold and confident just as she does.
She's late. I don't mind.
Because when she steps in, the world goes still.
Tight black dress. Hair open. No jewelry—except a thin diamond drop on her wrist that catches light like sin.
"You're late," I say.
She shrugs, glancing at the setup. "I wasn't aware I was being summoned. Or styled like a trophy."
"You're not a trophy," I say, standing slowly.
I circle her—once, glancing at her from every side of her.
Calm. Confident. Dangerous.
"You're the weapon."
She stiffens, just a flicker, then laughs under her breath. "Do all your compliments sound like threats, or is that special treatment?"
"Only when I like the sound of someone breaking."
She turns her head slightly, meeting my eyes.
"I'm not breakable."
We're inches apart now. Her breath is steady, but her hands betray her—one curling slightly behind her back.
I nod to the camera crew outside the glass wall.
"You'll stand beside me for exactly nine minutes. One shot for every headline we want them to write. You know how this works, don't you?"
"I know how to pose, Aaryan. I don't need training in fake chemistry."
My lips curl.
"Good," I say. "But I'm not posing."
I reach behind her and gently slide my hand across her lower back, into her beautiful curve—not touching skin. Just fabric. Still, she tenses.
She leans forward, eyes flashing. "Do you always blur professionalism and provocation?"
I smile, leaning closer. My mouth near her ear now.
"Only when it works."
She pulls back at me chin up in a sharp tone
"You really have a dirty mouth." she says her gaze straight in my eyes.
I don't hesitate.
I turn, gaze locking on hers with heat.
And I say my voice low and thick with challenge:
"Then maybe you should help me cleaning it."
Silence.
It was so heavy, like a electric shock.
She doesn't blink.
"You don't scare me," she whispers.
"I don't want to scare you," I murmur. "I want to strip you of everything fake and leave you raw."
Her eyes darken.
"You think I'm fake?"
"I think you've spent your entire life pretending you don't need to be touched."
Her lips part—but no words come. For a second, the whole room vanishes. Just her heartbeat, and mine. Both too loud. Too close.
"Shall we begin?" I ask, voice smooth again, retreating two steps before she can read too much of what almost slipped.
INT. PHOTO SHOOT – MOMENTS LATER
We sit on a leather couch—me relaxed, one leg crossed. She sits beside me, body stiff. Too aware.
The photographer gives the signal.
I reach across and lift her hand gently, placing it on my knee. She flinches. The camera clicks.
Click. Click. Flash.
Her fingers twitch.
"Relax," I murmur.
"I am relaxed," she lies.
I shift closer. Our knees touch. Her breath catches.
"You're not."
She turns to me. "And do you think you're some kind of expert on me?"
"No," I say. "I'm just very good at reading tension. Especially the kind you don't want to admit you're enjoying."
She swallows hard.
The next shot requires her to place her hand on my chest.
She hesitates.
I guide it there.
Her fingers brush over my collarbone, just under the edge of my shirt. Her nails dig in—not enough to hurt. But enough to say: don't think I'm weak.
The camera flashes again.
INT. STUDIO – AFTER THE SHOOT
She pulls away sharply once the lights go off.
"This deal doesn't include touching me off camera," she says coldly.
"It didn't include you staring at my mouth like you wanted to shut me up either, but we're both flexible now, aren't we?"
She storms toward the dressing room.
I call out casually, "You'll stay tonight."
She stops. Turns slowly. "Excuse me?"
I toss a folder toward her. "We have a charity gala tomorrow morning. Our press team leaked a 'couple retreat' excuse for this late-night session."
"And you conveniently forgot to tell me that?" she asks frustrated.
"I wanted your reaction to be real." I reply calmly.
She walks toward me, heels clicking like warning shots.
"Keep playing this game, Aaryan," she snaps, eyes burning.
"But one day, you'll say something you can't take back."
I look down at her, smirking.
"That's the point."
I watch her hourglass figure disappear into the dressing room.
I run my hands into my hair all knowing I said what I intended. It was all my plan. I smirk