The calm that enveloped Farhan Raksamudra's penthouse always felt like a mask forged from an extremely thin layer of steel. The night after The Cold Birthday, where Sekar had wielded the logic of the contract as a blade, the surface atmosphere remained unchanged, yet the underlying tension had intensified. For Sekar, Farhan's words "I know who you are. You're not just a secretary" were not a declaration of love, but a bullet that nearly pierced her armor.
Farhan no longer viewed Sekar merely as an asset; he began seeing her as a puzzle. And a man obsessed with absolute control like Farhan could not remain calm if an unsolved puzzle lingered within his line of sight. From that moment, Farhan's observation shifted from performance monitoring to psychological surveillance.
At the breakfast table, Farhan sipped his black coffee, served precisely at 85 degrees Celsius by Sekar. He did not read the morning news. He studied Sekar. He observed details he had never noticed before: the speed at which she flipped through her agenda, the steadiness of her hands while pouring water, and the microscopic pause before she answered his routine questions.
"Today's schedule remains unchanged, Sir," Sekar reported, her voice clear and flat, like water without ripples. "Meeting at nine, business lunch at one, prepared according to your zero-carb protocol request."
"And you?" Farhan asked suddenly. The question fell spontaneously, unrecorded in the routine agenda.
Sekar paused briefly, her finger hovering over the edge of her laptop. "I have twenty-two internal work items, including preparing the quarterly financial report and managing your household administration, Sir."
"That's not what I asked," Farhan said, lifting his gaze from the cup. His eyes demanded and analyzed. "I'm asking about you. What is your personal agenda, Mrs. Raksamudra?"
Sekar had to summon all her internal strength to maintain a flawless tone. This was one of Farhan's sudden tests, an attack aimed at identity rather than efficiency a search for the 'drama' she strictly forbade.
"Our Act is clear, Sir. I have no personal agenda requiring your attention or intervention during working hours," Sekar replied, successfully returning the conversation to the safe realm of business.
Farhan gave a thin smile not of joy, but of satisfaction at finding a logical defense. Yet behind it, he noted an anomaly. "You've counted the vitamin D tablets you took this morning. Twice," he remarked.
Sekar stiffened. She had tried to conceal her small rituals the obsessive counting of doses, checking the door locks multiple times which were manifestations of her low-level anxiety. Farhan, the master of control, was beginning to notice her odd rhythm.
"That is part of my logistical management, Sir. Ensuring no negligence occurs," Sekar deflected, a lie so thin it was almost transparent in the morning air.
"Of course. I dislike negligence. But I appreciate honesty," Farhan pressed further. He admired Sekar's near-invisible defense. "Last night, you slept no more than four hours. I know. You sent the last email at 03:17 a.m. The financial report could have waited."
"I felt I needed to process the data while it was fresh in my mind," Sekar said. In her head, another voice screamed: I must work, or I panic. If I panic, I am weak. If I am weak, I fail my mother financially.
Farhan exhaled a rare, very human gesture showing that this conversation was not about Raksamudra, but about Sekar. "Let's adjust your agenda a bit."
Sekar instinctively felt a shiver. Schedule changes were the greatest danger for someone whose anxiety was governed by protocol. "How?"
"Project F. Forget the quarterly report. Today, you and I will spend the next eighteen hours locked in the private conference room on the 45th floor. We'll revamp the entire Project F branding model from scratch. This requires focus, speed, and non-stop creativity. No breaks tonight until we reach a definitive conclusion. I've canceled dinner."
Project F was an extraordinary workload. It demanded physical and mental stamina far beyond normal limits. And this meant Sekar had to set aside her rituals, her medications, and most importantly, she could not control her rest schedule something essential for managing her high-level anxiety.
"Eighteen hours non-stop, Sir. Very well," Sekar replied without hesitation. "Should I bring a change of clothes?"
Farhan tilted his head. He wanted to see signs of fatigue. He wanted to witness a small rebellion. Yet Sekar remained an unyielding stone wall.
"Sekar. I need you at 100%. This task is sensitive, exhausting, and we will be exposed to extreme pressure in a confined space. No coffee after 6 p.m. How is your stamina? Be honest," Farhan demanded, his tone threatening. He did not care if Sekar admitted to fatigue, as long as it was honesty that removed her control. This was a war of psychological dominance.
Sekar knew that if she said, "I feel a little tired, Sir," Farhan would conclude she was weak and untrustworthy in sensitive business matters. If he perceived her as a fragile secretary, she might lose not only the Act but also her mother's future.
"I feel fully prepared, Sir," Sekar said, giving a small, unfamiliar smile to Farhan, brimming with confidence and a hint of slyness. "Working under eighteen hours of pressure is my best flow state. Boredom and free time, in fact, reduce my performance."
Sekar had delivered Farhan the perfect lie: a lie that used his own logic against him. She lied convincingly, proving that her absolute control even under pressure was in Farhan's best interest.
"Excellent," Farhan replied. "It seems you are indeed a machine programmed for extreme performance. No fatigue loopholes."
"None, Sir. We are ready for this task," Sekar asserted, using we as if the Sekar facing him was a professional entity separate from Sekar the anxiety sufferer. She successfully separated her role, convincing Farhan.
Yet beneath her unshakable facade, a cold frustration gnawed at Sekar. Farhan's control was total, leaving no room for her to be herself, even for her hidden medication rituals. This frustration was a new energy a drive to resist.
Farhan, after analyzing Sekar's responses and posture, felt satisfied. Yet that satisfaction mingled with a strange attraction. He wanted to see how long Sekar could endure. He wanted to witness the cracks in her flawless layers.
As Sekar turned to gather the materials needed for Project F, Farhan spoke again, softly and intimately, like a scientist addressing his subject.
"Sekar."
Sekar turned. "Yes, Sir?"
"I noticed, during breakfast, that you managed to conceal the quickening of your breath just before I mentioned your sleeping hours. A fraction-of-a-second pause."
Sekar tensed every muscle. It was true. Only minutes ago, her breath had momentarily quickened a sign of anxiety ready to strike. Yet she had restrained it. How could Farhan see that?
Farhan rose from his chair and stepped toward Sekar. The distance between them was minimal, reminiscent of the party last night, but without the crowd as a shield.
"I don't care about professional lies; they are business tools. But physical lies… they are far more interesting," Farhan whispered, his eyes gleaming with a chilling understanding. He drew closer, hand raised not to touch, but to point at Sekar's neck.
"You're indeed struggling to remain composed. Yet you hide it so well." Farhan let his finger hang, challenging Sekar to step back or acknowledge her vulnerability.
Sekar stared directly into Farhan's eyes, suppressing the tremor. She decided that, even though Farhan knew, she would not admit it. Absolute compliance must be maintained, whatever the risk.
Farhan withdrew his hand, a predatory smile forming. It was no longer about corporate power. It was the smile of a predator recognizing a clever prey.
"I like the way you hide yourself, Sekar," Farhan said, stepping back and opening the elevator door. "It proves that you don't just obey the contract. You are trying to control the control. I'm starting to enjoy this game."