Exhaustion after eighteen hours of non-stop work on Project F should have produced an immediate physical collapse. Yet for Sekar, that fatigue felt cold and energizing. Farhan's words that he enjoyed her attempts to control control had ignited the remnants of her energy, not into the embers of exhaustion, but into a rational flame of rebellion. If Farhan saw her as an intriguing subject of study, then she was determined to prove that this subject was clever and knew how to disrupt his tightly controlled experiment.
Farhan's bedroom, which had also become Sekar's contractually designated sleeping quarters, was shrouded in opulent silence. Farhan slept soundly a rarity Sekar knew occurred only after extreme bursts of work. Sekar seized this golden moment his lack of direct supervision to reopen the black Pandora's box in her handbag: a 50-page copy of the Marriage Contract Act.
She knew the act was nearly flawless; every paragraph and sub-clause had been drafted by Farhan himself, fortified by the craftiest lawyers. Yet Sekar searched for weaknesses. Not moral weaknesses Farhan had none in this context but logistical loopholes, technical oversights that he had overlooked while focusing obsessively on safeguarding financial dominance and public status.
Her fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages not from fear, but from extreme concentration. Her eyes danced across the dry legal language: Clause A.2.1 (Asset Division), Clause B.3.4 (Public Interaction Protocol), Clause C.5.0 (Final Purpose of the Act). Each was a golden chain binding her. Then she found it.
In Section C.1.1.1, which broadly outlined Mrs. Raksamudra's obligation to maintain mental and physical integrity to remain at peak performance, there was a cross-reference to the Raksamudra Group Standard Operating Procedure, Section 4: Essential Employee Wellness Standard.
Farhan had surely included it as boilerplate, ensuring optimal performance from his "marital asset," just as he would safeguard his most valuable employee's health. And the Raksamudra operational standard, which Sekar had drafted herself, explicitly stated that "each essential employee is entitled to 10 separate recovery days per year, claimable in daily units without detailed notice, provided it does not conflict with urgent company needs."
That was the loophole. Farhan had assumed she was the perfect secretary who would never demand personal leave. He had treated Sekar as an asset to be maintained and the maintenance standard gave her a temporary reprieve.
The next day, Sekar drafted her request not as a plea, but as an official memo attached to Farhan's agenda. Of course, Farhan discovered it while enjoying his flawlessly prepared breakfast, free of error and anxiety. As usual.
Farhan lifted the thin sheet. His eyes narrowed as he read the essence of her request, bracketed by cross-references to the contract clauses. He realized what Sekar had done: she had turned his own logic against him.
"One day without strict protocol," Farhan read, his tone flat but piercing. "You are invoking Clause C.1.1.1 to demand a wellness day."
"Correct, Mr. Farhan," Sekar replied, standing across the table. She maintained professional distance, rejecting the invitation to engage personally. "Project F demands significant recovery for me to sustain 100% performance. If you see me as a professional asset, then asset care must be prioritized, in accordance with the operational standard you yourself signed."
Farhan set the memo down. He did not laugh. He appeared serious. Clearly, this was not about a day off. This was a test a measure of how far Sekar dared defy his dominance, and how far she would allow it.
"I admire your attention to detail. Such a shame to waste that intellect trying to manipulate a false freedom," Farhan leaned back, exuding a calm danger. "Technically, you are correct. But this contract was created outside normal operational logic, Sekar. It was built on compliance. You are violating that fundamental principle."
"No, Sir. The fundamental principle is to preserve 51% of Raksamudra Group shares," Sekar corrected, her voice soft yet as strong as steel. "Compliance is a means. My performance is your guarantee for the success of that means. If my performance is jeopardized due to inadequate asset care, it violates the Act's final purpose. This is not manipulation, Sir. This is risk management."
Sekar had weaponized Farhan's own words: risk management, asset, final purpose. It struck him at the core of his control. If he refused, Sekar could claim she was sabotaging her own asset a line of argument that could easily reach the board of directors, especially Rival.
Farhan studied Sekar for a long moment. Logically, he knew he should agree. Granting slight leeway was often the best strategy to secure total loyalty. Yet the feeling of unexpectedly losing emotional control began to creep over him.
"What will you do on that day off?" Farhan asked, removing the business aura and shifting to personal curiosity.
"I need not report it, Sir. Section 4 of the operational standard states that privacy is an element of recovery," Sekar replied, elegantly stubborn.
Now, Farhan had to acknowledge to himself that his interest in Sekar extended beyond efficiency. He was bound to her predictability. Sekar represented schedule, calm, and compliance. The thought of her being outside his control, out of sight for an entire day, acting entirely for herself, triggered the anxiety she had always kept in check.
"Now you demonstrate noncompliance. After all we've agreed upon," Farhan said, his tone softening slightly. He was not threatening merely perplexed.
"The Act does not demand a robot. It demands a competent Mrs. Raksamudra. And to remain competent, I must maintain my mental integrity, which I have done with great effort," Sekar said, letting a fragment of truth shine through. "Requesting this recovery time is not about fleeing from you. It is about preventing me from losing control over myself."
Character development occurred there. Farhan saw that Sekar's demand stemmed from the desire to remain strong, not weak. It was an argument he could respect.
Farhan rose and circled the marble table, approaching Sekar, reenacting the intimate, demanding proximity of the previous night.
"I will not refuse, Mrs. Raksamudra," Farhan admitted, almost whispering. "Your request is logical and outlined in the standards I am bound to uphold, both at Raksamudra Group and within this Act. My control is built on rationality, not blind tyranny."
Pause. Sekar waited, breath held, unable to believe this steel wall had truly cracked.
"However," Farhan continued, his voice returning to its cold edge, asserting the final boundary. "If I lose you from my supervision, Sekar, there is a price to pay. It is a variable cost agreed upon in any contract."
"What cost, Sir?" Sekar asked, striving to keep her voice steady.
Farhan smiled not cynically, but like a maestro commanding the final note of a complex composition. "You may have your day off. One day, free from calls, duties, even the silk robe. You may go wherever you wish. The condition is simple."
He leaned closer, so Sekar could feel the warmth of his breath. Danger and hope mingled within her, giving her a strange dizziness.
"When you return, you will owe one full hour, without exception, whenever I require you. Not as a secretary delivering business reports, but as a contract wife, with no right to refuse. And during that hour, I will have absolute authority over your compliance for any request, professional, domestic, or… personal."
This threat was more binding than denying the day off. Sekar gained a brief physical freedom, yet in exchange, she pledged one hour of total obedience in the future a hour Farhan could claim at any time, for purposes now far less certain and far more intimate than business.
Farhan stepped back, his expression formal once again. "Think carefully. Freedom is precious, but whatever you do in that one day will be balanced by a total loss of control for one hour in my hands. I will await your answer at dinner. The choice is yes or no."
Sekar, who had initially felt victorious, now felt a crawling terror. She had opened a small door to freedom, but Farhan had cleverly turned that door into a long corridor leading into a trap of his own design. She could only watch the elevator doors close, leaving Farhan alone with the new psychological chaos he had created, considering a profoundly unequal exchange: temporary freedom traded for total obedience under a clause that now felt like a subtle, personal threat.