The woman in Rajendra's office was not Elena Volkova. She was a secretary, severe in a grey suit, holding a briefcase. "Mr. Shakuniya? I am Natalya from the Soviet Trade Representation. Miss Volkova sends her regards and the finalized contract documents for your review. She is in Delhi, but will travel to Mumbai for signing if terms are acceptable."
She placed the briefcase on his desk, clicked it open, and withdrew a thick folder. The lease agreement for the Siberian land, translated into English. The legalese was dense, but the core was there: a 99-year subsurface lease to a Singaporean shell company, payment of 100kg of gold bullion to a Zurich account upon execution.
"All appears in order," Rajendra said, flipping pages. "Please inform Miss Volkova I am ready to sign. She can name the time and place in Mumbai."
"She suggested the day after tomorrow. At the Air India building, in the office of the Trade Representation. It provides… neutrality."
And Soviet oversight, Rajendra thought. A smart move on her part. "Agreed."
Natalya left with a curt nod. The deal was moving. The gold would be procured through the System, a simple conversion of Void-Coins to precious metal at a premium. A large chunk of his VC would vanish, but the long-term payoff was beyond calculation.
The success against Sampat and the momentum of the film announcement had left a buzz in the air. That evening, Shanti came to the mill office to discuss the Karjat artisan project. They pored over lists of weavers and potters.
"We should start with textiles," Shanti said, her finger tracing a column of names. "The patterns are unique. We can modernize them slightly for urban tastes."
"Agreed. You have a good eye for this. Would you like to lead the design side? A consultancy fee, of course."
She looked up, surprised. "You'd trust me with that?"
"You understand the balance between tradition and market better than I do," he said honestly.
A faint blush touched her cheeks. She looked away, focusing on the papers. "I'd like that."
A comfortable silence settled between them, filled with the potential of the project. For a moment, the relentless pressure of cosmic deals and shadow wars felt distant. This was real. Tangible. Building something beautiful from the ground up.
"Can I ask you something, Rajendra?" she said, not looking up.
"Of course."
"The film… Pyaar Ki Jeet. The story you described. The NRI boy choosing the girl's world… it's idealistic. Do you really believe in that? That love can bridge such gaps?"
He leaned back, considering. He knew how the story should end to be a hit. But her question was personal. "I believe any gap can be bridged if the value on the other side is perceived to be greater. If the boy sees not just a girl, but a whole world of meaning, tradition, strength that his rootless money can't buy… then it's not a sacrifice. It's an upgrade. It's good business."
She laughed, a warm, unexpected sound. "You reduce everything to business, don't you?"
"Not everything," he said, meeting her eyes. "Some things are the currency you use to do business. Family. Trust. Beauty. They are the highest denominations."
She held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then quickly gathered her papers. "I… I should go. I'll have the preliminary designs for the weave patterns next week."
After she left, the office felt emptier. He realized he enjoyed these moments of earthly creation with her. It was a different kind of conquest, slow and subtle.
The next two days were a blur of preparation. He converted 150 Void-Coins into gold—the System facilitated the transfer to a secure, non-existent "vault" that would manifest as a legitimate shipment from a Dubai trading house. The paperwork was generated, flawless.
The signing was set for 3 PM. He arrived at the imposing Air India building, his grey suit a uniform of seriousness. He was shown into a sparse, functional office. And there she was.
Elena Volkova stood by the window, silhouetted against the Mumbai haze. She turned as he entered. She was dressed not in Soviet frump, but in a well-cut navy dress that hinted at Paris or London, her blonde hair a sharp contrast to the dark fabric. Her Baltic-sea eyes assessed him with the same analytical cool as before, but there was a new tension in her posture. The bureaucrat Zubov was neutralized, but the weight of what she was doing—betraying the dying Soviet state for personal survival—hung on her.
"Mr. Shakuniya. You are punctual."
"Miss Volkova. You look well."
A ghost of a smile. "A lie, but a polite one. Shall we?" She gestured to the table where the documents lay, alongside a stern Soviet official who would witness for the Trade Representation—a necessary camouflage.
The signing was swift, a series of flourishes on thick paper. The Soviet witness stamped the documents with a heavy thud. It was done.
The official left. They were alone.
Elena let out a slow breath, the rigidity leaving her shoulders by a fraction. "It is finished."
"The first step," Rajendra corrected. "The gold transfer will be initiated tomorrow. You should have confirmation from Zurich within 48 hours."
She nodded, walking back to the window. "When I received your letter, I thought it was a fantasy. Or a trap. Now… I have traded the title to frozen dirt for a fortune. My father would be horrified. Or perhaps proud of my pragmatism."
"Survival is the highest pragmatism," he said, joining her by the window. The chaotic, vital city sprawled below, so different from the rigid order of Leningrad.
"This city… it is loud. It smells. But it is alive," she murmured, almost to herself. "In Leningrad now, there is only the smell of fear and rotting concrete."
"You could stay," he said, the offer slipping out. It was a business offer, of course. "A consultant. You have knowledge of Soviet systems, of European markets. It could be valuable."
She turned her head, her profile sharp against the light. "A consultant. Is that what I would be to you?"
"For now," he said, his voice low. The merchant in him saw an asset—a brilliant, connected, desperate woman who owed him her future. The man saw the fierce, trapped beauty who had gambled everything on his word.
She faced him fully now, a challenge in her eyes. "You are a very dangerous man, Rajendra Shakuniya. You do not take what you want with force. You offer exactly what is needed, so the taking feels like a gift. You bought my land not with a threat, but by removing the threat. Now you offer me a life, not as a refugee, but as a 'consultant.' You conquer by invitation."
He didn't deny it. "Is it working?"
A long pause. The hum of the office air conditioner was the only sound. The distance between them was mere feet, but it felt charged with the unspoken currents of empires and personal liberation.
"The gold is not yet in my account," she said finally, a diplomat's evasion, but her eyes didn't leave his.
"It will be."
"Then we will see… what the consultancy entails."
He knew he had her. Not completely, not yet. But the hook was set. She was adrift, and he had just thrown her a lifeline attached to his ship.
"Have dinner with me," he said. It wasn't a request from a business partner. It was an order from a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
She raised a single, elegant eyebrow. "Is that part of the consultancy?"
"Consider it a… cultural exchange. You should experience the city you might live in. Not from a trade office window."
A flicker of something—amusement, curiosity, defiance—crossed her face. "Very well. But I choose the place. I have heard of one. 'The Chinese Room' at the Taj. At eight."
He nodded. She had just asserted a sliver of control. He let her have it. For now.
That evening, he dressed in a simple black bandhgala. She arrived at the restaurant in an emerald green silk sari, a stunning, deliberate fusion of Indian fabric and her own stark elegance. Heads turned.
The dinner was a delicate dance. They spoke of trivial things—the food, the absurdity of Soviet hotel design, the energy of Bombay's streets. He learned she loved classical ballet and hated vodka. She learned he saw business in everything, even the way the lights reflected on the harbour.
"You see patterns others miss," she said over dessert. "In trade, in people. It is a gift."
"It's a skill. Learned from necessity."
"And what necessity taught you to look at a Siberian wasteland and see gold?"
"The same necessity that taught you to look at a letter from a stranger and see salvation," he countered.
She smiled, a real one this time, that thawed her wintery eyes. "Touché."
When he dropped her at her hotel, the car idling at the curb, the space between them in the back seat hummed with what was unsaid.
"The gold will be transferred tomorrow," he repeated, his voice softer.
"I know."
"The consultancy position remains open."
"I will consider the terms."
She moved to get out, then paused. She leaned over and brushed her lips against his cheek, a whisper of contact, cool and fragrant. "Spasibo," she whispered. Thank you. Not for the gold. For the dinner. For the glimpse of another life.
Then she was gone, the emerald silk vanishing into the hotel's glow.
Rajendra sat back, the ghost of her kiss on his skin. He felt the familiar thrill of a deal moving to close, but layered with something else—a possessiveness, a desire to not just own her contract, but to unravel the mystery of her.
He had conquered the land. Now, he wanted to conquer the heiress.
But as his car pulled away, his System chimed—a different, more urgent tone. A message from the Mad Scientist, marked with a priority he had never seen before.
Mad Scientist: *The Grey-Plague has mutated. The palliative efficacy has dropped to 22%. I require a new bio-sample immediately. Not a shipment. A LIVING, FRESH sample of the most robust Ocimum sanctum (tulsi) plant you can find. Its full metabolic and immune response must be intact. You must procure it and hold it in stasis. I am sending a one-use Biological Stasis Pod. It will arrive in your inventory in one hour. Find the plant. This is critical.*
The message was followed not by a request, but by a System-Mandated Quest notification.
[EMERGENCY PROCUREMENT QUEST: 'The Silver Sprig']
[Objective: Acquire a supremely healthy, mature Holy Basil (Tulsi) plant, with root ball intact, and secure it in the provided Stasis Pod within 6 hours.]
[Reward: 200 Void-Coins. Failure Penalty: Termination of Contract MS-02. Potential Hostile Reclassification by 'Mad Scientist'.]
The romantic tension of the evening evaporated. The cosmic customer had just handed him a life-or-death assignment with a six-hour deadline.
He looked at his watch. 11 PM.
He needed to find a perfect tulsi plant. In the middle of the night. In Mumbai.
And he had six hours.