The paper on the table kept sliding every time the ceiling fan rattled.
Aarohi pressed her fingers flat against it, annoyed at herself for noticing something so small when everything else felt so heavy.
Across from her, the hospital administrator was explaining something about deposits and advance payments. His mouth was moving. His pen tapped twice against the file. But his words floated past her like traffic noise.
All she could see was her mother's name printed at the top of the report.
Meera Mehra.
Age: 52.
Her grip tightened.
She had seen too many such reports in her life. Too many files. Too many forms. The smell of hospitals had settled into her clothes years ago—spirit, antiseptic, something metallic she couldn't name. It always stayed, no matter how many times she washed her hands.
"Aarohi?"
She looked up.
"Yes. Sorry."
The man adjusted his glasses. "Your mother's condition is manageable. But the procedure and post-care will be long-term. You've already delayed it."
"I know." Her voice came out steady. That surprised her.
He turned the file toward her. "This is the minimum estimate."
The number sat there. Calm. Polite. Cruel.
Aarohi didn't react. She had learned not to. Panic never paid bills.
"I need two days," she said.
He hesitated. "Miss Mehra—"
"I said two."
Something in her eyes must have convinced him. He nodded slowly. "All right. But after that…"
"I understand."
She stood, slid the file into her bag, and thanked him because that was what polite people did even when their lives were folding in half.
Outside, the late afternoon sun hit her face too harshly. She stopped near the hospital steps, breathing once, slow, controlled. Autos honked. Someone laughed nearby. Life continued in its careless way.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She almost ignored it. Almost.
"Hello?"
"Aarohi Mehra?" a man asked.
"Yes."
"This is Adv. Raghav Malhotra. I believe you contacted my office two weeks ago."
Her spine straightened. She had sent many emails. Made many calls. Most never came back.
"Yes. I did."
"I have an offer for you," he said. "It's… unusual. But you said you were open to unconventional solutions."
Her fingers curled around the phone.
"Yes," she replied. "I am."
"There is a family willing to fund your mother's entire treatment."
The world tilted slightly.
"What's the catch?" she asked.
A pause. Just long enough to matter.
"A marriage."
The word landed between them. Solid. Heavy.
"I'm sorry?" Aarohi said.
"A legal contract marriage. Two years. No personal obligations beyond what is publicly required. You would receive financial security, housing, and full medical coverage for your mother."
Aarohi felt strangely calm. The kind of calm that arrives right before something breaks.
"You're asking me to marry a stranger."
"Yes."
She watched a nurse cross the gate, her dupatta slipping from her shoulder. A security guard argued with a fruit seller. Somewhere, a stretcher rolled.
"Why me?" she asked.
"Because," the lawyer said carefully, "you have no visible attachments, a clean background, and a reason strong enough not to interfere."
Aarohi almost laughed. No visible attachments.
"Who is he?" she asked instead.
Another pause.
"Kabir Raichand."
The name didn't ring a bell. But something about the way he said it told her it should have.
"You don't have to decide now," he added. "But if you're interested, there will be a meeting tonight. Eight p.m. Raichand Tower."
Aarohi looked back at the hospital entrance. At the glass doors sliding open and shut like nothing inside them could change a life.
"Send me the address," she said.
She ended the call and stood there for a long moment.
Then she opened her bag, took out her mother's report, and looked at the number again.
The fan inside the hospital would still be rattling.
The paper would still be sliding.
Two days, she had said.
Maybe she didn't have that long after all.
She lifted her phone.
"I'll come," she typed.
And pressed send.