Chapter 3: The First Encounter

I carefully compiled a dossier on Meera Sinha and handed it to Sameer. He glanced at it, fixed his eyes on the photo, and spat out, "Widow's face—easy target."

He sized up the photo, then flicked it away as if it meant nothing. I felt insulted for both Meera and myself.

Then he tossed the file back to me. The folder landed on my lap, a silent challenge.

"Don't you want to study your target? Even romance scammers prepare plans. Meera Sinha is at least a wealthy woman—show some respect for your client!"

My voice was sharper than intended. Even here, I wanted dignity.

"Client?" He leaned in close, eyes meeting mine, breath mingling, and said with ambiguity, "Whoever pays is the client. If I must respect anyone, it should be you."

His words were honeyed, gaze lingering. I felt my cheeks flush and quickly turned away.

I picked up the file and slapped it against his face, pushing him away.

"Don't try your lines with me. I know your type."

"Ow, ow. My nose job was expensive. If you break it, you'll have to pay."

He rubbed his nose and winked—such drama.

"Pay my foot! Rule number one: no harassing the employer!"

I wagged my finger, channeling every angry Indian mother.

This fellow is too flirtatious. If I don't set boundaries, it will happen again.

It was like trying to keep a monkey off a mango tree.

He gave me a sidelong smile. "Boring."

He pouted, as if he was a child denied a toy.

Then he pocketed the listening device, turned his back, and raised a finger: "One month. Keep your husband out of the way and don't interfere."

I noted the challenge in his voice. He was already strategising.

One month?

I counted weeks—too short, too risky. Meera Sinha is sharp—he's too arrogant. I started to regret hiring him.

My stomach twisted. What if I'd made a terrible mistake?

But doubts disappeared after their first encounter.

Sometimes, even the best-laid plans work only because luck favours the bold.

That day, in the mall, I sat in the Starbucks on the second floor, watching Sameer approach Meera Sinha with a bright smile. But this smile was different—gentlemanly and restrained.

He looked as if he'd just stepped out of an Ambani wedding—hair neatly combed, red cashmere sweater a quiet show of old money. He had the laid-back confidence of a Bandra boy who grew up playing cricket in gated compounds, but his manners were pure South Bombay.

His shoes spotless, his watch glinting. He walked with the lazy assurance of someone who belonged everywhere.

I thought he'd greet Meera, but instead, he approached the older woman beside her—Meera's mother.

Aunty wore a crisp cotton saree and sensible chappals. She looked up, startled, as Sameer leaned in politely.

"Excuse me, I found a card. Could you see if it's yours?"

It was a uniquely designed restaurant membership card, labelled 'Annapurna.'

The name alone was enough to catch any socialite's eye. These cards are rarer than invites to the governor's ball.

That's a local, exclusive private kitchen—just as its name suggests, all the guests are wealthy, if not necessarily learned.

Anyone who ate there was considered “someone” in Mumbai's upper crust. The very mention was an unspoken password.

Who knows where Sameer got this prop.

He probably borrowed it or printed a duplicate. Men like him always have a trick up their sleeve.

Meera's mother shook her head, but I saw Meera's gaze linger on the card.

She couldn't help herself. The glint in her eye was unmistakable—status is as intoxicating as perfume.

Sameer put on a shy smile, even scratching his head, and said, "Actually, um… sorry to be abrupt. I'd really like to get to know your daughter, but I thought I should ask your permission first."

He played the “good Indian boy” card—the kind every mother wants for her daughter. Flawless.

Meera's mother had probably never been hit on by such a young, handsome man before. She looked at Meera and said graciously, "You young people, it's good to get to know each other."

Her face softened; she looked at Meera as if this was a proposal in disguise.

Meera is a golden bird who flew out of a humble mohalla, highly valued by her family. Everyone praises Meera's mother for raising such an accomplished daughter. Since childhood, Meera's status at home has always been faintly above her mother’s. This might be the first time someone showed her mother such respect, letting her exercise maternal authority.

In Indian families, daughters often outgrow their mothers’ social standing, but every mother still longs for her say. Sameer handed her that power.

I have to say, it looked like a simple sentence, but Sameer nailed it.

I almost clapped from my seat. The move was worthy of a Karan Johar plot twist.

And Meera?

All women in finance are snobs, no exceptions. Sameer's old-money style, the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist, plus that restaurant card—enough to attract her to befriend him.

I could see the calculation in her eyes, the delicate dance of curiosity and ambition.

Sure enough, she extended her hand: "Taurus Securities, Meera Sinha. Have we met before?"

Her voice was calm but eager. She was already weighing his worth.

Sameer seemed stunned by her sociable manner, reached out and shook her hand lightly: "We probably haven't met. Otherwise, you'd already be in my contacts."

He let his fingers linger just long enough to register interest.

Sameer smiled radiantly, flashing big white teeth, looking like someone easily fooled by beauty.

He played the innocent—an old game, but still effective.

Afterwards, the two naturally exchanged WhatsApp numbers.

I watched Meera type his name with a smile she hadn't shown in months.

I also checked Sameer's Insta—photos of him competing on Codeforces Round, and even at Royal Ascot Racecourse in the UK.

It was a masterclass in fakery. Every post oozed class, but none could be traced to reality.

With one move, he built a persona of wealth, intelligence, and deep family background. The Photoshop was flawless, the timeline seamless. If I didn't know his background, I might be fooled too.

I clicked through the photos, half-impressed, half-envious. In this city, reality is what you show online.

Seeing Sameer's progress, I knew I had to act as well.

The baby's hundred-day ceremony was approaching—just the right time to strike a nerve.

The timing was perfect. In India, every milestone is a stage, every ceremony an opportunity.