DEVIL’s GRIP

The skies over Mumbai rumbled ominously as dark clouds rolled in, casting a shadow over the bustling city. The streets were chaotic yet alive, with honking cars, street vendors shouting their wares, and umbrellas bobbing up and down in a sea of humanity. The first drops of rain began to fall, tentative at first, before the heavens opened in a relentless downpour.

Hema Kapoor a young engineer darted through the crowded street, clutching a worn leather folder to her chest as if her life depended on it. Her pale peach salwar kameez was soaked, the soft fabric clinging to her slender figure, but she paid no mind. Her long black hair, loosely braided, was already dripping, and the rainwater trailed down her delicate face. Her skin, glowing with a golden hue, was flawless, as if kissed by the sun. Her almond-shaped eyes, outlined with eyeliner, held a quiet strength, though the panic in them was hard to miss.

“Excuse me!” she called out, her voice soft but urgent, almost drowned out by the chaos around her. She sidestepped a street vendor who had suddenly stepped in her path, narrowly avoiding a tray of steaming vada pav. Her sandals splashed into a puddle, drenching her further. But Hema didn’t stop. She couldn’t afford to.

She glanced at her watch, and her heart sank. It was already 2:50 p.m. The interview at ZN Corporations was at 3:00 p.m., and she was still blocks away. Her pulse raced as she thought about the opportunity waiting for her—a chance to escape the relentless struggles of her life. If she missed this, she might not get another.

As she reached the edge of the street, Hema paused to catch her breath. The rain was relentless, cascading over her like a curtain. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving streaks of water and smudged eyeliner. Strands of wet hair clung to her face, framing it like a delicate portrait. Passersby glanced at her, some drawn to the ethereal beauty she radiated even in her soaked state, while others noticed the quiet determination etched in her expression.

She adjusted the folder in her arms, muttering to herself, “You’re almost there, Hema. Just a little more.”

A sleek black limousine crawled through the congested streets, its tinted windows shielding its occupant from the chaos outside. Inside, Chris Zayden sat in luxurious comfort, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the rain-soaked city. The air inside the car was cool and faintly scented with expensive leather and cologne. The contrast between the tranquil interior and the noisy streets outside was stark.

Zayden leaned back in his seat, his mind half-focused on the report in his hands. His tailored navy-blue suit fit him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and strong build. His face, a picture of masculine perfection, carried an effortless charm. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and dark, slicked-back hair framed his piercing gray eyes. The faint stubble lining his jaw gave him an edge that softened only slightly when he smiled—a rare occurrence.

“Sorry,Sir,” his driver called out, glancing into the rearview mirror. He apologised

Zayden didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were drawn to the streets, where a sea of umbrellas bobbed and weaved through the rain. Amidst the chaos, something—or someone—caught his attention.

A young woman was running through the rain, clutching a folder to her chest. Her salwar, soaked through, clung to her petite frame, and her long braid swayed with every hurried step she took. The water dripping from her hair and face only seemed to enhance her natural beauty. She paused at the corner of the street, brushing strands of wet hair from her face. Her large, expressive eyes darted around as if searching for something, their quiet determination striking Zayden in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Zayden leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the woman. His lips curved into a faint, intrigued smile as he watched her adjust the folder in her arms. Her movements were hurried, but there was a grace to her—a strength that stood out against the chaos around her.

“Who is she?” Zayden murmured to himself.

“Sir? ” the driver began, but Zayden silenced him with a dismissive wave.

Suddenly, the vibration of Zayden’s phone broke the moment. He glanced at the screen and saw the name “Mia ” flashing. His younger sister. Letting out a small sigh, he answered the call, though his eyes never left the woman in the rain.

“Zayn! Finally!” Mia’s voice chirped through the line. “I’ve been calling you all morning. I can’t handle it alone,when are you coming ?”

Zayden smirked slightly but didn’t respond immediately. His gaze was glued to the woman as she began running again, weaving through the crowd with an urgency that piqued his curiosity.

“Zayden? Chris? Are you even listening to me?” Mia’s voice broke through again, this time with more impatience.

“Hmm?” he responded absentmindedly.

“What do you mean, ‘Hmm?’ I asked when you’re coming home. Mom keeps asking about you, and—Zayden, are you ignoring me?” Mia’s tone grew accusatory.

“Not now, Mia ,” Zayden said, his voice low and distracted.

“Not now? Zayden, what is—” Mia started, but Zayden ended the call without waiting for her to finish. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the woman, who had just reached the towering glass building ahead—ZN Corporations.

“Stop the car,” he said suddenly, his voice sharp.

The driver hit the brakes, startled. “Sir?”

Turn the car around,” he ordered, his gray eyes narrowing with intent.

The driver hesitated. “To where, sir?”

Zayden said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Take me to the office. Now.”

The driver obeyed, guiding the car through the congested streets once more. Zayden leaned back in his seat, a rare flicker of anticipation lighting up his otherwise cold demeanor.

————

Hema burst through the revolving doors of the ZN Corporations building, her chest heaving from the effort. The sleek, air-conditioned lobby felt like another world—clean, quiet, and polished to perfection. Her rain-soaked salwar left faint wet footprints on the gleaming marble floor, but she was too preoccupied to notice.

The receptionist, a poised woman in her mid-twenties, looked up as Hema approached the desk. Her perfectly styled hair and crisp black blazer made Hema painfully aware of her own disheveled state.

“Good afternoon,” Hema said, trying to steady her breathing. “I have an interview scheduled for 3:00 p.m. My name is Hema Kapoor.”

The receptionist’s practiced smile faltered slightly as she took in Hema’s appearance. “One moment,” she said, typing into her computer. After a few seconds, she nodded. “You’re expected on the 25th floor. The elevator is to your left.”

“Thank you,” Hema said, her voice tinged with relief. She turned and hurried toward the elevators, clutching her folder like a lifeline.

As the elevator doors closed behind her, Hema finally allowed herself a moment to breathe. She caught her reflection in the mirrored walls—a young woman with drenched clothes, smudged eyeliner, and a strand of wet hair sticking to her cheek. She sighed and pushed the strand behind her ear.

“You look a mess,” she muttered to herself. “But you’ve got this.”

everyone got relieved that Mr.Zayden’s inspection was over. But their relief didn’t last long as he entered again.

Zayden entered the private elevator reserved for executives, his mind still replaying the image of the woman in the rain. There was something about her that had struck a chord within him. She wasn’t just beautiful—though she was undoubtedly that. There was a rawness to her, a determination that shone through her soaked, disheveled appearance. It intrigued him in a way few things did.

When he reached the 25th floor, his sharp eyes immediately scanned the area. And then he saw her.

She was seated in the waiting area, her back straight despite the exhaustion evident in her posture. Her rain-soaked salwar had begun to dry, though it still clung to her arms and legs. She held the folder in her lap, her fingers gripping it tightly. Her head was slightly bowed, and strands of damp hair framed her face. Her eyes, large and framed by thick lashes, darted around the room nervously.

Zayden felt a rare flicker of emotion—a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name. He stood there for a moment, watching her from a distance.

“Sir,” an assistant called out, interrupting his thoughts. “The board meeting in 10 minutes.”

“Reschedule it,” Zayden said without looking away from Hema.

“But, sir—”

“Reschedule it,” he repeated firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The assistant was shocked how could he do this, he wouldn’t miss any deal for the world. He wouldn’t miss any opportunity to earn money. Because the previous assistant was fired just because he lost 5 million.

*****

Zayden sat in his high-backed leather chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His gray eyes, sharp and unrelenting, bore into the trembling figure standing across the desk. The assistant, a young man named Stephen , shifted nervously, sweat forming at his temples despite the room’s cool air conditioning.

“You lost me how much?” Zayden’s voice was calm, almost too calm, the low timbre sending a chill down Stephen ’s spine.

“F-Five million, sir,” Stephen stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands trembled as he clutched the file in his grasp, the papers inside crumpled from his grip.

Zayden let the number hang in the air for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he rose from his chair, his towering figure casting a shadow over Stephen . Each deliberate step he took around the desk felt like a hammer striking the young man’s composure.

“Five million,” Zayden repeated, his tone still calm. He stopped in front of Stephen, studying him as though he were an insect under a magnifying glass. “And tell me, Stephen , what made you think it was acceptable to mismanage my money?”

“I-I didn’t mean to, sir,” Stephen stuttered. “It was an oversight, a mistake—”

“Ah, a mistake,” Zayden cut in, his voice suddenly cold and biting.

Stephen opened his mouth to plead, but Zayden raised a hand, silencing him instantly.

“Enough,” Zayden said sharply. He stepped closer, his piercing eyes narrowing. “You’re going to learn a lesson today, Raghav. One that you’ll never forget.”

Zayden turned to his intercom, pressing a button. “Security. Bring in the ledger and clear out the east wing office.”

The assistant’s eyes widened in panic. “S-sir, please, I swear it won’t happen again. I—”

Zayden’s gaze snapped back to him, silencing his protests. “You’re done here, Stephen . Pack your things, leave your company phone, and consider yourself fortunate. I could have you blacklisted in every major corporation in the country. But I won’t—yet.”

Stephen’s knees nearly buckled, and he struggled to form a coherent response. “P-please, Mr. Zayden , just one more chance—”

“Chance?” Zayden’s tone darkened further as he leaned in. “Do I look like a man who gives chances? Your severance will barely cover the hole you’ve left behind. Now get out of my sight.”

Two security guards entered the room, their imposing figures flanking Stephen . As they escorted the disgraced assistant out of the office, Zayden turned away, his expression as cold as steel.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the side table, his movements calm and deliberate. He took a slow sip, staring out at the skyline.

To Chris Zayden , five million was a drop in the ocean. But the loss wasn’t about the money—it was about principle. In his world, any failure, no matter how small, was a crack in the foundation.