Anayra was having one of those days that seemed endless. The ceiling fan in her tiny rented apartment wheezed like an asthmatic old man, the power had gone twice already thanks to the summer load shedding, and her phone was about to die too — the charger had given up on her that morning.
She had just finished a twelve-hour grind for her freelance client. Another day spent juggling work, clients, and her side hustle — she was a freelance website designer by day, and a budding Instagram page designer by night. Anything to keep the rent paid and her dreams alive.
Being her salary day, she’d just finished budgeting her expenses and transferred the rent to her moody landlord — the same one who switched off the water supply if rent was even a day late. She stared at the near-empty balance on her phone screen and dropped her head back on the pillow with a sigh. How long was she going to run like this?
Her phone pinged. Her best friend, Simar, had sent another meme about quitting work to raise alpacas in Himachal.
Anayra laughed and rolled her eyes — typical of her animal-lover friend. She typed back.
Anayra: Hope you’ve saved enough money before quitting your job.
Anayra: Srsly girl, if I don’t marry rich in this lifetime, I swear I’ll come back as a spoilt cat in my next birth.
She giggled at her own melodrama and kept going.
Anayra: Anyway, starting a new freelancing project tomorrow — designing for some big-shot company. Heard the CEO is HOT and loaded with bank balance. Maybe I’ll just marry him and retire.
She hit send. The phone buzzed Sent. She plugged it to charge and went to make herself some instant noodles for dinner. She got lost in her web series, only after completing it, she finally checked her phone again, her heart stopped.
Unread message : Excuse me?
Anayra blinked. Then read the chat again. Instead of Simar’s name on top, it read: Samar Rajput, The CEO she was about to pitch her content tomorrow.
And that’s when her brain caught up with her fingers — earlier that day, she’d saved the number of a new client for whom she was supposed to write website content, CEO of SR InfraTech. Her biggest freelance gig yet. And she’d just texted him that she planned to marry him for money.
Anayra’s soul left her body.
++++
Samar Rajput sat in the backseat of his car, heading home from a late board dinner. He was going through his emails when the message popped up. He stared at the screen in his hand, eyebrows raised in mild amusement.
He had wrapped up a twelve-hour day of back-to-back meetings, an exhausting board discussion. And here it was. A message from an unknown girl who apparently wanted to marry him. Or maybe someone else.
He scrolled up — her previous messages were all professional, neat, polite messages.
“Hi Mr Rajput, I’ve got the brief from your team”
“Coordinated schedule with your PA he said you are free after lunch”
“Will be at your office 3 pm sharp.”
And then this.
He laughed so loudly that his driver peeked at him through the rear-view mirror. Samar was many things — rich, busy, sharp-tongued — but bored was not one of them tonight. Leaning back on his seat, he chuckled again. Well, this was new. People pitched him ideas, proposals, sometimes even subtle flirtations at fancy parties — but no one had accidentally confessed they’d marry him to avoid being broke.
Noticing two blue ticks on the message, but no reply…He typed back.
Samar: Do I get a say in this arrangement? but must say, Interesting career plan, Ms Singh. Should I draft an official proposal?
Anayra was dying, as messages kept popping … Actually, physically evaporating from embarrassment. Her heart literally stopped. Her cheeks burned so red she was sure her neighbours could see it through the walls.
She typed furiously.
Anayra: Oh my God! Mr Rajput, I’m SO SORRY. That was not for you. Please please ignore it.
A moment passed. The typing dots appeared.
Samar: And here I thought I’d found an easy way to get married without my mother nagging me.
Was he… joking? She didn’t know him at all, except for his gruff professional voice notes and crisp emails regarding the project.
She typed again.
Please pretend you never saw it. Please—
Samar: Relax. No need to hyperventilate. I’m slightly offended that you proposed marriage, now rejecting too…& I don’t get a say in either, at least ask my opinion.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Anayra: I promise I’m not planning to trap CEOs into marriage. I swear I’m normal. Please don’t cancel my contract. I sincerely apologize. This was meant for my best friend. Please don’t judge me.
Samar: Too late. I’m deeply offended.
She wanted the floor to swallow her whole. She buried her face in her pillow, praying her landlord would barge in and cut the wifi just to save her from this conversation.
Anayra: I promise I’m not planning to marry any bosses. Or clients. Or billionaires. I’ll stick to stray cats instead.
There was a pause. Then his reply.
Samar: Pity. I was flattered for a moment.
Anayra didn’t know what possessed her next.
She typed back.
Anayra: In that case, Mr Rajput, you’ll have to try harder to stay on the list.
She hit send before her common sense could wrestle the phone out of her hand.
Samar smiled — a rare thing for him on a weekday night. Entering his penthouse, he set the phone down, poured himself a glass of water, and read the message again.
Try harder, huh?
It had been ages since someone spoke to him without fear, without measuring every word. Even his closest friends were guarded around him now — the burden of being ‘Samar Rajput’ came with its own invisible wall. He decided to play along and typed.
Samar: Challenge accepted.
Anayra’s reply came fast.
Anayra: Good night, Mr Rajput. Please forget this ever happened.
Samar: No promises, Ms Singh.
He put the phone away, still smiling. Maybe tomorrow’s meeting wouldn’t be so dull after all.
++++
When Anayra walked into Samar’s office the next afternoon to discuss content strategy, she nearly collided with a glass door. The receptionist gave her a pitiful look — probably wondering if she belonged there at all.
She waited outside Samar’s cabin for ten whole minutes, replaying the message fiasco in her head. Maybe he’d fire her. Maybe he’d cancel the contract and blacklist her. Maybe—The door opened.
And boy, did SHE died ? She just went to heaven.
Samar stepped out, tall. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal grey suit that probably cost more than her rent for three months.
Her heart hammered inside her ribs, she can bet, Samar can hear it…Samar Rajput was worse in person. Worse, as in distractingly handsome —& that smile that said he remembered everything.
Clean-shaven, watch on his wrist glinting in the sunlight. He looked younger than she’d expected — early thirties, maybe. His eyes found hers immediately, and the ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. She wished she had worn her heels today, she looks to small for him.
“Ms Singh?” he asked, voice calm. She squeaked out a yes.
“Relax,” he said, lowering his tone so the others wouldn’t hear. “I don’t bite. Let’s talk.”
Inside the cabin, he gestured for her to sit. She pulled out her tablet and stylus like her life depended on it. While she tried to focus on wireframes and content flow. But Samar sat across from her, leaning back in his chair, studying her with a look she couldn’t decode.
“So, what should we discuss first, content pitch or
He leaned forward, lowering his voice so the junior staff couldn’t hear “or marriage proposal…”.
Anayra’s pen fell from her hand with a clatter. He laughed — an actual, warm laugh.
“I’m joking. Relax. We’ll stick to content for now,” he said, flipping open the file she’d sent. His eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Let’s stick to the website, Mr Rajput.”
He grinned. “Can Call me Samar. Since you’re planning to marry me and all.”
She pretended to scribble notes, her ears still red.
Over the next few weeks, their professional exchanges remained crisp, but there was always that lingering undercurrent of amusement between them.
A late-night text about a new idea, would end with him asking in reply if she’d eaten dinner. A quick question about a tagline would have her teasing him about being a workaholic.
They never crossed the line, but something about their chats felt… easy. Familiar.
One evening, when she had to send him a new draft a day late,
She wrote: Sending it now. Don’t fire me, please.
His reply: Only if you promise to marry your boss if he asks nicely.
She’d sent back: You’re impossible.
He replied with a winking emoji.
++++
On weekend, Anayra’s friends dragged her out for lunch to a cozy new rooftop café. She is about to completed her gig with Samar’s company this month, but occasionally her thoughts used to swivel to the accidental message, or the way he lingered in her thoughts when she couldn’t sleep.
Halfway through sipping her iced latte, her phone buzzed as Samar called.
Samar: Ms. Future Rajput, Are you free?
“Oh God, don’t start—” she groaned.
“Relax. Listen — I’m at a store. I need a second opinion on a gift for my sister’s birthday. You have good taste.”
Her heart did that stupid flutter. This is simple help, she told herself, nothing more nothing less.
He texted her a photo — a pair of earrings he was debating over. Anayra excused herself from her friends and walked to a quieter corner…frustrating Samar after rejecting options he was showing on video call.
“Your sister is seventeen, Samar. Not seventy. Put that down!”
He laughed, eyes warm on the screen. “You’re adorable when you’re bossy.”
Anayra: Go for more playful and trendy. Want me to send links as reference?
Samar texted back:
Even better — meet me at Phoenix Mall?
She gaped at her screen.
20 mins later, Anayra found herself standing next to Samar Rajput in the middle of a glittering jewelry store.
He looked so out of place here — all polished charm and brooding CEO vibes — yet surprisingly patient as she showed him different options.
At some point, their hands brushed. She pretended not to notice, but her face gave her away.
They grabbed coffee afterwards — Samar insisted. Sitting across from him, Anayra realized she was genuinely enjoying his company. Not because he was her business client or a potential paycheck, but because he listened. Asked her about her dreams, her plans. Remembered little details, her love for chocolate cakes, her obsession with yellow roses.
She found herself telling him how she wanted to open her own small design agency someday. How she wanted her parents to worry less about her career. How, someday, she’d travel to Greece, sit by the sea, and write a book.
When she stopped talking, embarrassed at her sudden vulnerability, he just said, “You will. And when you do, send me a signed copy.”
She laughed, hiding her face behind her latte.
Work ended.
The website launched perfectly. She should have stepped away then — just another gig, another paycheck.
But somehow, Samar lingered. Midnight texts. Memes. Sharing reels, getting into useless banter. They still pretended it was professional. But both knew it wasn’t just that anymore.
He always teased, but behind the playful jabs he’d remember tiny things — that she liked waking up late on on Sundays, that she bought secondhand décor magazines for inspiration, that she wanted to save enough to bring her parents to Mumbai someday.
It became a routine, almost. Texts turned into calls. Calls turned into quick coffees whenever he could steal time away from his packed schedule.
He’d drop random messages — photos of his dog “Koko”, or a funny meme, a line about his day. She’d send him voice notes complaining about her landlord or her dying laptop.
He used to tease her. “When are you moving out?”
“When I can afford better.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Or when your future husband buys you a place.”
She cracked up laughing. “Not happening.”
He tilted his head, suddenly softer. “Maybe it is.”
++++
One evening, Samar dragged her to an overpriced café that served desserts in mason jars.
She complained. “I could feed myself for a week for the price of this tiramisu.”
He pushed the jar towards her. “Don’t worry. You’re marrying rich, remember?”
She mock-glared. “One more joke, and I’ll come up with most absurd content for your next project. Dont blame me blame if it’s a disaster”
He leaned in, eyes warm. “You’d still be my favorite disaster.”
Her breath caught. It wasn’t a grand confession, but her heart fluttered anyway.
Later, Samar offered to drop her home. Halfway to her apartment, she realized he’d pulled over.
“Why are we stopping?” she asked.
Samar turned to her, eyes steady. “Anayra. About that message you sent me by mistake…”
She covered her face with her hands. “Are you never going to let me forget that?”
“I hope not,” he said, smiling. “Because I’ve been meaning to ask… If I actually asked you out — properly — would you say yes?”
Her heart raced. She dropped her hands, looking at him. His eyes were sincere, the usual CEO mask nowhere in sight.
“Are you asking me out now?” she whispered.
“I am.”
She pretended to think. “Depends.”
“On?”
She grinned. “On whether I get the last slice of pizza every time.”
He laughed, leaning closer. “Deal.”
++++
A year later
Anayra lounged in Samar’s penthouse, scrolling through her phone while he tossed veggies on a pizza base. Her landlord had just doubled the rent again — classic.
She ranted from the couch. “...It’s festive season, Samar, I can’t find a new flat overnight. This man thinks I’m printing money.”
From the kitchen, Samar called out, “So marry me.”
She shot him a look. “Excuse me?”
He peeked out with a grin. “Marry me. I’m loaded, remember? Or I’ll just buy you the building. Or the next one.”
She threw a cushion at him. “Stop showing off your bank balance!”
He caught it easily. “How can I? It’s my USP. You fell for it, remember?”
Bringing out the pizza, he settled beside her, pressing a kiss to her temple.
He teased, “So… still planning to marry rich?”
Anayra stole the last slice right from his plate and bit in triumphantly. “Already did, didn’t I?”
Samar laughed, pulling her closer.
The wrong message, sent to the wrong inbox, had found exactly the right person.
++++ The End++++
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