CHAPTER 6
ABHIMAAN
The second hand on the minimalist wall clock clicks into position, and right on cue, the door to my office swings open. No knock. No pause. Just bold footsteps on the oakwood floor and the unmistakable scent of ambition wrapped in citrus and attitude.
Of course.
I look up from my planner, pen hovering mid-air.
She walks in like she owns time itself. Tan blazer sharp, heels clicking with the kind of confidence most interns don’t earn in six months, let alone on their second day.
A thin gold nose pin catches the morning light.
A strand of hair is loose behind her ear—not messy, not styled—just..
. deliberate, like everything about her.
I should be irritated. But instead, I find myself unsure—am I more impressed by her punctuality or by the fact that she just walked in without knocking?
No one does that. Not even department heads.
“You don’t knock?” I ask, setting the pen down with deliberate slowness.
She halts in front of the desk, unfazed. But I can see from how she inhales once that she forgot to say, “I will. From tomorrow,” she says, lips twitching into a smile. “Didn’t want to interrupt in case you were—oh, I don’t know—hiding something illegal.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Illegal?”
“Yeah, like embezzlement. Or smiling. Heard you don’t do either.”
The corner of my mouth nearly betrays me. Nearly. I look back down at my notes.
“Bring coffee,” I say instead. “I like it black. No sugar.”
She mock-salutes. “Yes, sir. The slavery starts.” She spins on her heel, muttering something about a caffeine dictatorship, and heads out. Her footsteps are lighter than I expected—like she floats just above the ground, riding on purpose and sass.
I lean back in my chair. God help me. I check our stock price and feel a bit satisfied that it's still rising. We haven't seen a downfall in at least six months, and I take it as a win considering how volatile the Indian market is.
Three minutes later, Aditi returns. Still no knock. She’s carrying a sleek ceramic cup like it’s a peace offering.
She places it in front of me with flair. “Here. Your majesty’s coffee.”
I lift the cup, take a cautious sip—
And immediately frown. “This isn’t what I drink,” I say, tone flat.
“Exactly.” She beams. “It’s what you should drink.” There's at least a ton of sugar she has added in my coffee, not to mention the milk I can taste.
I stare at her. “Did you just reform my coffee?”
“Someone has to keep your arteries intact.” She shrugs. “I figured it might as well be me.”
There’s a beat of silence as I study her. She’s completely at ease—shoulders relaxed, face open, like she’s delivering a wellness intervention instead of challenging the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company. “You’re very confident,” I state slowly.
“You hired me for that, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer. I take another sip, and to my annoyance, the coffee actually doesn't taste that bad. Balanced, strong, but less acidic. Irritatingly smooth. Like her comebacks.
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates.
Unknown number.
I glance at her. “That’ll be all.”
She tilts her head. “Dismissed? Already? And here I thought we were bonding.”
“Out,” I say, already picking up. I have waited for this call for a month.
She rolls her eyes as she walks out. “You’re welcome for the coffee upgrade.”
The door clicks shut. I let out a breath and press the phone to my ear.
“Yes?”
A male voice, low and urgent, replies, “We’ve found Lakhan.”
My spine straightens. My pulse starts to thrum. My jaw tightens. Finally, we are getting somewhere.
“Where is he?”
“Lower East Side. Godown number 14.”
I clench my fist, knuckles cracking. “Capture him. I’ll meet you there in thirty.”
The line disconnects.
I rise from my chair, movements sharp and focused. I smooth my shirt and grab my phone, already sorting through what needs to be handled before I vanish for the next few hours.
I step out into the hallway. She’s there. Leaning against the wall like she’s been waiting just long enough to annoy me.
“Are you leaving already?” she asks, glancing at my keys. “Did the coffee offend you that much?”
“I have more pressing matters than your culinary rebellion,” I say.
She smirks. “Well, if you disappear and the police come looking, I’ll just say I warned them about your illegal activity.”
I shake my head as I walk past her.
Why does everything feel like a sparring match with her? Why does she win even when she shouldn’t?
Am I really letting an intern get the upper hand? No. I just don’t have time for her beautiful, stubborn, sassy mouth. Not today, at least.