CHAPTER 27
ABHIMAAN
I’m sitting at the bar—well, technically, at the far end of the long mahogany counter where drinks are being poured with silent efficiency—a glass of whiskey resting untouched in front of me. My eyes haven’t left her since she walked in.
Royal blue.
It’s a shade I’d imagined on her once when I came across the dress. I didn’t think she’d wear it.
Didn’t think she’d show up either.
But she did. And now I can’t look away.
Aditi glides through the gala like she belongs here, even if I know she doesn’t think so. Her hair falls in soft waves down her back, her neckline sculpted and elegant, and the slit in her dress is subtle but enough to make my jaw clench when I catch a man doing a double take.
“You could drink that,” Harsh mutters beside me, breaking my focus. He lifts his own drink in mock salute. “Or just keep staring at her like you want to burn a hole through the back of her dress.”
I don’t respond.
He leans forward. “This is painful to watch, you know? For all your icy exterior, you look like a heartbroken college kid.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I mutter, taking a slow sip. It burns—less than her silence these past few days.
“She looks happy,” Harsh comments, tipping his chin toward the far end of the room.
My gaze snaps there.
Aditi’s smiling. Head tilted back slightly, her fingers brushing her earring as she laughs at something a man in a tailored black suit says.
His posture is easy and confident. Her smile is.
.. bright. Real. Not the polite one she wears for clients or the tight one she gives me when she’s forcing herself to stay indifferent.
That one’s rare.
This one—this one makes something twist low in my stomach.
I place the glass back on the bar, harder than necessary.
Harsh’s hand shoots out to steady it. “Okay, relax. Don’t shatter crystal, please. I don’t want attention drawn here. This tux is borrowed.”
I shoot him a glare before rising. My jaw aches from how tightly it’s clenched.
“I’m just saying—” he calls after me, but I’ve already started walking.
Every step feels deliberate, like I’m pushing through something invisible—maybe my own restraint.
She doesn’t see me coming. Not until I’m too close to ignore.
The man says something else—something that makes her smile again—and her eyes flick past him and land on me.
The smile dies.
Good. Her lips part slightly. “Abhimaan—”
“Dance with me,” I say quietly, cutting off whatever excuse she was about to make. My hand is already extended.
She hesitates. Her eyes search my face like she’s trying to figure out what this is.
“I’m not asking again,” I say.
That gets her. Always the challenge.
She takes my hand.
The ballroom is dimly lit, warm-toned chandeliers casting a soft glow on the couples moving slowly across the floor. The music has shifted into something slower, with piano weaving into strings.
I guide her to the center.
Her body is tense under my touch. My hand rests on the small of her back, the other holding hers. There’s space between us—more than I want, less than she probably prefers.
“I thought you were leaving,” I say.
“I still might.”
“But you wore the dress.”
She exhales through her nose. “It was a nice dress. Would’ve been rude to let it go to waste.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
The conversation dies there, the tension between us loud in the quiet swells of the song.
She won’t look directly at me. Her eyes stay slightly past my shoulder, fingers twitching faintly in my hold.
But she isn’t pulling away. I don’t know what I expect from this dance.
Maybe silence. Maybe a fight. But definitely not this heavy in-between where her body is here, close, warm beneath my palm—but her mind is elsewhere.
Guarded. Distant. Like she’s dancing with a memory of me, not the man standing in front of her.
Her gaze is careful, like she’s afraid too much eye contact will say things she doesn’t want to hear.
But I’m done tiptoeing.
“What did I do?” I ask, my voice low, nearly lost in the music.
She blinks, startled, like I pulled her out of a trance. “What?”
“Don’t do that.” I tighten my hold just a little. “Don’t act surprised.”
“I’m not—” she starts, then stops. Her throat moves with a swallow. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Don’t lie.”
Her lips press together, the soft pink of her lipstick catching the chandelier light.
“Did I say something?” I ask again, gentler this time. “Or… not say something I should’ve?”
Her lashes lift, finally meeting my eyes. “No, sir.”
The way she says it—formal, distant, like we’re at work and she’s giving a presentation instead of standing an inch from me—it knocks the wind out of me.
My jaw tightens. “It’s Abhimaan for you. You know that.”
She inhales sharply. “It’s not, actually.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re my boss.”
“Since when did that matter to you?”
She doesn’t respond. Her fingers flex slightly in mine.
“You used to call me names,” I murmur. “Mock me when I gave you extra tasks. Roll your eyes behind my back like I wouldn’t notice.”
“I still do,” she mutters.
I smile—a bitter, hollow curve. “No, you don’t. You’ve gone quiet. You barely look at me in meetings. You haven’t sent a single snarky message this week.”
“Maybe I grew up.”
“Don’t give me that crap, Aditi.”
She flinches, just a little, and I immediately regret the edge in my voice.
I let out a breath. “Stop avoiding me. Please.”
Her eyes finally lift again—big, dark, and tired. Like she’s been holding up a dam for days. “It’s getting difficult,” I add quietly, barely above a whisper. “Not knowing where I stand with you.”
There. I’ve said it. The thing that’s been clawing at my chest since the morning she started being polite. Since the teasing stopped. Since her silence became louder than her laughter.
Something flickers in her eyes. Recognition. Guilt, maybe. Something softer.
And for a heartbeat, I think she might say something. Reach out. Close that stupid distance she’s built between us.
But instead, she pulls back.
Her hand slips from mine, slow and reluctant. She steps out of my hold, not looking up as she says, “I need to go.”
I don’t stop her.
Even though my body aches to follow, to reach for her again—I stay rooted to the spot. Because whatever this is between us, whatever I thought we were building… I’ve clearly only made it worse.
She disappears into the crowd, that blue dress vanishing like smoke, and I’m left standing alone in the middle of the ballroom—a man surrounded by music, laughter, and everything that now feels far out of reach.
And this time, I don’t even have her sarcasm to hold onto.