CHAPTER 40
ADITI
I’m not sure what I expected.
Maybe he’d come in today with a softer voice.
Maybe fewer files dumped on my desk. Fewer last-minute client calls, maybe an extra smile or two…
or even just a break. One proper break. After last night, after fairy lights and his quiet confessions and the way he looked at me like I was all the oxygen left in the world, I thought something would shift.
But it hasn’t.
Abhimaan is still the same brutal taskmaster he’s always been.
And I—apparently—am still the idiot who likes him too much.
“Fix the proposal numbers on slide twelve. And tell Priya to call the vendors again. If they’re late on delivery this time, we’re switching them.”
His voice cuts through the room like a scalpel—sharp, emotionless, precise. He doesn’t look at me. Just continues typing on his laptop, sleeves rolled up, veins taut on his forearm as he works like the world might collapse if he slows down for even a second.
It’s 12:45 PM, and I haven’t had water since 10. I feel like strangling him with his own stupid tie.
Or kissing the life out of him.
I can't decide which.
I close the file on my laptop a little harder than necessary. “Slide twelve is done. And Priya’s on the call. Anything else, Your Highness?”
He glances up then. Just for a second. And something flickers in his eyes—recognition, amusement, maybe even a little softness—but it disappears as fast as it came. He nods. “Good.”
And just like that, I want to throw something at him again.
I mutter under my breath and reach for my bottle, which is, of course, empty. Fabulous. I get up and head toward the small pantry, trying to cool down, but before I can even step out of the cabin, his voice follows me.
“Lunch?”
I pause. “What?”
“Lunch. Come eat with me.” His tone is casual. But the way he leans back, eyes trained on me like I’m the only thing worth watching, makes my heart hiccup.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you bipolar, or am I imagining things? Because half an hour ago, I was genuinely debating whether to break your laptop in half.”
He leans forward now, elbows on the desk, a slow smile playing on his lips. “And now?”
I blink. “Now you’re asking me to lunch?”
He stands. Doesn’t answer. Just walks to the other side of the desk, opens the drawer near the couch, and pulls out a small tiffin. Stainless steel. Two tiers. Wrapped in a cloth, the way my mom used to pack it for school.
My curiosity flares.
He opens the lid, and the smell hits me immediately. Warm, spicy, familiar.
Rajma chawal.
My heart stutters.
He sits on the couch and pats the seat next to him. “Come here.”
I hesitate. I should say no. I should act mad a little longer. But my stomach growls like a traitor, and I haven’t had rajma chawal in weeks. And the bastard knows it.
I sit.
He takes a spoonful, blows on it—like it’s too hot—and then holds it up to my mouth.
I stare at him. “You’re feeding me now?”
“I’m being nice.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
His lips twitch. “Fine. You look like you’ll forget to eat otherwise. And I don’t like watching you work yourself into a migraine.”
I hesitate. Then take the bite.
It’s perfect. Just the way I like it. He’s even added a piece of the fried aloo on the side.
I chew slowly, eyes on him.
“You made this?” I ask. He nods. I blink. “You cooked.”
“I can cook better than you, darling.” He smirks, “I’m capable of more than yelling and intimidating interns.”
“Of course,” I roll my eyes, but my lips curve up at his arrogance.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches me eat for a second. And then, softly, like it’s not even meant to be said aloud: “Your dreams are my dreams.”
I look up.
He’s serious.
“You’ll never achieve those if I become soft on you,” he continues, meeting my gaze. “When you start your company—when you’re running the show—there’ll be no one holding your hand. There’ll be pressure, deadlines, and people doubting you every step of the way.”
I blink mid-chew.
His words hang in the air, suspended like dust motes in sunlight. Your dreams are my dreams. He says it so casually. Like it’s a simple truth. Like it’s not the kind of thing that cracks something open inside me.
I forgot.
For a moment, I genuinely forgot.
Forgot the long nights. The blurry vision in front of spreadsheets.
The way my stomach knots every time someone talks about how I am lucky enough to have my family to back me, how I will get everything on a silver platter.
I forgot the way I’ve always had to speak twice as loud to be taken half as seriously, to put in double efforts and still be seen as privileged.
He didn’t forget.
He didn’t let me forget.
I swallow slowly, carefully, like I’m afraid the warmth of the rajma chawal might slide too quickly down my throat and make me cry.
He leans back against the edge of the table, arms crossed, not smug but steady. Always steady. “When you start your company—when you’re running the show—there’ll be no one holding your hand,” he says again, firmer this time, as if he knows I need to hear it twice.
“There’ll be pressure, deadlines, and people doubting you every step of the way.”
The way he says it, like it’s a given that I’ll be in charge, like it’s already written into my future—I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before. Spoke of my dreams as if they were certainties. Real things. Not daydreams to be politely nodded at during dinners and forgotten by morning.
I stare down at the bite I just took. The perfectly cooked rice, the rajma that’s soft and creamy just the way I like it, and the hint of ghee he somehow got exactly right. The aloo on the side is still a little crispy.
Of all the things I imagined him doing—being gentle with me in private, yes; understanding my ambition, maybe—this? This quiet, domestic act of care?
It’s disarming. It undoes me. I try to change the topic, because I would cry if he told me how much he believes in ME, not my family name, not the status or the fame, but just me. “You cooked this before work?” I ask, voice quieter now.
He shrugs, and there’s that arrogant little tilt to his lips again. “Woke up at five. Had time.”
“You woke up at five to cook me lunch?”
His brow lifts. “Didn’t know I needed permission.”
I don’t know what to say to that. There’s no playbook for moments like this.
“You’re insane,” I murmur.
“I’ve been called worse,” he smirks. Then gestures toward the tiffin. “Finish it.”
I do. Silently. Slowly. He doesn’t speak either, but he watches. Not like a hawk or a boss or someone keeping tabs, but like someone who wants to make sure I’m taken care of. Noticed. Seen.
And I realize—with an odd rush of heat to my chest—that I am.
When I’ve finished, he takes the tiffin from my hand without a word, sets it aside, and then reaches into his coat pocket.
A packet of Hajmola.
I blink. Then laugh.
“You’re joking.”
“In my personal experience,” he sighs, “you should have it.”
I giggle, “I want to know about this personal experience now.” I wiggle my eyebrows, but he’s already getting up.
“Get back to work, darling.” He smiles at me softly as he leans against his table, crossing his arms.
“You’re ridiculous.” I complain.
“And you’re dramatic.”
“And you’re overworking me.”
“And you’ll thank me when your business scales globally.”
I groan and flop back against the couch, dramatically pressing a hand to my forehead. “You’re impossible. I wanted a soft boyfriend. One who brings flowers, kisses my forehead, and lets me rest.”
He leans closer, his arm draped behind me now, brushing my shoulder. “You want soft? I’ll give you soft.”
He presses a kiss to the side of my temple. Warm. Unrushed.
“But you also want power,” he murmurs against my skin, “respect, independence. You want a world with your name on it. And for that, I’ll be the one pushing you—every day, every project, every deadline. Until you don’t need me anymore.”
My throat tightens. “What if I always need you?”
His eyes meet mine. Still so steady. Still so sure.
“I’ll always be there.”
My heart folds into itself.
It’s unfair, really—how he balances the fire and the gentleness so easily. One moment he’s my boss, barking out orders; the next he’s the man who knows exactly how much masala I like in my rajma and wipes the corner of my mouth without thinking.
I didn’t plan this.
Didn’t think I’d fall so fast.
But here I am. Melting into him like butter on hot rice.
I get up and walk towards him, his eyes never leaving mine, and I reach for his tie.
It’s slightly loosened, probably from the morning’s stress, but still neat—still very him. My fingers slip around the silk, grip it gently, and I tug. Just enough to make him stumble half a step closer.
His breath catches.
But his hands stay by his sides, like he’s giving me control, letting me lead whatever this is. Maybe that’s what undoes me. The fact that a man like him, with all his intensity and control and damn authority, is just standing here—waiting.
My fingers curl tighter around the fabric.
And then, without overthinking it, without giving myself room to spiral or analyze, I rise on my toes and press my lips to his.
It’s not a delicate kiss.
It’s not hesitant or shy.
It’s hungry.
Like I’ve been holding it in for far too long.
He answers instantly—his lips sure against mine, warm, steady, his hand finally lifting to cradle the back of my head. I feel his fingers thread through my hair, gentle but firm, grounding me even as my knees threaten to give out.
I kiss him harder. Like I’m trying to communicate everything I can’t say out loud. He kisses me like he understands all of it. The world narrows to this—just his mouth on mine, the smell of rajma and his cologne, and the wild, chaotic pounding of my heart.
And then I pull back.
Breathless.
Shaken.
His eyes are slightly dazed. Lips flushed. The tie was still curled in my fist.
I swallow and let go slowly. Step back.
Then I clear my throat. Look up at him like I didn’t just kiss the daylights out of my boss in the middle of a workday.
“Bring jalebis next time,” I say, voice cool, casual.
His brows lift slightly. “Jalebis?”
But I’m already turning.
Grabbing my phone, dignity—what’s left of it—and walking toward the door with my chin high.
“Don’t forget the crispy ones,” I toss over my shoulder, without waiting for his reply.
And then I leave.
Because if I don’t get out now, I might kiss him again. Or worse—stay.
And I’m not sure which one terrifies me more.