CHAPTER 54
ADITI
The clack of my keyboard is the only sound in the room, rhythmic and steady, a weird contrast to the storm that’s spinning inside my chest.
The storm of his words.
“I can handle myself. I’m just not sure if my heart can handle your absence.”
I had laughed when he said that this morning—shaking my head, tossing a pen at his chest, and telling him to leave before I actually lost it and kissed him again right there in the middle of the office.
He had caught the pen mid-air, smirked like the devil himself, and walked out with all the arrogance of a man who knew exactly what he was doing to me.
And now, here I am.
Sitting at my desk like a lovestruck idiot, grinning at my laptop screen like it just confessed it loved me too.
I sigh, dragging my fingers through my hair and forcing myself to focus. I’m not even supposed to be this giddy. I told him to go alone for the Sharma & Co. meeting today because I needed to prepare for next week’s presentation—the big one. The one we’ve been building toward for months.
But all my concentration? Left with him.
I lean back in my chair, pressing my palm over my heart, trying to calm it down.
It’s ridiculous. I mean, how can one man turn my entire system upside down with one stupidly romantic line?
I should be used to him by now. To his presence.
To the way he looks at me like I’m the answer to a question he never dared to ask.
But I’m not used to him. I don’t think I ever will be.
A giggle escapes me, loud and unexpected.
Oh god. What is wrong with me?
I’m literally giggling. Like a teenager with a high school crush. At work. While he’s not even here.
I shake my head at myself, trying to shove my face back into the laptop, but a voice breaks through the stillness, startling me.
“Are you in love?”
I shriek, jumping in my seat and nearly knocking over my coffee. My eyes snap up—and I see him.
Harsh.
He’s standing there, arms folded, a knowing smile on his face.
“Harsh!” I press a hand over my chest. “Are you trying to kill me?”
He chuckles, unbothered by my glare, stepping into the room like he owns it.
“I asked a question.”
I roll my eyes but can feel the heat rushing to my cheeks. “Maybe.”
He lifts an eyebrow. I huff, giving in. “Yes. Okay? Yes, I’m in love.”
His smile widens, but there's something soft behind it. “Abhimaan really did it?”
I laugh. “I don’t think so. Pretty sure it was all me.”
I shrug, but Harsh’s chuckle is warm and fond. “Maybe.”
“When did you come here?” I ask.
“When you were busy imagining Abhimaan, I guess,” he chuckles.
“Someone please help me vanish from here.” I feel a blush rise over my neck.
“Oh,” he laughs, “please, Abhimaan will kill me if something happens to you.” He shakes his head, a smile still visible on his face.
“He would,” I mutter under my breath.
There’s a beat of silence between us, and he leans against the wall, watching me with an unreadable expression.
Then he says, quieter this time, “He’s been through a lot, Aditi. Please… take care of him.”
The weight of those words lands in my chest with a quiet thud. I look at Harsh, his face open and sincere. And I know it’s not just a casual statement. It’s layered. Heavy. Real.
“I will,” I say simply, but it’s a promise. One I intend to keep.
Harsh nods, then glances at the door. “Where is he, by the way?”
“He’s at the Sharma & Co. meeting.”
He hums. “Want me to leave a message?”
“No,” he smiles, “I’ll go meet him.”
I watch as he walks away, disappearing down the hall, and I think—not for the first time—how different their friendship is. Harsh is the only one, apart from me now, who has such effortless access to Abhimaan’s office. He comes and goes as he pleases. No knocking. No checking.
He just walks in.
And Abhimaan never minds.
Which tells me all I need to know about how much he matters.
I turn back to my screen, determined to finally get some work done. A few emails down, a few slides updated, and my phone starts to buzz.
I frown, expecting it to be a calendar reminder, but it’s a call. From Harsh. I answer, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear as I continue typing.
“Hello?” But there’s no greeting.
Just the sound of wind. And then—“Could you come to Malviya Nagar?”
I freeze. My fingers pause mid-keystroke.
“What?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Harsh again, low and strained.
“Abhimaan is hurt.”
That’s all he says. That’s all I need to hear. My world goes still. Completely, deafeningly still.
Everything else—my tasks, the buzzing monitor, the faint sound of the copier running down the hall, the noise of keys tapping on nearby keyboards—it all fades into a thick, smothering silence.
A dull roar fills my ears, like the moment right before a storm breaks. “What do you mean hurt?” I rasp.
“Just come fast,” and just like that he cuts the call.
My heart clenches violently, like it’s trying to protect itself from a blow it can’t see yet. Then it drops, heavy and fast, straight to the pit of my stomach.
My hands go cold. Ice cold.
The phone nearly slips from my grasp. I clutch it tighter like it’s the only thing tethering me to this moment, to him.
Harsh didn’t say what happened. He didn’t tell me how bad it is. He didn’t tell me if he’s conscious, if he’s okay, if he’s... if he’s alive.
The thought hits me like a slap, and I instantly push it away.
No. No. He’s fine. He has to be fine.
I swallow, but my throat is dry. It scratches painfully as I try to take a breath, and even then, the air doesn’t seem to reach my lungs. It just sticks somewhere around my chest, too heavy, too tight.
He’s hurt.
That’s it. That’s the sentence.
Over and over, it echoes in my head like a broken record.
Abhimaan is hurt. Abhimaan is hurt. Abhimaan is hurt .
Every version of it, every tone—urgent, panicked, whispered, terrified—it all runs through me like a current I can’t control.
My eyes sting, and I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall yet. Not now. Not without knowing.
I shouldn’t have let him go alone.
God, why did I let him go alone?
I told myself it was okay, that I had to prepare for a more important meeting, and that he could handle Sharma & Co.
on his own. And when I’d asked him if he was sure, he’d smiled—smiled like he always does when I worry too much—and said, “I can handle myself. I’m not sure if my heart can handle your absence, though. ”
I’d laughed. Giggled, actually. Like a lovesick idiot. Alone in the office, with him already gone.
Now that laugh rings hollow in my memory.
I press my palm to my chest, trying to feel his voice there, trying to remember the warmth of his arms this morning, the curve of his back as he reached for the coffee jar, and the way he nudged my forehead with his and muttered, “You deserve the best.”
He made breakfast.
He kissed me like we had all the time in the world.
And now he’s hurt.
A sob threatens to tear out of me, but I bite down on my lip, hard, until I taste blood. I can’t break down. Not yet. Not until I know.
I have to go. I have to see him. I need to see if he’s okay or not.