Chapter 12
Abhinav stepped through the courtyard, and stopped.
Two days. That was all it had taken.
The ground had been opened and reset. Open sky had given way to rising frames that threw long shadows across the ground.
He took it in.
Then he saw her.
Meera stood at the far end with the lead engineer, a large sheet spread between them. Her hair was pulled into a bun, a few strands loose at her temples, damp from the heat. Her dupatta was looped over one shoulder and secured at her waist.
The woman had been avoiding him since that night on the terrace.
Carefully. Too carefully.
Files appeared on his desk before he returned. Notes reached him without conversation. She attended meetings, recorded and left.
No arguments. No defiance. No unnecessary words.
He didn’t like it.
He hadn’t realised how much until now.
She looked up. Their eyes met. One second. Two. And she looked away.
Too fast. Too neat.
The corner of his mouth shifted.
By the time he reached them, both had straightened.
“Hukum,” the engineer greeted, inclining his head. “We were reviewing the foundation alignment.”
“Show me.”
They moved as the engineer led. Meera and Abhinav followed, a careful, professional distance maintained between them.
Except he knew exactly where she was.
Half a step behind.
He could track it without turning. The rhythm of her anklets, the soft chime of her bangles, the slight pause when her hand rose to brush the sweat at her temple.
He kept his gaze ahead.
Mostly.
They stopped near a joint where new work met old stone.
Abhinav bent to examine it. At the same time, Meera leaned in. Their shoulders almost touched. Almost. Close enough to be felt.
She stilled… just for a fraction of a second.
He caught it. That sudden awareness that ran through her before she could hide it. A faint flush rose along her neck, just above the edge of her dupatta.
She stepped back, resetting the distance like she was correcting a line that had drifted out of place.
“The craftsmen arrive tomorrow.” Her voice was steady. Too steady. “Each arch will match the main entrance.”
She adjusted the floor plan between them, widening it, creating space that did not need to exist.
He looked down. Her finger traced the curve of an arch as she explained. He followed the line. Then noticed the smallest chip on the edge of her nail.
Completely irrelevant.
Annoyingly distracting.
He frowned, more at himself than anything else.
“Timeline?” he asked.
“Two weeks if the weather holds. Three if it doesn’t.” She glanced at him, then returned to the sheet. “I’ve built a buffer into the schedule.”
He straightened, gave a single nod, and took in the work again.
They moved along the line. The engineer continued, outlining the structure, when a gust of wind swept through the site.
Meera blinked. Then again, sharper. Her left eye stung.
She turned aside, rubbing at her eye, irritation rising with each touch.
Abhinav’s hand closed around her wrist before she could do it again.
She froze.
He stood too close. Close enough that his voice was felt more than heard. “You’ll make it worse.”
Her eyes stayed shut tight, lashes damp, the sting sharper now.
“I need to rub it,” she insisted, pulling once against his hold. “It’s irritating.”
“That’s because you already rubbed it.”
Her jaw set. She tried again.
His grip tightened, not harsh, enough to stop her.
“Blink.”
“I am not…”
“Blink.”
That tone.
She gritted her teeth and blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her eye watered, tears slipping free. She was furious. At the dust. At him. At the fact that both seemed equally responsible for her irritation at this point.
He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket with his free hand.
She felt a light touch at the corner of her eye, wiping the tears away before they could fall further.
“I can manage,” she muttered.
“You’ve demonstrated otherwise.”
She opened one eye, the other still half-shut, and caught the curve of his mouth.
He was enjoying this.
Immensely.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he added, softer now.
“I have been working.”
“Efficiently,” he agreed. “Files appear. You disappear.”
“Not everything is about you.”
“No?” His voice dipped. “Then why the sudden distance… after the terrace?”
Her breath caught.
He saw it.
“Blink,” he added, as if the moment had not existed.
She did. Harder this time. Mostly out of irritation.
He guided her toward the water station.
She followed. Because she couldn’t unhold her wrist from his hand. And her eye still hurt and arguing blind was not her strongest position.
He turned the tap, letting the water run, as finally let go of her.
“Lean.”
“I know how to wash my own eye.”
“Meera.”
She shot him a look with one eye.
He met it, unbothered.
She leaned forward, one hand braced at the edge.
He cupped water and brought it up.
“Blink into it.”
The cool water hit her eye. She flinched, then blinked through it. Once. Twice. The grit loosened and washed away.
Relief came sharp and immediate.
She would have appreciated it, if he had chosen literally any other moment to speak.
“My hands,” his voice was thoughtful, “seem to be working exactly as advertised.”
She straightened too quickly.
“And the voice,” he added, calm as ever, “effective. You do listen.”
She reached for her dupatta, pressing it to her eye.
“You haven’t argued in the last ten seconds,” he continued mildly. “That’s new.”
Her head snapped up. Both eyes clear now. Dangerous.
“You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” he replied, watching her, “remarkably effective.”
That did it.
She turned sharply, snatching his handkerchief, adjusting her dupatta mid-step. “I’ll return your handkerchief.”
“I’m counting on it.”
She didn’t reply, just walked away. Fast.
He watched her go.
The irritation. The awareness. The careful act of pretending neither existed.
His grin widened.
He returned to the engineer, gave his shoulder a brief pat. “Good work.”
And moved on, faintly entertained.
◆◆◆
Later that day, Meera reached Abhinav’s office a few minutes early, notepad in hand, the morning still alive under her skin.
She adjusted her dupatta before knocking, more to steady herself than anything else.
“Come in.”
He was at his desk. Dark blue shirt. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Collar open at the throat. His eyes fixed on the laptop screen.
The room felt smaller than before.
She crossed to the chair across from him and sat. Notepad open. Pen ready.
“London investors in two minutes.”
“Yes, Boss.”
His eyes lifted, moved over her once, unhurried, then returned to the screen.
She kept her gaze on her notepad.
The call connected.
He greeted them, tone measured, entirely in control.
Then he stood, and started pacing.
She hadn’t been expecting that. He always sat during calls.
Meera lowered her gaze and began writing. Key points. Numbers. Dates. Her handwriting stayed like her own until he passed behind her.
His voice didn’t change, but the air did. Close enough for her to know where he stood without looking.
Her pen dragged. Ink marked the page near Q3 projections.
She corrected it and kept writing.
He circled again.
This time he crossed in front of her, between her chair and the desk. Close enough for her to take him in without meaning to. Height. Shoulders. The ease in his movement. His hands lifted as he spoke, fingers long…
Her gaze dropped at once.
He moved behind her again.
Her spine went still. She forced herself to stay composed.
It didn’t help.
His closeness pressed into her awareness. His voice lowered when he passed close, settling deeper, reaching places she had no defence for.
Her grip on the pen tightened.
Each turn brought him near. Each step made the space feel tighter.
When the investors asked about regulatory frameworks, he stopped behind her.
Too close.
She barely drew a breath and wrote regulatory compliance in a script that did not belong to her.
He moved again.
This time he came to her right and leaned over the desk, reaching for a document. The motion brought him into her space completely. Her vision filled with him. The line of his back. The stretch of fabric across muscle. His hand braced beside her notepad.
She looked at the width of his palm. The way his fingers spread against the wood. The pulse at his wrist.
Her breath changed.
He straightened.
The space he left did not settle. It left her unsettled.
He passed her shoulder again, close enough that she felt the heat of him.
Her pen stilled.
Her thoughts slipped.
An image rose, uninvited. His mouth near her ear, voice rough, commanding. Her body giving in to him. His fingers in her hair, titling her head…
Heat spread through her.
She stared at her notepad in horror.
This was not her.
She did not lose control. She did not fantasise about her boss’s hands and mouth and…
‘Maa, cleanse me,’ she prayed within, desperately. ‘Please, Maa. Remove these thoughts.’
He passed behind her again.
The prayer failed spectacularly.
On his next round he stopped near the window, answering a question on timelines. His eyes found her.
She was biting her lower lip, gripping her pen too tightly, staring at the page as if it could anchor her.
His expressions turned dark, knowing, and satisfied. All at once.
He turned back to the call, voice unchanged.
Meera pressed harder on the paper, writing words she barely registered.
He kept moving. Kept passing. Kept doing whatever he was doing to the oxygen in this room.
When the call ended, the silence felt thick.
He closed the laptop and faced her.
Meera stared at her notes. Tried to make sense of them. Failed.
“Did you get everything?”
Abhinav’s voice was too casual. Too normal. As if he hadn’t spent the last hour deliberately circling her like prey.
“Yes.” Meera did not look up.
“Good.”
She closed the notepad and stood. Then she made the mistake of meeting his eyes.
His gaze met hers, intent, sharp, as if he had watched every shift in her, understood it, and approved of it.
“Thank you, Boss.” The words came softer than she intended.
His eyes darkened.
She turned and left before it could get worse.
In the corridor, she pressed her back to the cool stone wall and closed her eyes, drawing in breath after breath, as if she had been under water too long.
Inside, Abhinav sat back down, running a hand through his hair.
He knew circling her during a business call had been unprofessional.
He should have stopped.
He did not want to.
What he felt was satisfaction and a quiet, dangerous curiosity about how far this could go before one of them stopped pretending.
He recognized it as a problem.
He chose not to care.