CHAPTER 31
ISHIKA
It is late enough that the building sounds tired, if that’s possible.
Daytime offices are full of movement—phones ringing, printers coughing, footsteps crossing corridors, men arguing over who will carry what upstairs.
Night offices breathe slower. The lights feel softer.
The air-conditioner is louder. Every empty hallway feels like it is keeping secrets.
I am in my temporary cabin, barefoot under the desk, reviewing lighting invoices with a level of resentment only spreadsheets can inspire.
My hair is tied up badly. My kajal has faded. I have eaten chips for dinner. So naturally, this is when Aryan walks in. No knock. No warning. Just the door opening and chaos entering in a charcoal suit.
I look up and blink once. He is dressed like money.
He usually is, but right now he might as well have stepped out of vogue magazine.
Crisp white shirt, jacket fitted perfectly, expensive watch, hair styled instead of his usual careless mess by this time.
Even the shoes look richer than me. He smells faintly of something warm and expensive and deeply inconvenient.
He also looks annoyingly handsome. Which irritates me on principle. “I need a favor,” he says.
“No.” I go back to my laptop, I cannot entertain him, especially if he looks like this. An epitome of hotness.
He sighs dramatically and shuts the screen halfway. “I haven’t even asked yet.” He pouts and I almost melt. I hate the effect this man has on me, I want to strangle him for that.
“I saved us both time.” I scoff. He drags the chair opposite my desk and sits backwards on it, arms folded over the backrest like he is in a teenage movie instead of a corporate office.
“I need to attend a business event tonight,” he says. “And I need a plus one.” I stare. Then laugh once.
“No.”
“It would mean a lot to me.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard the details.”
“I don’t need details. The answer is no in multiple fonts.”
He places a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“Oh, my poor baby,” I clutch my chest and throw a fake pout for him, “Life is so unfair to you.”
He nods sadly. I chuckle, rolling my eyes as I return my attention to the laptop. “Take your family members." I mutter.
“That was my first thought.” He admits, “But Vedant is attending with his girlfriend, Radhika and Ma are out of town to meet Ma’s friend, she’s ill.” That explains why he’s here annoying me instead of emotionally blackmailing family members.
“Take a potted plant.” I feign a sweet smile.
He chuckles and stares at me, I almost squirm under his intense gaze and I DO NOT do squirming, no matter who sits opposite me.
He softens his voice. “I’ll owe you one.
I promise.” That should not matter. It absolutely should not matter.
But something stupid inside me still listens when he sounds sincere. I hate that part of myself.
I lean back in the chair and cross my arms. “Your events are high class,” I say. “I do not own dresses for rich people networking rituals, so I cannot help you anyway.”
He goes suspiciously still. Then claps once.
I frown. “What?”
The door behind him opens. Two people roll in a garment rack covered in protective plastic with at least ten dresses hanging from it. Another woman follows with a mobile makeup case the size of my monthly budget.
I stare at them. Then at Aryan. Then back at the rack. Then at Aryan again. “What the hell?”
He smiles with zero shame. “I came prepared.”
“You are insane.”
“I prefer thoughtfulness.”
“You assumed I’d say yes.”
“I believed in myself.”
I am speechless. Actually speechless. The stylists stand politely near the wall like this is a normal Tuesday. It is not. Nothing about this man is normal. Nothing about the fact that he knew I would say yes, that somewhere I knew too I would cave in for this man is normal.
“Anything you need is here,” he says casually. “If you need something else, I can get it here right now.”
I look at the rack full of silk and satin and things I’m scared to breathe near. “I don’t think I can need anything beyond this,” I say before I can stop myself.
He grins like he won something. Which he did. I hate it. “I’ll let you get ready,” he says, standing.
At the door he turns back. “And Sunshine?”
“What?”
“Try not to look too stunning. I have business to conduct.”
I throw a pen at him. He ducks and laughs his way out. The woman nearest me smiles kindly. “Shall we begin, ma’am?”
Ma’am.
I nearly look behind me. No one has ever called me ma’am while presenting me with designer clothing.
This feels like an out-of-body experience.
I stand slowly and walk to the dresses. My fingers brush fabrics softer than anything I own.
Deep blue, champagne gold, black velvet, silver sequins, red satin.
Then my eyes land on a beautiful gown.
Emerald green.
Simple but elegant. One shoulder, fitted waist, slit on one side.
The exact shade of his eyes.
I freeze. Why did I think that? Why is that the first thing I thought?
Disgusting.
I move away from it immediately. Then circle back. Then stare again. Then hate myself. “This one,” I say.
The woman smiles almost knowingly, which makes me instantly defensive. “It’s practical,” I lie.
“Of course.”
I narrow my eyes. I am ushered into changing while two people steam the dress, set out heels, arrange brushes, uncap products I’ve only seen influencers use. I feel deeply useless. I am a woman who can survive on coffee, Maggi, and snickers. I am not built for being pampered.
When they sit me down and begin doing my makeup, I keep wanting to apologize. “You don’t need to do so much,” I say.
“It’s our pleasure.” No one means that in real life.
Yet these women somehow do. I know they’re getting paid for it but it makes me feel almost like a…
princess. My hair is loosened, brushed, curled softly.
My face becomes brighter under practiced hands.
My eyes look larger, sharper. My skin looks less tired.
I watch in the mirror like they’re editing another person into existence.
A dangerous person. Someone who belongs beside men like Aryan Khanna.
Someone who knows how to glide into rooms and smile at strangers.
Someone who has never eaten chips for dinner over invoices.
By the time the dress is on and the heels are buckled, I barely recognize myself.
The slit shows more leg than I’m used to. The neckline is elegant without being too much. The green makes my skin warmer. I stand in front of the mirror stunned. I look…Beautiful.
The thought feels foreign. I don’t use that word for myself.
Pretty on a good day maybe. Fine when forced.
But beautiful? No. I don’t think I have considered myself as a woman since a long time.
I dress formally or I am in pajamas, I haven’t…
put effort into my looks, haven’t done things for myself since…
maybe Krishna. Maybe not even then, it was for him, not me.
The woman in the mirror looks composed. Soft.
Sharp. A little dangerous. I don’t know her. And somehow I want to.
“Ready?” One of them asks.
No.
Absolutely not.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
The office corridor feels colder outside the cabin.
Every click of heels sounds too loud. I turn the corner toward Aryan’s office.
He is standing near the glass wall, adjusting his cufflinks, phone in hand.
He looks up casually. Then stops moving entirely.
The phone lowers. His mouth parts slightly.
For the first time since meeting him, Aryan Khanna appears speechless.
It is deeply satisfying. And deeply terrifying.
He takes one step forward. Then another. Slowly.
His gaze moves over me—not crudely, not greedily, but like he’s genuinely trying to process what he’s seeing. My heartbeat trips over itself.
“You…” he says, then clears his throat.
“I what?” I blurt, almost annoyed that he looks shocked.
“You look…” I brace for some ridiculously cheesy lines but he surprises me. “Beautiful, Sunshine.”
The word lands softly. There’s no teasing in his voice. No smirk. No game. Just the truth.
My chest tightens. I hate that my heart reacts to him like it’s stupid.
“You look okay too,” I mutter.
His grin returns instantly. “There she is.”
He turns and calls toward the stylists still behind me.
He whispers something in her ear, smiling at her as she smiles back and a feral thought crosses my mind that wants to yank her away from him.
I take a deep breath, trying to control myself, because that is stupid. He’s not with me, nor can I afford it.
You can, you just don’t want to. My brain chimes and I want to shut it off.
I blink as I watch the lady walk towards the box someone holds in her team. She returns with an emerald green tie in her hand and hands it over to me and scurries off, her entire team following her. It’s just me and Aryan now. “Um…” I stutter, “Am I supposed to wear this tie?” I frown.
He laughs out loud and I nearly lose my balance, seeing the dimples pop on his cheek, I might as well be salivating.
He steps a bit closer, his voice dropping an octave, he leans down and I suck in a breath, “It’s for me, Sunshine,” His breath hitting the side of my neck makes my heart skip a beat, “Will you please tie it for me?” He finally looks at me, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.
“I want to match with you.” I stare at him like that is the most unreasonable request any man has ever made in history.
Match it with me?
Tie it for him?
With him standing this close?
Breathing like that?
Absolutely not. My fingers tighten around the silk tie as if strangling it will somehow help me. “You know how to tie your own tie,” I say, but my voice comes out softer than intended. Weak. Suspiciously breathless.
His lips twitch.
“I do.”
“Then do that.”
“I could,” he says easily, taking another small step forward. “But where’s the fun in that?”
My heart gives one violent thud against my ribs. This man. This horrible, charming, dangerous man. I inhale slowly, trying to gather whatever remains of my dignity. “You are impossible.”
“I’ve heard that,” he murmurs. “Usually from beautiful women who later do me favors.”
I blink at him. Then narrow my eyes. “That line must work on very stupid people.”
“It’s never been tested on someone this terrifying before.”
I hate how close laughter sits inside me around him. I hate how easily he drags it out. I hate it more that I don’t move away. He tilts his chin slightly, exposing the open collar of his shirt. “Come on, Sunshine. Save me from a wrinkled public image.”
“You’re the CEO. Isn’t image manipulation one of your core skills?”
He places a hand over his chest dramatically. “You think so little of me.”
“I think accurately of you.”
His grin deepens. God. Those dimples should be taxed. I step forward before I can overthink it, because if I stand here any longer staring at his mouth, I deserve prison. “Stand still,” I mutter.
“I am deeply obedient.”
“You are deeply irritating.” I slip the tie around his neck.
My fingers brush the warm skin just below his jaw.
A mistake. A huge mistake. My breath catches so sharply I pray he doesn’t hear it.
He definitely hears it. Because his eyes flick down to my mouth for half a second.
Then back up. The air changes. No laughter.
No teasing. Just this strange, taut silence stretched between us.
I focus on the knot. Simple task. Fabric through loop. Tighten. Straighten. Except my hands are traitors now. Slightly unsteady. A little clumsy. “Your pulse is racing,” he says quietly. I nearly yank the tie too hard.
“You’re imagining things.”
“I’m literally wearing your hands.”
My eyes snap to his. “That sentence was disgusting.”
He chuckles under his breath. “There’s my girl.”
I freeze. His smile falters for the first time. Not fully. Just enough to show he realized it too.
My girl.
Neither of us speaks. I look back down immediately, pretending the knot requires intense concentration. My chest feels tight. I tighten the tie and smooth the front of it against his shirt. “There,” I say, stepping back. “Done.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tie. His eyes are fixed on mine. “You’re very good with your hands, Sunshine.”
I almost choke. “You need professional help.”
“I need you to stop blushing every time I compliment you.”
I turn away before he can see the full damage. He laughs softly behind me, then reaches around to catch my wrist—not tightly, just enough to stop me. The contact sends a sharp little current through my skin.
I hate my body right now. “Ishika.” I glance back. His expression is different now. Less playful. More…something I refuse to name. “Thank you.”
Simple words. Spoken gently enough to undo me. I tug my hand free before I start making poor life choices. “It’s a tie,” I mutter.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s you.”
I should run. Instead I roll my eyes because survival instinct has left the building. “Say one more dramatic thing and I’m strangling you with it.”
He beams instantly. “There she is.” I hate how relieved I feel when the teasing returns. He offers me his arm again. This time I don’t hesitate as long. I place my hand there, trying very hard not to notice the strength beneath the fabric.
We walk toward the elevator in silence. But it isn’t empty silence. It’s full. Too full. And when the elevator doors close, trapping us inside the mirrored box, I catch our reflection side by side. He looks unfairly handsome.
I look like someone softer than I know how to be.
And together—We look dangerous.
But all I can focus on is the way he makes everything feel lighter. The way he looks at me like I’m more than the worst things that happened to me. The way my walls keep opening doors when he knocks. I need distance from this man. I need boundaries. I need sense.
Instead, I’m wearing a green dress because it reminded me of his eyes.