Chapter 10
That night, Raghav stood by the wide windows of his room.
It was close to midnight. He’d reached home five minutes ago after dropping off Ishani.
His mind kept replaying how she’d sat stiffly in his car tonight, the polite space she kept between them, and that brief spark in her eyes when he’d offered to drive her home.
He turned to his desk, eyes landing on his laptop. Abhinav’s advice bounced around his head: “Create an opportunity.”
With a swift tug, he yanked off his tie and tossed it over the back of his chair. His fingers hovered over the keys for a second—then, with a mix of dread and determination, he typed: how to propose to a girl.
Instantly, he was swimming in advice meant for giggling teens: “Show her you care!” “Make it personal!” “Create a lasting memory!”
None of it felt like him. He was about to slam the lid shut when a headline caught his eye: “Valentine’s Week: Seven Days of Romance.”
He clicked it—part curiosity, part irritation. Rose Day, Propose Day, Chocolate Day, Teddy Day, Promise Day, Hug Day, Kiss Day, and then Valentine’s Day itself. There it was, a full week of Hallmark-style obligations.
Raghav snorted.
Yet…seven days. Seven chances. It sounded suspiciously like a business plan: clear milestones, defined deliverables, ultimate goal in sight. And Valentine’s Day was only a week away.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered. But he opened a fresh tab, ready to learn everything.
Tomorrow was Rose Day—February 7th—something he’d always skipped in college, treating it like a pointless distraction.
Back then, he cared more about networking than nicknacks.
But Ishani wasn’t impressed by PowerPoints or profit margins.
She kept her walls firmly up, matching his own control freak tendencies. He needed a new playbook.
He closed his eyes and pictured her laughing on that video call with her mother, totally unguarded, unfiltered joy.
That was the prize.
He opened Excel and, like drafting a merger deal, built a spreadsheet: columns for each day, rows for delivery times, gift ideas, even predicted reactions. He paused only to double-check the official Valentine’s Week schedule.
When he finally shut his laptop, a small, smug smile crept onto his face.
The strategy was set. Every tiny detail mapped out.
For once, Raghav Khanna was chasing after someone with the same ruthless focus he applied to closing deals.
He strolled back to the window and imagined Ishani asleep, completely clueless that her neat little world was about to wobble.
“Let’s see, my sweet, sweet executive assistant, if you excel at ‘guess who’ game as well.”
That thought gave him a rush more satisfying than any boardroom victory. He glanced at his watch—five hours until he needed to be at the office. Early enough to witness her reaction to that first rose—subtly, of course.
Sleep felt optional, but he’d force an hour or two.
The coming week required him at peak grump-CEO efficiency. After all, Raghav Khanna never played to lose.
Rose Day
Ishani arrived at the office at her usual time, still occupied with thoughts of yesterday’s events—Raghav driving her home, standing too close in the elevator, watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes.
She needed time to reset, to find her center before facing him again.
The empty floor welcomed her with familiar silence as she walked to her desk.
She stopped short.
A single red rose lay across her keyboard, its stem crossing her carefully arranged pens.
She frowned and glanced around the empty office.
Who had access to the executive floor this early?
Apart from security and cleaning staff. She picked up the rose carefully, as if it might somehow explain itself under closer inspection.
A small cream-colored card was attached to the stem with fine silver thread.
“The beginning of something inevitable.”
Printed. No signature. No clue.
She held the rose at eye level, turning it slowly between her fingers.
The elevator doors opened behind her. Raghav stood there, hands in pocket, watching her examine the flower with the same intensity one might study an artifact from another planet.
His lips twitched, almost forming a smile before he cleared his throat.
Ishani startled, turned around and hastily slid the rose into her desk drawer. “Good morning, Boss.”
He moved past her workstation without acknowledgment, his cologne lingering in his wake.
By nine o’clock, the floor had filled with the usual morning bustle. Ishani had almost managed to push the first rose from her mind when the receptionist approached her desk carrying another flower—yellow this time, wrapped in an elegant paper.
“Delivery for Ishani Rao,” she said, placing it carefully beside the first rose.
“Who sent this?” Ishani asked.
“Must be a secret admirer,” the receptionist replied with a knowing smile that practically screamed office gossip. “Enjoy your day.”
The note read: “Your laughter is a privilege few receive.”
Ishani’s hand stilled above the yellow petals.
That sounded almost like… Her thoughts flashed back to the break room. Her call with her mother. The puppy that had made her laugh. Had someone overheard? Been watching?
No. Impossible.
What if the person wasn’t even from the office? But she’d never told anyone where she worked.
She slipped the note into her drawer and tried to return to work, but couldn’t focus. Her gaze kept drifting to the clock, to her colleagues, searching their expressions for something—knowledge, amusement, guilt.
At ten, a third rose arrived. White this time. “Your mind is as beautiful as your face.”
By eleven, a pink rose. “Some pursue power. I pursue you.”
With each delivery, the whispers grew. Conversations softened when she walked past. Heads bent together. Phones lifted a little too quickly.
Ishani felt the weight of it settle between her shoulder blades.
She had spent months building a reputation for composure. For distance. For being above office gossip.
Now she was at the center of it.
“So,” Kavya said, appearing at Ishani’s desk moments after the fourth rose arrived. “Secret admirer?” Her eyes gleamed with undisguised curiosity.
“Apparently.” Ishani straightened a stack of papers that did not need straightening.
“Any idea who?” Kavya perched on the edge of the desk and lifted the pink rose, inspecting it. “These aren’t cheap. Premium long stems. Someone’s making a statement.”
“I have no idea,” Ishani replied, gently reclaiming the rose from Kavya’s fingers.
“Hm.” Kavya studied her face. “Half the office is betting on Samrat. He’s been watching you for weeks.”
Samrat.
Ishani hadn’t considered him. He was charming, theatrical, known for public declarations and dramatic flair. But these roses felt different. Not flashy. Not loud. More deliberate. More… precise.
“It’s not Sam,” she said, with a certainty she couldn’t quite explain.
“Then who?” Kavya pressed.
Before Ishani could answer, the intercom buzzed.
“Ishani. The Westbrook file.”
Raghav’s voice cut cleanly through the space.
Kavya rolled her eyes. “Perfect timing, as always. We’ll continue this investigation later.”
Ishani gathered the Westbrook documents and walked toward his office.
Through the glass, she saw him standing at the window, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. When she entered, he turned. His expression was controlled, but there was something else beneath it. Amusement? No. She must be imagining it.
“These distractions are getting out of hand,” he said, gesturing toward her desk where the flowers rested. “Who’s sending those?”
She placed the file on his desk. “I don’t know.”
His gaze narrowed, studying her too closely. “You really have no idea?”
“None.” She held his eyes without wavering.
Something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not quite.
He looked down at the file, dismissing her.
As Ishani returned to her desk, a fifth rose arrived—orange this time. “Your control fascinates me. I intend to break it.”
The words sent a chill down her spine. And worse—it thrilled her. She groaned softly under her breath. This wasn’t harmless office flirting. It felt deliberate. Like a campaign.
Throughout the day, she caught Raghav watching her through the glass walls of his office.
His expression hardened each time another delivery appeared.
Twice, he called her in for matters that could have easily been handled over email.
Each time, his gaze paused on the growing line of roses before settling on her with that steady, unreadable intensity.
The final rose arrived at four—a deep violet. “Ten colors. Ten promises. Tomorrow will be different.”
By the end of the day, her desk looked like a small florist’s shop. Ten roses. Ten notes. No name.
She should have thrown them away. They were inconvenient. Distracting. Instead, she gathered them, binding the stems together with a rubber band. The notes she slipped into her wallet.
As she waited for the elevator, she felt his gaze. Heavy. Intent.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge it. Her fingers tightened around the stems, a thorn pressing faintly into her palm. Not enough to draw blood. Just enough to remind her.
The roses felt like the tension between them—beautiful, deliberate, edged.
In the elevator, she lifted them to her face before she could overthink it. The scent filled her lungs. Just as the doors began to close, Raghav stepped out of his office at the same moment.
Their eyes locked. Just a second.
His gaze was dark. Focused. And far too aware.
The doors slid shut between them.
Propose Day
The next day, Ishani walked to her desk carefully, gripping her bag a bit tighter than usual. The roses from yesterday were still in a water glass by her apartment window. They annoyed her, yet somehow brought her comfort each time she caught sight of them.
She reached her desk and stopped. A small black velvet box rested in the middle of her keyboard.
Her pulse shifted.