CHAPTER 8
ADITI
There’s organized chaos—and then there’s Abhimaan’s inbox.
I’ve been clicking through unread emails for the last hour, eyes burning, posture slowly becoming a cautionary tale for desk ergonomics.
A spreadsheet from finance. A marketing calendar with every task marked “URGENT.” Six meeting requests.
Two flagged mails from legal. One subject line just says “FIX THIS ASAP.”
It’s like swimming through lava made of deadlines.
I sigh and push back in his very expensive, very uncomfortable chair. The view from his office is all sleek skyline and glittering glass, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that the man works like the devil’s chasing him.
I live with two brothers who are certified workaholics. I know what obsession looks like. I’ve seen Aarav fall asleep on his laptop more times than I can count. I’ve watched Rudraksh Bhai discuss quarterly growth projections before even brushing his teeth.
But this guy?
Abhimaan is a workaholic Pro Max with extra storage.
This week alone, I’ve seen him…
— take calls at 6:03 AM, not 6:00, not 6:05 (I had to come in early that day),
— forget it’s Friday and ask why the office is half-empty at 9 PM,
— cancel lunch meetings because he doesn’t do lunch, and
— answer calls in the elevators like he's auditioning for a scene in Succession.
Who skips lunch on purpose?
The man has two assistants—one that handles external affairs, and me, the poor unfortunate soul now glued to the internal side of things. He doesn’t trust anyone with delegation. If there were three of him, he’d probably fire two.
The landline on my desk rings. I jump slightly, then stare at it. Slowly pick it up.
“Aditi,” comes the all-too-familiar, calm-and-cutting voice. “My office.”
No hello. No reason. Just a summons. I resist the urge to say, "Yes, Your Highness," and instead slam the receiver down lightly and gather my notepad.
My chair lets out a dramatic groan as I stand, which is appropriate because I, too, am groaning on the inside.
Being an intern would definitely be easier, but I love torturing myself—anything for dreams, right?
I walk across the hallway with the weariness of a soap opera heroine and tap twice on his office door before pushing it open.
He doesn’t look up. “Sit,” he says, still typing.
I don’t sit. “You know,” I say, folding my arms and leaning against the doorframe, “if this is your idea of leadership—micromanaging my every move—it’s not very inspiring.”
Without missing a beat, or glancing up, he says, “If I wanted to inspire you, Aditi, I’d write a quote book.”
I blink. “Cute. Maybe include a chapter called ‘Let your intern breathe.’”
He finally looks up. His eyes were calm, unreadable. “You’re not an intern right now. You’re my assistant.”
I mutter, “Temporary assistant.”
“Temporary people don’t usually argue this much,” he replies dryly.
I walk in and drop my notepad on the other chair before sitting down. “You should consider it a value-add. Most CEOs pay extra for people who actually talk back.”
He levels a long, slow stare at me. Not hostile. Not amused. Just… assessing.
It’s a little terrifying. Also, oddly flattering.
I flip my notepad open. “I was going through your schedule. It’s hell.”
He continues typing. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“No, that’s my human opinion. Do you even eat lunch like a normal person?”
“Efficiency doesn’t need calories.”
I stare at him, flabbergasted. Is he for real? “Neither does a robot,” I mutter under my breath.
He glances at me sideways. “Careful. I might replace you with one. They don’t talk back.”
“Yeah, but they also don’t save your ass in meetings or keep your chaos color-coded.” There's a pause; his fingers stop typing momentarily, and I see his mouth twitch, but it's gone in a second.
“…Touché,” he says, almost like it pains him.
I grin, victorious for exactly two seconds before he speaks again.
“There are ten department reports in my inbox. Summarize each one. Highlight budget changes, missed targets, and upcoming risks. Deliver a clean doc by 3 PM.”
I blink. “Wait. You want me to summarize ten reports?”
“Yes.”
“Before 3 PM?”
He looks at the wall clock. “It’s 1:06. So technically, you have one hour and fifty-four minutes.”
My jaw drops.
“Are you insane?”
“Possibly. I have heard that a lot.”
“You want me to speed-read ten reports, understand them, filter them, summarize them, and cross-reference data—in under two hours?”
“That’s correct.”
“This is not an assistant job. This is a miracle job.”
He closes his laptop and looks at me, finally. Still Calm. Steady. Challenging.
“You said you wanted to learn how the top functions. This is how. You process faster than everyone else. You think before people finish speaking. You read between lines that no one else sees. That’s what leaders do.”
My mouth opens. Closes. I hate how he makes that sound like a dare.
He leans back in his chair. “If it’s too much, I can reassign it.”
I narrow my eyes.
“No,” I say, grabbing my notepad. “Watch me do it.”
As I turn to leave, he adds, “And Aditi?”
I stop and turn slightly. “What?”
His voice is annoyingly smooth. “Make sure it’s formatted properly. I hate inconsistent fonts.”
I blink.
“Of course you do.” I feign a smile, then I storm out, muttering something about dictators in Dior suits, and open my laptop with renewed rage.
Because no way am I letting him win.
Even if he is weirdly hot when he’s being insufferable. Even when I know he's playing with me to get me to do his work. Dammit, he's good, and dammit, he knows how to pull my strings.