CHAPTER 10
ADITI
I am late.
Not like “two minutes and I can fake a bathroom emergency” late.
I’m talking full-blown, oh-my-god-why-is-the-sun-so-bright late.
A whole thirty freaking minutes. By the time I rush into the office, my kurti is half-untucked, my eyeliner’s smudged like I got in a fight with a kajal stick and lost, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat.
I don’t even get to my desk before I hear him. “Aditi.”
Shit.
He says my name like it’s a headline. Like “Aditi is late” is a breaking news alert that ruined his morning schedule and possibly his belief in humanity.
I turn slowly. There he is. Standing in front of his cabin like a statue sculpted out of quiet judgment.
Typical. Slate gray suit, sleeves rolled up to the forearms—because apparently he doesn’t feel heat or humanity—and those dark greyish-black eyes that never blink humanly. Ever. I swear I’ve been watching.
“Nice of you to join us,” he says, voice calm. Too calm. That should be illegal.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I reply, dropping my bag near my desk and pretending my heartbeat isn’t in full cardiac episode mode.
“You’re late.”
I give him my best innocent shrug. “You said 9 AM. Technically, it’s still the morning.”
“It’s 9:32.”
“Well, it depends on your time zone.”
He stares. I blink. We stare. I don’t know how long we stand there, but I cough, and he breaks the silence, “Meeting in ten minutes. Suri clients. You’re coming.”
“I’m sorry—what?”
He’s already walking away. “The brief is on your desk. The marketing rollout section is yours. Try not to choke.”
“Oh, that’s sweet,” I mutter, flipping open the folder like it might bite. “I didn’t know you cared.”
Ten minutes later, I’m in a car with him and his giant silence.
I’m skimming through numbers, strategy slides, and bullet points so fast my eyes hurt.
I was supposed to be his assistant. Someone who manages his chaos, not presents part of a pitch to one of our biggest clients.
But nope. He just casually tosses me into corporate fire like it’s his version of team-building.
But then again, I can’t believe I am saying this, but I am thankful he is; this is a learning opportunity, Aditi. Please remember.
We arrive at this swanky business club where the lighting is so dim that I almost call Aarav to order some lights for them.
The boardroom is glass and wood and cold as hell.
The Suri team is already there. Two older men in suits that scream legacy money, and one woman who looks like she’d eat my resume for breakfast and still be hungry.
I sit beside Abhimaan, back straight, heart doing jumping jacks, because I heard Radha say Suri’s are their worst clients.
I would not be worried if they were hard to impress or something because come on, I impressed Abhimaan; I can impress these people, but unfortunately they seem to have orthodox thinking—that’s all Radha said—and now I am left to think of the worst, because that’s what I do.
Abhimaan dives into the presentation like he’s reading bedtime stories—calm, deadly, hypnotic.
I listen, absorb, and wait for my cue. And when it comes, I speak.
“With the current demographic nearing saturation, we suggest expanding laterally—targeting emerging middle-income segments with emotionally resonant campaigns rooted in cultural nuance rather than urban detachment.”
They look at me as if they cannot decipher a word, but I still keep going.
“Think of Diwali ads where the house isn’t perfect and the dad actually finishes the mithai ka dabba. Something that makes people say, “That’s us.” I try to explain with an example.
One of the men raises a brow. “Interesting perspective. Someone’s been doing her homework.”
“She always does,” Abhimaan says, eyes still on the screen.
I fight a smile.
Then the second guy—Suit #2—leans back in his chair and chuckles. “Impressive pitch. You must’ve had help from Mr. Abhimaan.”
I pause. That’s the moment. The you’re-just-here-to-smile moment. Every woman knows it. I do smile, but I don’t hold back. “Actually, he had nothing to do with it.”
And then comes the real gem.
“You’re quite enthusiastic but still just an assistant,” he adds, with this smirk that makes me want to throw a stapler at his face. “Don’t usually see secretaries with so much… confidence.”
My spine goes rigid. I open my mouth. But before I can even form the words, Abhimaan speaks.
“She’s not just anything,” he says. Calm. Low. Controlled. “If it weren’t for her, this pitch wouldn’t exist. You’ll speak to her with the respect she’s earned.”
Silence surrounds us. Actual silence. Even the AC sounds like it’s holding its breath.
I glance sideways. He’s not even looking at me. Just straight ahead. Like he didn’t just drop a truth bomb that reset the whole room’s energy. I am proud of him. Mental note: Pat your boss on the back, maybe thank him or give him a KitKat because he has been a good boy.
Abhimaan winds up and finishes the pitch.
The Suris only nod; the woman actually takes notes.
The air feels so charged, and I am pretty sure everyone here wants this to end as soon as possible.
I am eager to leave because I want to punch Suit #2, Suris—because they seem uncomfortable after Abhimaan calling them out, and Abhimaan…
well, he doesn’t like humans, so I guess that makes a perfect reason?
After we leave, I try to keep pace with his long-ass legs as we walk down the corridor.
“You enjoy stealing thunder, don’t you?” he says without looking at me.
“I enjoy earning mine,” I reply, casually flipping my folder closed. “You should try it sometime.”
He stops walking and looks at me. Really looks.
“I did,” he says. “Every drop of it.”
I stare back. He’s right; he is a self-made millionaire, according to Google at least. “And?”
He blinks. His eyes soften. “I like watching you do the same.”
Then he walks off like he didn’t just lob a metaphorical grenade into my ribcage.
I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I’m too stunned to process it properly. So I file it away. Emotionally compartmentalize it next to “weirdly hot moments with terrifying boss” and focus on the day.
I spend the rest of the afternoon polishing up the presentation deck.
Fixing slides. Adding client feedback. By 7:57 PM, the office is empty except for me and, of course, him.
Of course Abhimaan is still here. Probably rearranging the alphabet or calculating his next move, he looks, talks, and actually behaves like a villain in romance books.
I grab the printed deck, all formatted, color-coded, and sticky-noted to hell and back, and march into his office without knocking. Again.
He glances up just as I toss the file on his desk. “Finished,” I say. “By deadline. Unlike some people’s personality development.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re still here?”
“You act like I don’t have a job. This is literally your fault.” And I was late, so maybe I am covering up for that? Which I don’t have to, considering I worked overtime almost every day, even if it was for five minutes, but they still count.
He flips through the pages. “You reorganized the data points.”
“They were chaotic.” Like your soul. I giggle, and he looks up as if he is disappointed in me, but what can I say? It was a funny thought.
“And this formatting?”
“Ugly fonts are a crime against humanity.”
He finally closes the file after years of inspection. “This looks fine.”
“Oh wow,” I deadpan, “is that a compliment? Should I get it engraved on a plaque?” I fake a gasp.
“Don’t be dramatic.” He rolls his eyes.
“Too late. I already cried twice today, and I’m buying cake on the way home.”
“You argue too much,” he mutters without looking up.
I raise an eyebrow. “And you give instructions like you’re trying to confuse me on purpose.”
He glances at me then, that same unreadable expression flickering in his eyes.
“You’re not exactly easy to work with.”
I shrug. “Neither are you. Guess we’re even.”
There’s a pause. Something shifts in the air—just slightly. He studies me, not like he’s annoyed, but like he’s trying to figure out what the hell to make of me.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says, voice lower now.
I shrug, mouth tilting up. “You should really stop expecting people to fit into neat little boxes. Some of us come with claws.”
“You have no idea how to be quiet, do you?” He asks; his voice has a softer edge now.
“I wasn’t hired for silence. I was hired for efficiency and personality.”
“Personality was not part of the job description.” He cocks an eyebrow.
I tilt my head. “And yet, here I am. Thriving.”
He stares at me for a second. And chuckles. His lips curl up in a smile. My heart does a full-body double take.
It’s not a big laugh. Not loud or showy.
Just this quiet, rough-edged chuckle that escapes before he can pull it back.
But it changes his whole face—softens the lines that are usually drawn so tight, smooths that permanent frown between his brows.
And his smile… God. It's unfair. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you.
Not charming in a rehearsed, I-know-I’m-hot way.
But real. Unexpected. Like the sun showing up on a cloudy day because it felt like it.
And I hate that I notice it.
I hate that my stomach flutters. Men like Abhimaan don’t smile often—and when they do, it feels like they’re handing you something they don’t give away easily. And I don’t want to want that from him. I shouldn’t.
But I stand there, throat dry, hands slightly curled at my sides, and all I can think is, "I want to see him do that again." And maybe be the reason for his smile?
“Good work today,” he says quietly, the soft smile still on his lips.
I smile back; nope, I grin at him and nod. “I know.”
He shakes his head, and I leave before I ruin the moment.
Because something’s shifting. Not fast. Not suddenly. But slowly. Like the way a lock starts to loosen before it clicks open.
And the scariest part? I think he sees it too because I can feel his gaze on me, and not momentarily; he looks at me till I pick up my bag and walk towards the elevator, finally done for the day.