CHAPTER 14
ABHIMAAN
The city looks cleaner from twenty floors above. Quieter, too. Like it’s not the mess of horns and dust and traffic that it actually is. Just lights scattered like someone shook a jewelry box and let everything fall into place.
I stand by the glass, arms crossed, forehead vaguely aching from too many hours of numbers and decisions and signing papers I barely skimmed.
It’s late. Past ten. The office behind me is almost silent—just the buzz of a distant printer and the occasional whirr of the air conditioner. Everyone’s gone home. Security downstairs probably assumes I’ve locked myself in for the night, which, frankly, wouldn’t be the first time.
I don’t remember when working late stopped feeling optional. Somewhere between building this company and surviving it.
I blink, my reflection dull in the glass. Hair a little messier than usual. Sleeves rolled halfway up. Jaw tight.
I wonder who I look like? My father? My mother? Only—I don’t have an answer and never will have one.
I was raised in a goddamn orphanage that smelled like rust and sour milk, where you fought over cold bread and learned fast that if you cried, no one would care.
I ran at fifteen and ended up with Anil—who gave me rules instead of love and bruises instead of comfort and still managed to feel more like family than anyone else before him.
I built this life with blood under my nails. Alone. No legacy. No trust fund. Just grit and strategy and a hell of a lot of walls.
And now—I hear footsteps behind me and stiffen, automatically.
“You look like you could use this.”
I turn around to see Aditi standing at the door, holding two cups of coffee, both steaming. She looks a little rumpled—hair loose, one sneaker untied, her bag slung carelessly over her shoulder—but her eyes are bright. Curious. Way too awake for this hour.
“I thought you left,” I say.
She walks in like it’s her office too. “I was going to. But then I passed the pantry and figured if you’ve been staring at spreadsheets as long as I think you have, you’re either running on fumes or vengeance.”
She holds out a cup. I take it slowly. Our fingers brush. Just for a second.
The warmth seeps into my palm.
“I added only one sugar,” she says triumphantly, “because I don’t want to be blamed for ruining your bitter, brooding aesthetic.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That was thoughtful of you.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she smirks and moves to stand next to me by the glass. “Damn. Mumbai looks different from up here.”
She’s quiet for a second. I think that’s it. Just coffee. Just lights. But she breaks the silence. “Did you grow up in this city?”
I freeze for half a breath. She’s still looking out the window, but I can feel the weight of her question settle between us. “That’s personal,” I say flatly.
She shrugs. “Well, technically, I’m not an employee right now.”
I glance at her and raise an eyebrow. She taps her watch, deadpan. “It’s 10:38. Pretty sure keeping me here this late violates a few labor laws. I could sue you.”
A laugh—sharp and unexpected—escapes me. It’s small, but it’s real. She inhales deeply and stares at me for a second before her lips break into a grin. That infuriating, maddening grin.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter and shake my head.
“And you’re secretly amused,” she shoots back.
I don’t answer. Mostly because I am. And I hate that I am. Silence stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It never is with her apparently.
“I did grow up here,” I say eventually, voice low. “Not the Mumbai people brag about. Not the skyline and cafes and monsoon drives. Just cement walls. Stolen food. No name to fall back on.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. Just listens. “That sounds lonely,” she says after a while.
“It was,” I admit for the first time in a long time, “then it became survival. Then it became a habit.”
She nods like she understands. Like she’s felt something similar even if her story’s different.
“You don’t talk much about your past,” I say.
“I don’t owe anyone that,” she replies simply. Not defensive. At least she's not lying. “Some things are better earned.”
I look at her then. Really look. She’s so different from what I expected when she walked in that first day, with too much energy and too little fear. I thought she was a storm. But storms don’t stop. She does. She listens. Thinks. Pushes. But she pauses too.
“Why here?” I ask. “You could be anywhere. What made you walk into Varuna?”
She sips her coffee. “Because I wanted to build something real. And this place—this chaos you’ve created—it’s real. It’s intense, exhausting, borderline masochistic… But it’s real. You don’t fake ambition here.”
There’s a beat of silence before she adds, “I respect that.”
That lands differently. And it stays with me longer than I expect.
When she finishes her coffee, she looks toward the door. “I should go. If I miss my cab, I’ll have to sell a kidney for a rickshaw.”
“I’ll drop you.”
Her head snaps toward me. “What?”
“I said I’ll drop you.”
Her eyes widen, and she feigns a laugh. “There’s no need for that. Really?”
“I wasn’t asking,” I say.
She eyes me warily, as if trying to figure out if I’m joking. I’m not. She looks like she wants to disappear suddenly; it's funny seeing her panic, and she shakes her head. “No. I like my commute alone. Gives me time to think. And I think we both know you need that time more than I do.”
I narrow my eyes, a smirk curling up my lips. “You’re stubborn.”
“Pot, meet kettle.”
A sigh escapes me. I nod once. I will let her go this time. “Fine. But message me when you get home.” She looks at me for a second, like she’s not sure if I’m serious.
“I mean it,” I add.
“I will.” Her voice is softer now. “Thanks… for the coffee company.”
She turns to go.
And I stand there, coffee still warm in my hand, wondering why it suddenly feels like the office is too quiet again.
Like she took something with her when she left.
And I don’t know if I’m letting her in. Or if she’s already in and I’m just now realizing it.
I take a sip. It’s sweet. Warmer than usual. And for once, I don’t mind.