CHAPTER 20
ABHIMAAN
She walks through the front doors of the office like nothing ever happened.
Back straight. Hair braided over one shoulder. Dressed in that particular shade of blue that makes her look like she knows something the rest of us don’t. Like she’s already won the argument we haven’t started yet.
But her steps are a little too measured. Her left hand tightens slightly at her side when she thinks no one’s looking. And when she turns too fast, she blinks—just for a second, like the world tilted and caught her off guard.
She’s not fine.
She shouldn’t be here.
And yet… she is. Yesterday when she proposed that she was well enough to go home, I dismissed her, but after one hour of arguing, I knew I was never going to win against this woman (or I don’t want to; I might have to ponder on that), so I let her go.
Not only because she gave fair points but also selfishly I needed some space.
After the closeness, seeing her fit perfectly in my house, I felt like, what if I started liking it too much?
I didn’t want that. I am alone and I will always be, and I don’t think a brown-eyed girl can change that.
But when she did leave, I felt all the warmth and energy vanishing from the house, quite literally, and I don’t know how to explain that.
She promised she had taken a week off, but I think I might be stupid to have believed her. She’s back. Back to her desk. Back to war with the printer. Back to running this office with more efficiency than most of my senior staff.
And I—I’m hovering.
God help me.
I, Abhimaan—who doesn’t do “checking in” or “hovering” or “soft” of any kind—am walking half a step behind my assistant.
Watching the way her shoulder occasionally tenses.
Timing her steps. Making sure she sits down between tasks, even though she pretends not to notice me forcing the damn chair under her knees every thirty minutes like I’m some glorified human stool.
This is ridiculous.
I’m assisting my assistant.
The irony is not lost on me.
Neither are the stares.
People look. They glance between us. Whisper behind coffee mugs and flick open emails they’re clearly not reading. I know what they’re thinking. I can hear it even though no one says it out loud.
Is he following her? Why is he following her? Has he gone completely insane?
Maybe.
I don’t care.
She got hit by a fucking car. Her driver vanished. Her brakes failed. And he sent me a message right after—this was just a warning.
So no. I don’t care if I look insane.
Let them stare.
Let them whisper.
Let them wonder what’s gotten into me.
Because until I find him, who’s playing games with my life—and with hers—she’s not going anywhere without me being three steps behind with a damn medical chart and backup plan.
She turns around suddenly, catching me mid-step.
“I’m going to the fifth-floor meeting room,” she says, arching a brow.
I nod. “Take the elevator.”
She glares. I glare back. A standoff in the hallway, surrounded by confused interns pretending to study notice boards that haven’t changed since 2018.
“God, you’re stubborn,” she mutters.
“You’re injured.”
“It’s a concussion, not a broken leg.”
“You can still fall. Sit down too fast. Get dizzy.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you my boss or my shadow?”
“Today? Apparently both.”
She rolls her eyes and stalks toward the elevator. I follow.
Again.
Because I don’t trust her not to collapse out of sheer spite.
Once we reach the meeting room, she walks straight in. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t wait. Just starts reviewing the agenda like she didn’t spend the last seventy-two hours in and out of sleep, tucked in my guest blanket, in my bed, while I was out on my couch, eating poha and sass.
She’s ridiculous. And brave. And entirely too unaware of the fact that I nearly lost my mind the day she didn’t show up.
I lean in close when she sits down, holding a small paper packet between two fingers.
She stiffens.
“Your meds,” I say simply.
She stares at me like I’ve just grown another head. “You brought me meds?”
I drop them on the table beside her, uncapping the bottle of water I made Rhea get from the mini fridge.
“You forgot them at my place,” I whisper. “You didn’t take them after breakfast, I am assuming,” I murmur.
“You tracked my meds?”
“You’re on my payroll. If you collapse in the hallway, I’ll have to deal with HR.”
She smirks. “You just can’t admit you care.”
“I just don’t want paperwork.”
She leans back, pops the medicine into her mouth, and swallows the water slowly. I catch myself watching the movement of her throat as she drinks and force my eyes away before I do something stupid.
Again.
She licks her lips after and sets the bottle down.
“Thanks,” she says. Quiet. Uncharacteristically so.
I don’t reply.
Because it’s not a favor. Because I shouldn’t be this.
.. involved. But I am, and it’s not only because I feel guilty considering I am the reason she was hurt; it’s definitely more than that, and I know that.
Apparently she has some goddamn switch built into her spine that overrides logic.
And somehow, somewhere between the sarcasm and schedules, she flipped something in me I didn’t even know existed.
Now here I am, counting her footsteps and managing her painkillers.
She stands up, clearly about to run to the next meeting.
I step in front of her, blocking the path.
“Break,” I say.
She huffs. “I’m not even—”
“You get ten minutes. Sit.”
“This isn’t school—”
“Sit, Aditi.”
She groans and drops back into the chair with a dramatic sigh.
“Is this how people feel when they talk to me?” I mutter under my breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Because yes. Yes, it is. This is karma.
And apparently, karma is a five-foot-six whirlwind with black hair, too many questions, and a to-do list longer than her medical clearance.
I sit down next to her.
She frowns. “You have meetings; you know that, right?”
“I rescheduled them.”
She blinks. “You never reschedule.”
“I just did.”
She pauses. Watches me carefully. Her voice is a little softer when she says, “Why?”
I don’t answer.
Because I can’t say you scared me. Or I need to make sure you don’t vanish again. Or I’d rather reschedule the entire goddamn board than take my eyes off you right now.
So instead, I shift closer.
Pick up her planner.
Cross out the document organizing she added for 4 PM.
She gasps. “That was important!”
I look at her. Really look. And say, “Not more than you.”
She blinks. Once. Then again. Her mouth opens and closes, like she’s forgotten how to speak. Good. Let her feel it.
Let her see that I’m not just hovering for fun. That I’m not rescheduling meetings to play babysitter. That this—whatever this is—isn’t about efficiency.
It's not about business.
It's not even about the crash anymore.
It’s about her.
It’s always been about her.
And that terrifies the hell out of me.
Because I’ve never let anyone get this close before.
And she’s already closer than I know how to handle.