CHAPTER 43
ABHIMAAN
The city lights glitter below like a lazy constellation, blurred behind the office’s tall glass walls.
The hour is too late for work, too early for sleep—it’s just quiet.
My jacket hangs on the back of my chair, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Aditi is across from me, sitting with her knees drawn up slightly, mug cupped in both hands as if it holds warmth she doesn’t feel inside.
She hasn’t spoken in ten minutes. That’s how I know she’s spiraling again.
I glance at her over my laptop, and she looks—small. Still in her power suit, but it’s like she’s shrunk inside it. Her eyes are distant, focused somewhere past the rim of her tea. Her thumb strokes the ceramic without thought. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
She’s still thinking about the deal.
The one we lost this morning.
The one she thinks is entirely her fault.
It wasn’t. But I know better than to say that again. I’ve already tried logic. Reason. Facts. I’ve even pulled the “I’m your boss, and I said drop it” card.
Didn’t work.
Hell, I even told her if she apologized one more time, I’d fire her.
That was a mistake.
She had looked up at me then, lips parted in surprise. And something in her gaze had broken—shattered so quietly I almost missed it. She didn’t cry. She never does in front of me, especially in the office. But she flinched like I slapped her. And that hurt worse.
I lean back in my chair and exhale slowly, staring at her as she watches the steam fade from her mug. She’s wearing her hair loose tonight. The way it curls over her shoulder softens the sharp lines of her tired face.
It’s haunting, the way guilt lives in her body. Like she owes the world penance just for existing. Like being good at something means never being allowed to fail.
But she’s not just good. She’s brilliant. Fierce. Stubborn. Loyal.
And tonight, she’s punishing herself for being human.
I close my laptop.
She doesn’t notice.
I reach for my phone instead.
This isn’t something I ever planned to show her. It’s not polished. It’s not poetic. Just notes. Half-sentences. Fragments of moments.
But maybe that’s why it matters. Because sometimes, truth lives in the small things.
I scroll through my Notes app and tap open the file labeled “Aditi Wins.”
I push the phone gently toward her.
She blinks, confused, then looks up at me. “What’s this?”
I don’t answer. I just tilt my head toward the screen. Read it.
She sets the mug down, still watching me warily, then picks up the phone.
Her eyes scan.
Pause.
Then narrow.
“Handled the Prakash mess without crying,” she reads aloud. Her voice is soft, disbelieving. “Convinced the vendor to deliver early. Didn’t back down from Sharma…”
She trails off. Her brows knit.
“These are all… me?”
I nod. “Wins. Yours. Things you did when no one was watching. Or when you thought no one noticed.”
Her throat moves as she swallows.
“A lot of these I don’t even remember,” she murmurs, scrolling further. “You wrote all this?”
I sit forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “Every time you doubted yourself or downplayed something. Every time you looked like you wanted someone to say ‘well done,’ and no one did. I wrote it down.”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. Her hands tremble slightly as she holds the phone.
“But I made a mistake today,” she says, not looking at me. “And a big one. If I hadn’t—”
“Don’t.” My voice comes out low, almost a warning. “Don’t do that.”
Her gaze finally meets mine, wide, guilty, and raw. “But I messed up, Abhimaan. I should’ve double-checked the proposal. I missed the clause in the contract. We lost the entire deal.”
“So?”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “So… we lost money.”
I shake my head. “We can make money again. Deals will come and go. You? I don’t get another you.”
The silence between us stretches.
Then I add, quietly, “Just because you made one mistake doesn’t mean you get to erase everything you’ve done right.”
Her lips tremble, and she presses them into a hard line. “Why don’t you say that about yourself then?”
I blink.
“What?”
“You say it to me. But I’ve seen how you are. You never forgive yourself. You don’t believe in second chances for you. You work like someone’s chasing you, like if you slow down, you’ll fall apart. So why do I get to be human and not you?”
The room feels heavier suddenly.
I let out a breath, slow and deliberate, before answering.
“Because I don’t think I’ve ever felt human, Aditi.”
She looks at me, startled.
“I’ve felt like a machine for as long as I can remember. Something built to perform. Win. Survive. Do better than yesterday. I’ve seen blood and betrayal and people who only love what you can do, not who you are. I’ve had to be ruthless. Efficient. Cold.”
I pause. My hands curl into fists on the desk.
“But then you walked into this office with your oversized files and chipped nail polish and this ridiculous determination to work harder than me—and you looked at me like I was more than just power or success. You looked at me like I was worth something.”
My voice drops. “You are the first person who didn’t flinch from me. Who called me out on my temper, argued with me, and made me laugh without even trying? You—you made me feel human. And I didn’t even know how much I needed that until you gave it to me.”
She’s crying now, quiet tears slipping down her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them. Just listens.
“So no,” I say gently, “you don’t get to treat yourself like you’re less because you made a mistake. You’re not allowed to forget that you’ve been brilliant and brave and far more than this one moment.”
She closes her eyes, and for a second, I think she might break. But instead, she exhales shakily, pressing the phone to her chest like it holds her together. The silence between us stretches, full of everything neither of us knows how to say.
She chuckles sadly. “You might have saved me today,” she whispers, and I know she doesn’t mean literally but that I saved her from spiraling, from not believing in herself. I could end it here. Stand up, walk away, and let this be enough. It should be. It would be safer.
But she looks at me, and it’s the kind of look that cuts through all the layers I’ve spent years building. Not sharp. Not searching. Just open. Like she sees me. And it terrifies me.
“I’ve spent most of my life trying not to need anyone,” I say, voice lower now, more honest than I’ve ever allowed myself to be. “Because the second you do, they leave. Or they let you down. Or they use it against you.”
Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t speak. She waits.
“I don’t let people in, Aditi. I don’t let them close. But you—" My throat tightens. “You didn’t ask for a key. You just... stayed. Argued. Called me out. Sitting across from me night after night like this was normal. Like I was normal.”
I swallow. “And now... now I’m scared.”
Her eyes widen a fraction. “Of what?”
I look down, fingers drumming restlessly against the wood.
“That if I tell you what I really feel, I’m afraid you’ll stop seeing me the way you do.”
Her breath catches, and I hear it.
“You think I’m saving you, Aditi,” I whisper. “But you... you’re saving me.”
She doesn’t respond.
Not with words, anyway.
She stands slowly, walks around the desk, and sits beside me—close, but not touching. Her knee brushes mine. Her fingers remain wrapped around the phone I gave her, but her other hand rests on the edge of the desk, inches from mine.
Neither of us moves.
The office is silent except for the hum of the city below and the occasional ticking of the antique clock on the wall. The kind of silence that feels alive. Waiting.
Finally, she speaks. Voice soft. Barely audible.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The words are simple. But the way she says them—grounded, certain, like a promise—makes something in me uncoil. Like a muscle I’ve held clenched too long.
I nod once, unable to speak. Because what else can I do?