CHAPTER 4
ISHIKA
I have been sitting in this conference room for thirty entire minutes, and whatever microscopic supply of patience I woke up with today is now dissolving like a cheap paper napkin dunked in water.
I don’t know what’s worse—the persistent buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead, the irritatingly soft hum of the AC, or the sterile silence of this room that probably cost more per square foot than my entire flat.
The walls are a muted grey, sleek enough for an architecture magazine, and the long wooden table stretches across the room like it’s mocking me for being alone in this massive, intimidating space.
My stomach feels hollow because I deliberately chose not to eat. Eating before an important meeting is always a terrible idea. It never gives me energy; it only gives me nausea, and sometimes regret.
I’ve been this way since childhood. Excitement, stress, anticipation—anything mildly emotional triggers my stomach like it’s a fragile ecosystem.
Somewhere deep in my chest, a familiar ache stirs at the memory of my father gently chastising me, telling me to never miss breakfast, his voice like warm winter sunshine filtering through a window. Never miss breakfast, Ishi.
The memory hits so suddenly that I feel winded.
I shove it away immediately, practically slamming a mental door shut on it.
I can't have the luxury of nostalgia today, and even if I did, remembering my parents never leads anywhere good. It’s a one-way street into a dark place I’ve worked too hard to avoid.
The ticking of the clock on the wall becomes louder for some reason, each second a small, sharp annoyance puncturing the stillness around me.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty.
Three. Zero.
I feel my jaw tightening every time the second hand clicks forward.
How does someone in charge of an entire empire have the audacity to be late to a meeting he scheduled himself?
If this is how Evergreen operates—rich people running on their own version of time, untouched by the inconvenience of punctuality—then maybe I should walk out.
But then the mantra starts again, soft at first, then louder, like a pulse I can’t ignore.
Money.
Fifteen lakhs.
Money.
Independence.
Money.
Better clients.
Money.
My own design studio one day.
The number bounces around in my head like an overly enthusiastic child.
Fifteen lakhs. For someone like me—who counts every transport ticket, every grocery purchase, every freelance invoice—that number is not just money.
It’s security. It’s choosing myself. It’s a future.
And because of that, I force myself to inhale deeply and give this delayed CEO ten more minutes.
Fifteen lakhs deserve ten minutes of patience.
Ten more minutes of humiliation inside this overly polished fishbowl of a conference room.
I tap my pen against the sleek wooden table.
The sound echoes obnoxiously, almost accusatory, as if the room itself is judging me for being irritated.
Everything in here screams wealth—the sculpted chairs, the digital screen that probably folds into the wall, the faint scent of pine and something expensive I can’t name.
I feel like a mismatched accessory someone accidentally placed here. An outsider.
Then the door opens. My pen stops mid-tap. For a moment—just a moment—the world seems to tilt.
A man walks in. No, scratch that. A presence walks in.
Tall enough that I automatically adjust my posture as if my spine wants to compete.
Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, clean-shaven, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—revealing forearms I am certain could carry this entire table without needing a second hand.
His trousers are dark, fitted, and dangerously formal.
His hair is messy in an intentional way, a soft wave falling across his forehead like it’s committed to seducing someone.
He looks like he works out, but not the obsessive gym bro type—more like he’s naturally strong and just maintains it for the heck of it.
He seems the kind of man who gets what he wants without lifting a finger.
The kind of man who could ruin your day just by existing too close to where you breathe.
And then smile afterward in a way that makes you question your sanity for being mad in the first place—which annoys me immediately.
Then he sees me—and smiles.
A slow, warm, unfair smile that feels like a spotlight turning on. It’s not creepy. It’s not overly charming. It’s just… soft. Like he knows me. Which is ridiculous because I have never seen this man's face before in my life.
“I brought coffee for you,” he says casually, holding out a cup.
His voice is deep—not intimidating-deep, but warm-deep. Smooth, even. The kind of voice you’d want narrating an audiobook when you’re having a bad day. I stare at him, then at the coffee cup, then back at him again.
“Coffee?” I repeat, because my brain short-circuits when it’s overwhelmed and defaults to repeating nouns like an idiot.
He tilts his head slightly, amused. “Yeah. Are you a tea person?”
The way he says it—not rude, but with a teasing tone—makes me think he’s already judging me based on the answer.
Interesting. He judges tea drinkers. I kind of like that in a person.
Mostly because the world assumes all Indians live on chai, and people act like not liking it is a crime.
I don’t meet people often, but when I do, the phrase chai loge na? pops up like a glitch in the matrix.
I take the cup from him because I was told to accept polite gestures even when annoyed. I lift it to my lips and take a careful sip.
The moment the liquid hits my tongue, I choke.
This is not coffee. This is sugar’s evil cousin pretending to be coffee. This is milk attempting to cosplay caffeine. This is trauma in liquid form.
I gag, cough, almost spit it out, and finally glare at him like he just poisoned me.
“What—what is this?” I sputter, eyes watering.
He looks confused. Actually confused. His eyebrows pull together as if I just insulted his ancestors.
“It’s coffee,” he says, offended. To prove it, he takes a sip from his own cup and actually sighs in contentment. “Perfect.”
Perfect???
Is he insane?
“This is not coffee,” I declare firmly. “This is a sugary milkshake. A crime.”
Understanding finally dawns on his face. Then amusement. A slow, spreading grin takes over, lighting up his features in a way that should be illegal in a professional setting.
“Oh,” he says, pointing his cup at me. “You’re a dark person.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“People who like bitter, black coffee without milk or sugar are soulless,” he explains casually, as though stating a scientific fact he discovered personally.
I roll my eyes so hard I briefly see the meaning of life.
“Wow. Impressive analysis. Truly. I’m honored to be psychoanalyzed by someone who drinks dessert for breakfast,” I snap. “Anyway, I’m not here to discuss your terrible taste in coffee. I’m here to meet the CEO. I’ve been sitting here for forty minutes. Your boss is a no-show.”
His lips twitch into a small almost-smile. I hit a nerve, apparently. Good.
“Does no one value time in this company?” I continue, fully committed to my rant. “Because if this is how things function, I should leave before I develop ulcers and high blood pressure at age twenty-five.”
Instead of defending his boss, he does something completely unexpected.
He sits down next to me. Not diagonally across. Not one seat over. Directly next to me. Like we’re colleagues. Like we’re friends already. Like he belongs in my personal space. My horror grows with every second.
He sits back comfortably, spreading his legs in that infuriating thing men do—manspreading, claiming territory like lions. Normally I’d shove his knee inward with a pointed look, but he’s a stranger, and I should probably avoid violence in professional settings.
I inhale tightly through my nose. He smells like freshly brewed warm spices, maybe sandalwood, maybe something expensive I’ll never afford. His presence is warm. Large. Unavoidable.
Which I hate.
“Anyway,” I say sharply, forcing myself to focus on the reason I’m here, “what is your boss like? I should know before meeting him. Not that I want to meet him anymore.”
He taps his fingers together thoughtfully, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, giving me his full attention.
And that attention is… intense. His eyes lock onto mine like he’s reading something in my expression that I didn’t authorize him to read.
It feels strange. Like he sees more than he’s supposed to.
“What do you wish to know?” he asks, amusement dancing in his green eyes.
Green. Green eyes. What in the genetic lottery…? The majority of Indians do not have eyes like that. Except apparently, this one does. They’re not even a dull hazel pretending to be green. They are properly, unfairly green. And they catch the light like tinted glass.
I hate that they’re mesmerizing. I hate that I’m staring. I hate that he knows I’m staring.
His smile widens, knowingly. I stomp down the urge to cover my face with my hands.
“I—I mean,” I stammer, mentally hitting myself, “what’s he like to work with?”
He lifts a brow, considering the question. “Well… people don’t complain much while working with him.” That’s vague, but okay. “So he must be nice,” he concludes with a shrug.
“Must?” I repeat. “You don’t work for him?”
His laugh is softer this time, like he’s sharing a private joke with himself. “How can I? I’m not that lucky.”
Lucky? To work for a CEO who can’t respect meeting times? I am confused.
I blink hard. “I don’t follow.”
He stands then. Gracefully. Confidently. In a way that tells me he is very used to rooms shifting when he moves. He slides one hand into his trouser pocket. Calm. Effortless. The other hand extends toward me.
“Aryan Khanna,” he says with a polite, almost amused calm. I stare at him, confused for a single heartbeat. Then the words land. “The said CEO,” he finishes, dimples forming.
Aryan. Khanna. The CEO.
The man I’ve been waiting for.
The man I ranted about.
The man I insulted. Multiple times.
The man I mocked.
The man who bought me coffee I nearly spat at.
The man I accused of poor management.
The man I mentally accused of manspreading crimes.
My blood drains. My lungs forget their purpose. My hands go cold.
“And you should probably learn to ask for a person’s name before ranting,” he chuckles, “which I am not complaining about because it was cute.”
I am going to die. Right here. In this expensive room. My spirit will haunt Evergreen’s conference table forever.
I yelled at the CEO.
Insulted his punctuality.
Insulted his coffee.
Insulted HIM, directly.
Mentally insulted his thighs' seating habits.
Fifteen lakhs vanish from my imagination like smoke from a doused candle. This is it. This is the end of my career at twenty-five. I will become a cautionary tale told to interns. And he is still smiling, waiting for me to shake his hand.
My mouth moves before my brain approves.
“…shit,” I whisper.
Because honestly—what else is left to say?