CHAPTER 6
ISHIKA
I leave the conference room the second the door unlocks behind me, practically fleeing like it's burning behind me.
My heart is still thudding in my throat, which is absurd because I didn’t run a marathon; I just accidentally insulted the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company to his face. Repeatedly. And then called him Golden Boy like I was naming a pet rabbit.
The corridor is far too bright for the kind of shame I’m carrying.
I clutch my bag against my side, eyes glued to the floor tiles like they’ll open a portal and swallow me whole if I stare hard enough.
My skin feels warm, my neck is too hot, and my brain is performing a hostile takeover of my dignity, replaying every stupid thing I said in that room.
“I’ve been sitting here for half an hour.”
“This coffee is a crime.”
“You need to be on time.”
“Golden boy.”
Oh god. I actually said ALL that. Out loud.
I can feel my soul leaving my body just thinking about it.
I reach the reception desk, but I don’t look up. I never do. I keep my voice calm, professionally flat, refusing to show the internal riot going on inside my chest.
“Contract for Ishika Vyas,” I say, keeping my eyes on a vague spot on the counter.
The receptionist gives me a warm smile. I pretend I don’t see it, mostly because my face can’t currently mimic a socially acceptable expression. She hands me a long envelope, and I take it like it’s fragile, expensive, and possibly explosive.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and then I leave before anyone can blink, before anyone can recognize me as the idiot who scolded the CEO for being late.
The moment the glass doors slide open, a welcome rush of outside air hits my face.
The world feels too loud, but at least it’s real.
I walk to the side of the building, where there’s a small stone bench half-hidden by a row of plants.
It’s not glamorous, but it’s shaded, and more importantly, it’s empty.
I sit down so abruptly the bench trembles.
Okay. Deep breath. Maybe several.
My hands are shaking a little when I open the envelope. Inside is a neatly printed contract and attached at the top—of course—is a bright yellow sticky note. It’s impossible to miss. The handwriting is meticulous, confident strokes, clean lines, not a single hesitation mark.
The note reads:
Don’t be hangry tomorrow, Sunshine.
– A.K.
I freeze.
Of course he would double down on that stupid nickname. Of course he would find a way to tease me even when not physically present. Of course I have to deal with a CEO who thinks sticky-note sarcasm is a valid communication method.
And of course I blush. Because my body is my enemy.
I slap the note face-down on my lap and stare ahead, mind swirling in too many directions.
Part of me wants to crumple it and throw it into the nearest dustbin.
Another part wants to frame it so I remember forever not to embarrass myself again.
A third part—traitorous and annoying—keeps replaying the way he said Sunshine.
Not mocking. Not cruel. Just amused. Like I was… cute.
Disgusting.
I push every thought out of my head and force myself to focus on the contract. This is what matters. Not him. Not the stupid green eyes that somehow change shades when he smiles. Not the ridiculous rolled-up sleeves or the fact that sitting next to him made me hyper-aware of my own breath.
Fifteen lakhs. Experience. Portfolio boost. A way to finally build something of my own.
I read through the contract carefully, forcing myself to underline the practical points: timeline, deliverables, payment schedule, usage rights.
It’s solid, direct, and surprisingly fair.
I expected complicated jargon or some hidden clause requiring me to hand over a kidney.
But it’s straightforward, almost…thoughtful.
I shouldn’t read too much into that. Some companies are just decent with contracts.
Still, my stomach softens a little.
Fifteen lakhs. My pulse jumps each time I think of the number.
I wouldn’t have to juggle twelve small freelance projects just to pay bills.
I could buy better software. Better tools.
I could maybe—eventually—start collecting clients for my own tiny firm.
No more waiting on luck. No more depending on people who may or may not remember my existence when a better designer crosses their path.
But then there’s him.
Aryan Khanna.
The rude fact about him. The unfair existence of him. The nerve he has to exist with that combination of attractive and irritating at the same time.
And I know attraction is not something I am allowed to indulge in—not because of professionalism but because of the way my past relationships have burned me.
Not after learning repeatedly that loving people means giving them the power to disappear when they feel like it.
I don’t want that chaos in my life again.
But this job… the job is different. Work doesn’t leave unless you fail it. Work doesn’t promise you the world and then ghost you in the middle of building it. Work is controllable.
He is not.
Still—I sign the contract. My name loops across the page sharply, the way it always does when I’m trying to appear braver than I feel.
Maybe this is bravery. Maybe it’s stupidity.
I don’t know. But I need the money, and he said he liked my ideas, and I’d be a fool to walk away from this opportunity just because the CEO has stupid nice eyes and a smile that could melt the glaciers.
The signature dries quickly. My chest feels lighter and heavier at the same time.
I text Jayesh:
Signed.
He calls immediately. Of course he does. I stare at the screen for a good five seconds before answering.
“Ishika!” he says, relief flooding his voice. “I knew you’d do amazing. Thank you, really.”
“It’s fine,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. Compliments make me uncomfortable. Gratitude makes me uncomfortable. Feelings in general are not my domain. “I reviewed everything.”
“You did? Good. Great. And Aryan didn’t scare you?”
I blink. “No,” The lie slips out naturally.
“Well, you’re tougher than you think,” he chuckles.
I don’t answer. Tough is not the word I’d use for myself. Tough implies resilience. Strength. The ability to let things break against you without letting it inside. That’s not me. I am mostly just surviving. One day at a time. One person away from shutting down entirely.
“I’ll be available for questions anytime,” he continues. “Just call or text.”
“Okay,” I say, then add a quick “Thank you” before hanging up.
The moment the call ends, the silence around me feels heavier again. I put my head back against the wall and stare at the sky. Jaipur is blindingly bright today. Maybe too bright. I squint and blow out a breath through my nose.
The day feels long. And yet, I know it hasn’t even begun.
When I reach home, I drop my bag on the chair, tie my hair up in a messy knot, and open my laptop. Work usually helps me forget. Usually. Today it mostly distracts my hands while my brain continues to mutter nonsense in the background.
I pull up reference boards, fabric swatches, and building layouts.
I sketch out rough ideas—open seating areas, organic textures, suspended lights, lots of plants.
I lose myself in arranging and rearranging shapes, trying to force my brain into the quiet zone I usually live in while designing.
Normally it works. Today it’s a battlefield.
Because every time I start focusing, I hear his voice.
People don’t complain while working with him.
Aryan Khanna. The said CEO.
Sunshine.
I bury my face in my hands. Why does he talk like that? Why does he laugh like that? Why does he have to be…whatever he is? I shake my head hard and turn back to my work.
I can do this. I can keep this professional. I have worked with worse people before. People who pretended to be kind, only to twist it later. People who promised me things and then left without explanation. I have lived with them, I have grown up with such people.
Aryan Khanna is just a boss. A CEO. A man I will never interact with outside of work.
I will not get flustered again. I refuse to. But then I remember the sticky note.
Don’t be hangry tomorrow, Sunshine.
My stomach twists in a way I don’t want to analyze. I close my laptop harder than necessary.
It’s fine. Everything is fine. I will show up tomorrow, early, before he gets there.
I will hand over the signed contract to whoever needs it.
I will dive into work. I will not let him get under my skin.
I am not fragile. I am not easily swayed.
And I am definitely not someone who falls for smiles or sarcasm or stupidly kind eyes.
Tomorrow I’ll be professional. Calm. Collected. Unbothered. And obviously not hangry.
He won’t call me Sunshine again.
…Right?
I don’t believe myself. Not completely. But I also know this: no matter what he says, no matter what he does, no matter how he looks at me with those wild green eyes, I will keep my distance.
I’ll put walls between us, higher than before, because letting someone get close has only ever led to one ending.
And I’m not letting anyone leave me again. Not even a Golden Boy with perfect coffee-stealing dimples.
I set my alarm for early morning, take one last long breath, and whisper to myself like a promise:
“Tomorrow, I’ll handle him.”
Even if my heartbeat isn’t fully convinced.