CHAPTER 8
ARYAN
I sit at my desk with the laptop open, the stock ticker crawls across the bottom of the screen like an impatient caterpillar, green here, red there, a string of numbers that somehow tell the whole office how stable the day will feel.
I’m watching the market like a man watching the tide, half because I like the ritual and half because it keeps me from thinking about other things.
My phone buzzes on the desk and I answer with a practiced, “This is Aryan,” the CEO voice sliding into place because some part of the world still likes a formal greeting.
It’s a client—Mrs. Mehra, a long-time investor, brittle in the voice and precise in the concerns.
She rattles off quarter projections, asks about diversification, wonders if we’ve considered a safer bond mix given the overnight volatility.
I listen, nod at my laptop like a good listener even though she can’t see me, make quick notes, reassure her like a man who knows what he’s doing, and promise a clear follow-up by lunch.
The call ends with a polite thank-you and the soft click of a world that stays predictable when you keep your head in numbers.
For a second, eyes on the charts again, I am back in that calm rhythm.
Then I look up, because habit makes me do strange things—I check the window not from vanity but because the building I bought has the best view in the city.
I like seeing how the office settles, how people move inside it, who claims which seat, where lights go on first. It’s a bad habit of ownership, I admit it. I watch things. I notice things.
My window faces the new wing. The glass is clear this morning, and I can see into the area that will eventually be the design hub.
And there she is.
She is bent over a large piece of paper, sketching with frantic focus.
The pen moves with fierce certainty—lines confident, small annotations tucked in the margins.
Every now and then she taps the pen against her lips like she’s testing a thought, and the motion is almost exactly the kind of thing I enjoy watching: small rituals that tell a person’s pace and their way of thinking.
She has spread a few reference photos on the table beside her and some fabric swatches fall in a neat, messy pile.
It’s the sort of controlled chaos I respect.
Then my gaze drops to the little mound of wrappers beside her water bottle.
Snickers wrappers. Four, maybe five, crumpled and tossed like badges of a secret lunchtime war.
My eyebrows twitch. Hungry? Using candy as lunch?
I frown not because I judge, but because it looks unfair.
She’s working hard; I can see the concentration in the set of her jaw.
She looks like someone who would rather let her stomach gnaw than stop working.
It’s the kind of stubbornness that feels like a personal insult to comfort.
I intercom Ajay. He answers on the second ring, there’s a little rustle of paper and the usual “Sir?” in his voice that always sounds like he’s mildly surprised to be needed.
“Ajay,” I say. “Send Ms. Vyas something to eat. Whatever’s available. Not the usual dry sandwich—get her something decent.”
“Sir?” He asks, a tone in his voice as if he can’t believe I just said that, I roll my eyes.
“I just care about employee welfare, especially when I can see she’s on her fifth snicker.
” I state and before he can say anything further, I end the call because he has been working with me since last five years and I have never bothered to oversee his lunch routine so its obvious he might have questions that I don’t want to answer because even I don’t know why I care if Ishika eats Snickers or whatever the hell she wants to in lunch.
I sigh as I pick up and dial again, “Send black coffee too, no sugar.”
“Black coffee? For her?” Ajay makes a sound of disbelief, and I can picture his expression through the phone—brow raised, lips pretending to be scandalized.
“She spat mine out,” I say, and there’s no sarcasm in my voice. I mean it almost apologetically. “And be discreet. Leave it at her desk. No fanfare.”
Ajay’s voice softens. “Yes sir. A discreet delivery, dal rice, salad, black coffee. Noted. Anything else?”
“No,” I say, and for a second, my mind goes blank like a cursor waiting. I add then, almost before I think, “Tell her not to eat wrappers.”
Ajay laughs openly. “Sir, are we doing parenting now?”
“Do it,” I say, with an easy smile. “And—Ajay?”
“Sir?”
“Keep it professional. Just food.”
“I’ll send a discreet box with no glitter,” he says with a laugh, and hangs up.
I watch the window again, the way she taps and shifts, the way the small, nervous energy of someone entirely absorbed in their work radiates off her.
And I realize whatever it is—her intensity, the way she underlines things, the fraction of a frown between her brows when she’s concentrating—has wedged itself quietly into my day.
She’s become an interesting variable in the otherwise predictable algorithm that runs my life.
The phone on my desk vibrates with a calendar reminder for the investor call in forty minutes.
I click through a few tabs, answer an email, jot a note to ask the facilities team about the east window treatment.
My mind keeps returning to the wrappers and to the way she seems to forget to take herself in hand for the sake of the work.
She’s stubborn about her space. She’s careful in the way she sketches.
She’s different. She’s…intriguing. Someone you want to understand, not because you own them but because there is a depth you sense just under the surface.
Ajay knocks lightly on my door, uniformly polite. He knows he’s expected in my office without an announcement. He always looks like he has a thousand small errands mapped out in his head, and that’s useful because he’s calm when the rest of the building buzzes.
He enters, hands folded in that slightly nervous way, and holds up his hand as if asking permission to breathe. “Food’s on its way,” he says. There’s a small grin at the edge of his words, like he’s amused by whatever private project the company is funding today.
I nod. “Thanks.”
He’s not done teasing. “So, sir, sending lunch. Very traditional. Will Ms. Vyas approve of our, uh, humble offering?”
My brow arches. “You’re mocking my generosity.”
“I am not. Quite the opposite. I’m very impressed. Who knew our CEO was a philanthropist who supports emergency food distribution across the design community.”
I shut the file on my laptop, smiling despite myself. “Don’t make jokes. She’s allowed to be human.”
Ajay’s expression shifts, more serious. “She’s interesting, sir.”
I look at him over the top of the monitor. “Interesting?”
“She speaks freely with you,” he mentions, “you are very kind and friendly sure,” he adds quickly, “but I would never have the courage to speak like that with you. You are still my boss, you know.”
I can’t help the grin that pulls at me. “Don’t put her on a pedestal, Ajay,” I warn lightly, almost playfully, even as my chest warms with an odd, unfamiliar feeling. “She’s an employee. Treat her accordingly. Don’t hero-worship.”
“I’m not going to hero-worship,” he says solemnly, which is exactly the joke-turned-earnest answer I’d expect.
But Ajay is right. She is quiet…interesting.
She is not a simple puzzle. She is a pattern that makes sense only when you step back and watch.
And the odd thing for me is that the more I tease her, the more I banter and the more a corner of me thirsts to see what comes next—what’s behind the careful set of her mouth, how her day ends when she gets home, whether she laughs easily or grinds her teeth over bad suppliers.
This curiosity is new, and I have no intention right now of acting like the man who demands answers. I’ll stay practical. I’ll keep my notes private and my interventions small and useful. But I’ll also—quietly—watch.