CHAPTER 10
ISHIKA
I knew this day would come. I prayed for a miracle—maybe I would get sick, maybe he’d be too busy, maybe the meeting would be canceled—but no, God clearly wants to see me suffer for whatever sins I committed in my past life.
It’s the only explanation for why I find myself walking toward the conference room with a folder in my hand and a brick of dread in my stomach.
The week until now had been nice. Calm. Quiet.
Just me, my work, some contractors, a ton of dust, and the occasional reminder to eat—which I ignored because priorities, obviously.
No distractions. No unnecessary people. No drama.
No irritating CEOs with green eyes and too much confidence for one body.
But today…today I have to give updates.
Normally I love giving updates. I like showing progress, I like getting actual feedback—constructive feedback, the only kind I take seriously.
Rude feedback gets mentally tossed into a trash can inside my head because I’m not paid enough to listen to people’s personal frustrations disguised as criticism.
But this isn’t a normal client.
This is him.
The man who made my brain short-circuit on day one, who confused me so deeply I genuinely wondered if I had left my intelligence at home.
The man who called me Sunshine like he had every right to give me nicknames.
The man who laughs at everything I do—not in a mean way, which somehow makes it worse.
So yes, I am dreading this meeting. Dreading it like exams. Like dentist appointments. Like social gatherings. Maybe even more.
I reach the conference hall and inhale once, because I refuse to look like a nervous intern. I push the door open.
And of course.
Of course he’s already there, sitting at the head of the table like he owns oxygen.
His laptop is open, a pen in his hand, and his stupid rolled-up sleeves are back again.
His assistant stands beside him holding a tablet, like Aryan is royalty and the rest of us are peasants here to present offerings.
Why is his assistant standing? Why can’t he let the poor man sit?
I take a seat as quickly as possible, lowering my head just enough to avoid the way Aryan’s gaze instantly locks onto me. I don’t even manage to get fully comfortable before a smirk forms at the corners of his mouth.
Great. Fantastic. The meeting hasn’t even started and I already want to leave.
“You said you valued punctuality,” he says in a light voice, glancing at his watch with exaggerated disbelief before raising an eyebrow at me.
I swear he was waiting to say this. Counting down seconds. I roll my eyes before my brain can form a polite alternative. My eyes do this a lot around him; it’s concerning.
“I was working,” I respond, trying to keep my voice even. “And I informed.” I glance toward the assistant, who gives me a polite, tight-lipped smile as if acknowledging that yes, I did my part, please don’t pull me into this.
“Okay, okay,” Aryan says, raising his hands like he’s surrendering. “Don’t scold me today, I’m fragile.”
Fragile. Right.
I look at him with a deadpan expression. “You’re the CEO.”
“Exactly. Very fragile,” he says, lower lip jutting out just a bit like he’s pouting.
A laugh nearly escapes me, and that is completely unacceptable. I clamp my lips into a straight line. He cannot find me funny. I MUST NOT find him funny. And I refuse to encourage whatever this dramatic nonsense is.
I open my file, ignoring the way he leans slightly forward as if genuinely excited to hear what I have to say. My hands are steady, thank God. My voice too, surprisingly.
“So, I’ve finished the preliminary zoning,” I begin.
“The partitions for the east wing have been marked out and the contractors have started aligning the central pathways. I’ve adjusted the lighting plan to reduce glare and moved the pantry position by a few feet since the original placement clashed with the wiring layout. ”
He nods. “Good call.”
His approval shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t feel like anything. Yet something warm flickers in my chest and I stab it with a mental fork.
Focus, Ishika.
“I also added built-in shelving for the lounge area. Jayesh’s original plan had closed cabinets, but the space will feel more open with an open-shelf concept. It will allow us to add plants, books, small decor…human touches.”
His mouth curves slightly. “You like warm spaces?”
“I like realistic spaces,” I correct. “Where people don’t feel like they’re entering a lab.”
He smiles wider. “Didn’t know labs bother you.”
“They don’t,” I reply, annoyed at myself for reacting. “Sterile spaces bother me. They feel…disconnected.”
“Like people?” he asks softly.
My jaw tenses. I don’t want that question near me. Not today. Not any day. I shift my attention back to the papers.
“We’ve also completed 40% of the flooring. The samples you saw last week are already delivered. The contractors will finish the west side tomorrow.”
“I have to say,” he interrupts, smirking again, “you work pretty fast. Makes me feel slow.”
“Good,” I mutter before I catch myself.
His assistant coughs into his sleeve to hide a laugh.
Aryan’s smirk grows. “So you want your boss to feel slow?”
“You’re not my boss,” I shoot back. “You’re my client.”
“Sunshine, at this point I’m whatever you want me to be.”
My head snaps up and my heart races. “Stop calling me that.”
“Then stop reacting,” he replies calmly.
I swear my soul leaves my body for a second. Why does he always have to say things? Things that make sense but also make me want to flip the table.
I take a deep breath. He waits like he knows I need a second to recover.
I continue with the rest of the updates.
He listens—really listens—even though he interrupts with little comments or questions that make heat crawl up my neck.
He laughs at some point, a real laugh, loud and warm.
I don’t remember what I said to trigger it, but I remember wanting to crawl into a hole.
I finish everything. My entire update. And he’s still smiling.
Why is he smiling?
I get up abruptly, closing my file a little too sharply. “That’s all I had to inform.”
He blinks. “Already? That was quick.”
“I speak fast,” I say stiffly. “And work fast. And when you’re done being amused,” I add, feeling my cheeks heat again, “if you still have any questions, you know where to find me.”
His smirk returns instantly.
No. No, no, no. Wrong choice of words, Ishika. Why did you say that? Why did you serve him that opportunity on a silver platter?
His voice drops just enough to make every nerve in my body stand at attention.
“Oh, I know exactly where to find you.”
I freeze for a second, heart stumbling over itself. His assistant shifts his weight awkwardly, as if sensing something he absolutely should not be sensing in a workplace environment.
I force myself to turn around, chin lifted like I’m not internally combusting, and walk out of the room before I do something embarrassing. My steps are too fast. My pulse too loud. My thoughts too messy.
I push through the door and once I’m out of sight, I exhale so hard it feels like I’ve been underwater.
Why do I react like this around him? WHY?
I don’t react to people. I barely even notice people unless they’re creating problems. I am usually the queen of ignoring nonsense. Ignoring comments. Ignoring everything.
But around him, the part of my brain responsible for dignity shuts down completely. It’s like a switch flips the second he opens his stupid mouth. Either I’m fuming or blushing or getting flustered like someone who has never interacted with a man before.
It’s scary, honestly. Scary because I don’t like feeling anything that isn’t in my control.
Scary because he seems to enjoy every second of it.
Scary because it makes me aware of how unprepared I am for someone like him.
And scary because it feels like he sees right through all the walls I’ve spent years building.
I walk back toward the site, trying to calm my breathing.
I need space. I need work. I need silence. I need anything that isn’t Aryan Khanna.
Because if one more word leaves his mouth in that amused, teasing tone, I might explode.
Not at him.
At myself.
Since apparently, I am the problem here.
I hate it.
I hate how he affects me.
I hate how I react.
I hate that he makes me feel anything at all.
And yet, a tiny, traitorous voice inside me whispers the one thing I absolutely refuse to think: You don’t actually hate it.
I glare at the empty hallway like I can scare the thought away.
No.
I do hate it.
I have to.
Because the alternative is far too dangerous.
I square my shoulders, walk faster, and bury myself back into work—where things make sense, where lines stay straight, where people stay in their boxes, and where my heart doesn’t try to run marathons without my permission.
Whatever this strange pull is, whatever nonsense my brain is doing around him…it stops here.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Even though a small, irritating part of me knows—I’m lying.