CHAPTER 15
ISHIKA
The site is already loud—machines humming, metal clanging, men shouting instructions over each other, when I step onto the floor, ready to give today’s briefing.
I adjust my file under my arm and walk straight into it, because that’s what I do.
I don’t have the right to hesitate and I absolutely cannot shrink. I don’t let noise overpower me.
“Shift the partition two inches back,” I tell the laborers, pointing at the chalk line. “It won’t align with the beam otherwise. And the lighting grid will look crooked.”
Two of them nod. One scratches his head. Another mutters something to the one beside him. I’m used to it. I’ve learned how to speak over doubt. Learned how to hold my ground without screaming.
I step closer to demonstrate. Raising my hand to point at the glass but words dry in my throat when I feel a hand on my ass, firm and quick and by the touch I know it’s deliberate.
For a split second, my body doesn’t register it.
Then it does. My spine locks. My stomach flips.
My skin burns. I jerk forward instinctively, disgust hitting me so violently I almost lose balance.
I spin around immediately—but there are five men behind me.
Five faces. Some blank. Some confused. Some looking away too quickly.
I don’t know which one. That’s the worst part. If I knew, I could at least anchor my anger somewhere. But now it floats. Directionless. Heavy.
“Continue later,” I say, my voice tight but steady.
They look at me, unsure.
“Later,” I repeat.
I walk away without waiting for a response.
My steps are fast. I try not to run or flee, just walk fast enough that I don’t have to look at any of them again. My hands feel dirty even though no mark remains. My brain replays the moment again and again like it wants to confirm it happened.
It did.
I hate this part of being a woman the most.
Not the comments.
Not the stares.
Not even the fear.
The part where your body stops feeling like it belongs to you for a second.
The part where you feel exposed without actually being exposed.
The part where you wonder if it was your fault.
If your blouse was too fitted. If your hair was too noticeable.
If you stood too close. Because that’s how society has convinced us women that it’s always your fault, sometimes it’s the clothes, sometimes it’s the time.
It is always your fault and not the man who tried to touch me without my permission.
I reach my office and shut the door behind me. The noise dulls. The space feels smaller, but safer, away from the world. My temporary metal gate—installed the day I took this job—rests behind me like a silent guard. I need this for a second, so I can breathe again.
I lean against the desk and inhale slowly.
You’ve handled worse. Fifteen-year-old me handled worse.
Fifteen-year-old me learned how to hold keys between fingers like weapons.
Learned how to look men in the eye so they’d know I wasn’t afraid.
Learned how to walk alone without looking lost. Learned how to survive alone. So I can handle this.
I sit down and open my laptop, forcing myself to work. Because work makes sense. Work is predictable. Work doesn’t betray you.
The door clicks shut.
I look up.
A man stands there.
He isn’t one of the regular workers. I know faces. I remember them. This one is new. Or maybe I’ve seen him in passing. I don’t know. But I know he doesn’t belong inside this office.
I stand immediately, spine straight, eyebrow raised. “Who are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He closes the door fully behind him. Something cold creeps up my back. “I know almost everyone here,” I continue, keeping my tone controlled. “I’ve never seen you.”
He smiles. And it's not a friendly smile.
“You might be so desperate for attention,” he says. My stomach drops. “Red hair,” he continues, eyes scanning me slowly. “Sleeveless blouse. Your inner is visible.”
My fingers curl into fists. “Show some to me,” he says casually, like he’s asking for a glass of water. For one split second, my brain freezes.
Then it switches. I measure distance. Door. Table. My phone. My weight shifts slightly. Before I can move—The door slams open. It bangs so hard it hits the wall. I turn, confused.
Aryan.
He stands there, breathing hard, eyes dark in a way I’ve never seen before.
There’s no teasing. No smirk. No amusement.
This isn’t his usual self. He looks furious.
Before I can say anything, he strides forward and grabs the man by his collar, yanking him away from me so fast the chair behind him falls.
“Who are you?” Aryan’s voice booms.
The man stumbles, fear replacing arrogance instantly. “The girl was giving signals—” he stammers. “When we were in bus—”
Bus. He followed me from the bus. The realization lands heavy. I was giving signals? All I did was listen to a podcast. What signals?
Aryan’s fist connects with his face before I process it. The sound is sharp. The man yelps, staggering back. I flinch.
“Stop!” I shout instinctively. Aryan hits him again. “Stop!” I scream louder.
He freezes mid-motion and turns toward me. The man uses that moment to bolt. He runs out the door without looking back. Silence fills the room.
Aryan’s chest rises and falls quickly. His jaw clenched. His hands still slightly curled.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Something in me snaps. “You don’t get to do that!” I yell.
He blinks, stunned.
“I am more than capable of protecting myself!” My voice shakes—not from fear but from something deeper. “I don’t need anyone! I have been able to do that since I was fifteen. I can surely do it now!” The words come out louder than I intended. Rawer. Sharper.
He takes a step back and doesn’t argue as if he’s trying to give me space, or is he just taken aback by a girl saying he doesn’t need his help?
He doesn’t interrupt. He just looks at me like he’s trying to understand.
That makes me angrier. Because I don’t want understanding.
I don’t want concern. I don’t want to feel like I needed saving.
I step past him and slam the door shut behind me and I lock it.
I lean my back against the metal gate and slide down slowly until I’m sitting on the floor.
My hands tremble now. Not because of the man.
Because of the relief. For one second—just one—I felt safe when the door opened.
And that terrifies me. Because safety tied to someone else is fragile.
I press my palms against my eyes. I hate that this happened.
I hate that he followed me. I hate that I didn’t know who touched me earlier.
I hate that my body feels invaded. I hate that Aryan saw me like that.
Strong, independent Ishika. The one who doesn’t need anyone. The one who built everything herself.
And yet, when that door slammed open—I wasn’t alone.
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely. I don’t cry. I don’t break. I breathe in. Then out.
You’re fine. You’ve always been fine.
Outside the door, I can hear faint footsteps.
Maybe his. Maybe someone else’s. I don’t open it.
I can’t right now. Because right now, I need to sit here.
Against this cold metal. In this quiet room.
And remind myself that I survived before him.
I will survive after him. But God…For one terrifying, fragile second—I didn’t want to do it alone. I was glad he was here.