CHAPTER 17
ARYAN
Her office light is off. I notice it before I even take off my jacket.
It’s stupid how quickly my eyes search for that one specific square of glass every morning and how my lips curl up when I see her mess on the desk.
It’s become routine now. . But today, her office is dark.
Not pitch black because of the sunlight, but she’s definitely not there.
I frown.
Maybe she’s just late. It happens. Even though she pretends punctuality is a religion, she’s human.
She could be stuck in traffic. Overslept.
Decided to take a slower morning. I get my coffee, get one for Ajay too sometimes although I know he’s a tea person.
I sit down and open my laptop anyway. The market opens in ten minutes.
Emails are already piling up. There are three files Ajay left on my desk last night that need my signature.
There is enough work here to drown a normal person.
But I don’t look at any of it. My gaze keeps drifting back to that empty space.
It’s irrational. It’s barely nine. Calm down.
I try to focus on the numbers on the screen, but they blur.
I refresh a chart and immediately realize I’ve processed none of it.
My brain is running on a completely different track.
Did I screw up?
The memory of yesterday flashes back—her voice sharp, eyes blazing, door slammed in my face. Did I push too far? Did I make her uncomfortable enough to not show up today?
Or worse—did that creep follow her again? The thought lands heavy in my stomach. What if he waited outside? What if he—
No.
Don’t spiral. There’s no reason to assume the worst. Ajay walks in quietly, as he always does, placing a stack of files on my desk. “Sir, these need your review before the meeting at twelve.”
I nod absentmindedly.
He doesn’t leave.
“Sir?” he says again, a little more carefully this time.
I look up. He studies my face for a second. He’s worked with me long enough to notice shifts. “Ms. Vyas has sent an email,” he adds.
My heart skips.
“She’s ill. She won’t be coming in today.” He adds. Relief hits me first. It’s physical. Like someone loosened a rope around my chest. She’s safe.
The relief dissolves for a moment then comes back with full force. She’s ill? How ill? Why didn’t she tell me? Why would she tell me, I am just a client. Why did that thought even cross my mind?
I wave Ajay off, barely hearing myself say, “That’s fine. I’ll look at these later.”
He hesitates like he wants to say something else, then nods and leaves. The moment the door shuts, I grab my phone and call her.
It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. The call ends. She didn’t pick up. I stare at the screen.
Call again?
No. Don’t be dramatic. She’s ill. She’s probably sleeping. Or ignoring me. The second option annoys me more than it should. I call again anyway but the call ends soon after a few rings. A strange, urgent need starts blooming in my chest.
It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s quiet and steady and impossible to ignore. I need to see if she’s okay. Not through a call. Not through a message.
In person.
Before my rational brain can stand up and argue about boundaries and professionalism, I’m already on my feet. I grab my car keys, my phone, my wallet and step out of my office.
“Sir?” Ajay looks up from his desk.
“I might be out of office today,” I say casually, as if I haven’t just made a completely impulsive decision.
He studies me for a moment. Then he smiles softly. He doesn’t ask why and just nods. And that somehow makes it worse. Because now it feels obvious.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She’s supposed to be a contractual employee. Temporary. Professional. And here I am leaving work in the middle of a weekday because she didn’t pick up my call.
This is insane, but there’s nothing stopping me now. I get into my car and sit there for a second before starting the engine.
Think. Be logical. She said she’s ill. People fall sick. It happens. You don’t need to personally verify it.
And yet my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Because if Siddhant texts saying he’s sick, I send him memes and tell him to drink water. If Raksh says he has fever which is almost never, I tell him to stop being dramatic. If Vedant complains about a headache, I tell him to sleep.
I don’t get in my car. I don’t feel this restless. I don’t feel like something is pulling me forward. So what is this?
“I’ve been able to do that since I was fifteen.”
Her voice from yesterday lingers in my head, not angry now but weighted. I can still see the way her jaw tightened when she said it, the way her eyes dared me to challenge her strength. That was someone who learned too early that protection is a luxury.
Maybe that’s what this is. Not pity. I know the difference. Pity looks down. This doesn’t. This stands beside. It presses forward because it can’t bear the thought of her standing alone again if she doesn’t have to.
Concern is calm. Concern sends a polite message and waits for a reply. This is not calm. This is urgency, sharp and uninvited, blooming faster than I’m comfortable with. And urgency means attachment. Attachment means vulnerability. And vulnerability—God—I have spent years keeping that door locked.
I care for her.
The words settle in my chest without drama.
Not fireworks. Not poetry. Just steady truth.
The kind that shows up in small actions before you realize what they mean.
The kind that keeps you back at the office because she’s still there under bright lights and dust. The kind that swings first when someone corners her.
The kind that now has me driving across the city because she didn’t pick up her phone.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel as traffic slows in front of me.
I can feel my pulse in my palms. What kind of care is this?
It doesn’t fit neatly into any box I’ve used before.
It’s not friendship; I don’t lie awake thinking about Siddhant’s safety.
It’s not responsibility; she doesn’t belong to me.
It’s not simple attraction either, because attraction doesn’t twist your stomach with this kind of protective instinct.
This is layered. It’s protective in a way that feels almost instinctive. It’s consuming in a way I don’t entirely recognize, like something has quietly rooted itself inside me without asking permission.
And instead of fear, there’s a strange thrill running under the worry.
Huge trouble. That’s what this is. I can see it clearly now. The kind of trouble that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. The kind that rearranges priorities without warning.
I pull up outside her building and kill the engine, but I don’t move right away.
I sit there, staring at the entrance like it might give me answers.
My heartbeat feels louder than the traffic outside.
I imagine her opening the door and frowning at me.
I imagine her annoyed, accusing me of overstepping again. I imagine her not opening it at all.
And then I imagine the alternative—she’s not okay. She’s alone in there, sick or shaken or worse. The thought propels me out of the car before I can talk myself out of it.
Each step toward the building feels deliberate, heavy with awareness. I don’t have a speech prepared. I don’t have a polished excuse. I don’t even know what I’ll say if she asks why I’m here. I just know I need to see her. I need to look at her and confirm she’s real, breathing, safe.
When I reach her door, my hand hovers for a second before I knock. It’s a simple sound—knuckles against wood—but it echoes louder in my chest than anywhere else.
As I wait, pulse thudding in my ears, I become aware of how deep this has already gone. I should be careful. I should slow down. I should remind myself that she’s an employee, that this could get complicated, that vulnerability always costs something in the end.
Instead, standing here outside her door, I feel something dangerously close to anticipation. Not reckless, not blind—just alive.
Because whatever this is, it’s real. It’s not a passing distraction. It’s not curiosity dressed up as concern. It’s something that has weight and warmth and edges.
And as I wait for the sound of her footsteps on the other side, one final truth settles into place with quiet certainty.
I might be in trouble.
And I think, for the first time in a long time, I don’t entirely mind.