CHAPTER 18
ISHIKA
I frown into my pillow at the knock on my door. For a second, I pretend I didn’t hear it. Maybe whoever it is will go away. Maybe it’s a neighbor. Maybe it’s another wrong delivery. Maybe it’s the universe testing how much I can tolerate in one week.
Another knock. It’s louder this time.
I groan and push myself up from the couch.
My head throbs immediately, like it’s offended I dared to move.
My nose is blocked, my throat scratchy, and my entire body feels heavy.
Fever does this thing where it turns even the smallest movement into a negotiation.
I recall being so whiny when I was sick in childhood, but I don’t have the luxury of being cared for anymore so I just sulk.
I shuffle toward the door, not even bothering to check the mirror. I’m in shorts. An oversized T-shirt that has seen better days. My hair is probably a disaster. My face feels hot and dry.
I unlock the door and pull it open. Aryan stands there. For a moment, I just stare at him. And the more I look at him, the more I want to slam the door shut on his face.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp.
His eyes move over me, not in that creepy way men usually do, not slow or lingering—but scanning. Checking. As if he’s assessing damage. And suddenly I’m hyper-aware of myself. Bare legs. Messy hair. No guard.
“You are fine,” he says quietly, almost like he’s relieved.
“By fine you mean alive, yes,” I reply dryly. “I emailed that I won't be coming. I’m working from here so don’t—”
He doesn’t let me finish. He steps inside. Without permission.
“Wow,” I hiss, stepping back. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t respond. He walks straight toward the couch where my laptop is open and shuts it down. I gape at him.
“You are on sick leave,” he says, turning toward me. His voice has shifted. It’s firm. “You won’t be working. If I hear from anyone that you were, I am going to fire you.”
I blink. There’s something in his tone I haven’t heard before. Not teasing. Not amused. Authoritative. Controlled.
And I…shut up.
I hate that I do.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead, crossing my arms.
“Came to check on you,” he shrugs.
“You could’ve asked someone else to do that,” I snap. “Why is a high and mighty CEO doing that?”
He smiles, and I curse the way my heart reacts when that dimple appears. It’s unfair. Completely unfair. “And risk leaking your address?” he replies easily. “Absolutely not.”
I shake my head. “I will be fine in a day or two. I’ll resume asap. You can go now.”
He chuckles softly. “I’m not leaving you alone when you definitely have a fever, Sunshine.”
I frown. “How do you know that?”
He points toward the small table where the thermometer lies abandoned beside a half-empty glass of water. “And,” he adds, tilting his head slightly, “you are entirely red.”
My cheeks burn hotter. It could be the fever. It could be embarrassment. I’m not admitting either.
“I can take care of—”
“Yourself,” he finishes calmly. “And you’ve been doing that since you were fifteen. I know.”
The words land heavier than I expect. “Respectfully, Mr. Khanna,” I say stiffly, “I don’t need anyone to babysit me.”
“Very respectfully, Ms. Vyas,” he replies just as evenly, “I understand.”
He doesn’t move. “What are you doing?” I ask, irritation rising.
“I’m telling you I understand,” he says, like he’s explaining something to a child, “but I don’t care. And I don’t intend to leave.”
My jaw tightens. “Why?” I demand.
“Because it’s okay to need someone once in a while, Ishika.”
He doesn’t say it lightly. There’s no teasing curl to his mouth, no playful lift in his tone. He says my name like it matters. Like it isn’t just something he throws around to irritate me. Soft. Careful. Almost…protective.
And that softness does something dangerous to me.
It slips past the walls before I can stop it.
Something twists low in my chest, tight and unfamiliar. My first instinct isn’t to respond—it’s to retreat. Because that tone? That tone feels like an invitation. And invitations lead to doors opening. Doors opening lead to people stepping in. And people stepping in—
People leave. People who notice you when it’s convenient and disappear when it’s messy. I’m not afraid of incompetence; I’m afraid of patterns. I know what they look like, and I have been living inside one for as long as I can remember.
When someone gets familiar, they settle into my space. They notice the small things—how I fold my sleeves, how I order three cups of black coffee everyday, how I laugh when something is actually terrifying—and then they build expectations on top of that knowledge.
I meet those expectations because it’s easier to comply than to explain. And when the same person walks away, it’s always because they decided the role I played was no longer fulfilling. They didn’t stand up for me; they just stood down.
It’s exhausting.
That exhaustion has made me sharp. My sarcasm isn’t always funny; it’s often defensive.
I don’t do casual. I don’t do handshakes that last longer than they should.
Friendships terrify me, not because they’re complicated but because they’re fragile.
I learned early that people will leave, sometimes politely, sometimes in bursts of anger, sometimes because of an opportunity that tastes too sweet to resist. Every departure is a tiny subtraction.
After enough subtractions, you stop inviting people in.
“No, it’s not,” I reply immediately, sharper than I mean to be.
The words come out fast, defensive, like I need to shut the idea down before it even settles in the room.
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t smile. He just looks at me. And the absence of humor on his face unsettles me more than any joke ever has. His expression is steady now. Serious. The kind of seriousness that doesn’t waver. It makes my skin feel too tight, like I’ve been caught without armor.
That makes it worse.
Because I don’t know how to fight that version of him.
“Listen, Aryan,” I begin, and my voice betrays me just enough that I hear the tremor before he does. I straighten instinctively, trying to sound firm, unshakable. “I don’t want anyone in my life. If that’s not clear, I’m making it clear.”
My fingers curl slightly against my palm, nails pressing into skin as if grounding me.
Shut up.
Stop talking.
You’re oversharing.
My brain screams at me to stop.
“I am done with people,” I continue, the words spilling out faster now. They feel old. Rehearsed. Like something I’ve told myself a hundred times in the dark. “They up and leave whenever they wish to. Without caring what’s going to happen to the one left behind.”
My throat tightens as I say it, but I force the words out anyway.
Because if I don’t say them, if I let his softness linger too long, I might start believing him.
And believing him would be the real mistake.
“So no. As I said, I can very well survive without anyone. I don’t need your care just because my head is aching and I have a blocked nose.”
He watches me the entire time. “Are you done?” he asks quietly. I stare at him blankly.
“Because,” he continues, exhaling slowly, “I don’t like the sound of you just surviving, Ishika.”
I scoff, but my eyes sting. “You’re pitying me,” I whisper. “That’s why these words are coming out of your mouth.”
His expression tightens slightly. “Trust me when I say this, Aryan,” I continue, my throat thick, “I am fucked up. No one wants to stay around me. My own parents left me when I was fifteen.” The words hurt more out loud. “People leave, Aryan. I am not someone to stay for.”
“Try me,” he interrupts.
The confidence in his voice makes me freeze.
“Aryan—”
“Ishika,” he cuts in gently. “I don’t know what kind of people you had in your life. But you are a very interesting person.” I blink at him. “You are bold,” he says, stepping slightly closer. “Courageous. Stubborn as hell. Prideful. Funny in your dry, mean way. Intelligent. Passionate. Determined.”
My throat tightens.
“You are also kind,” he adds softly. “I see how you treat everyone well, except me.” He fakes a pout and despite everything, I let out a small laugh. My eyes blur. “Even when they don’t deserve it. Which, by the way, is very hurtful to me.”
“And I need to know,” he speaks firmer, “what have I done so particularly wrong?”
I shake my head weakly. “So try me,” he says again, extending his hand toward me. “If I leave, you can burn my office to the ground. You already know the address.”
A laugh escapes me through tears. He beams at that, like it’s a victory. “Friends?” he asks as he extends his hand towards me.
I roll my eyes. “What are we, five?”
He grins. “My mother does say I behave like one. And by the tantrums you throw, you might be too.”
I look down at his hand. Then back at him. His green eyes are softer now. No teasing. No ego. Just belief. “Don’t regret it,” I whisper, sliding my hand into his. “Because I am 100% sure you will leave. And I will burn down your office.”
He chuckles and steps closer, our hands still clasped.
“We’ll see,” he says, with so much certainty that for one dangerous second—
I almost believe him.