CHAPTER 19
ISHIKA
I am already regretting it.
The moment I step into my office and see him there—leaning against my desk like he owns the oxygen in the room—I know I have made a mistake. Agreeing to “friends” sounded reasonable in the warmth of fever and vulnerability. It sounded safe. Harmless.
It is not harmless.
He looks up from his phone and beams like the sun personally chose him as its ambassador. “Good morning, Sunshine,” he says, and actually winks.
I have to physically stop myself from slapping him. A bit dramatic, I know. But this early in the morning? I haven’t even had proper coffee. My tolerance for his dramatics is dangerously low.
“Good morning, Golden boy,” I reply, stretching my lips into a fake smile so tight it almost hurts.
He chuckles, like that was exact the response he expected.
I walk past him and place my bag on the table, avoiding looking at him too long because that’s a dangerous game. He’s leaning casually, one ankle crossed over the other, arms loose, that one stupid strand of hair falling across his forehead in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow is.
“Why are you here, Aryan?” I sigh, pulling out my notebook and pretending to be busy.
“Wow,” he says lightly. “No ‘how are you’? No ‘missed you’?”
I give him a deadpan look.
“Okay, okay,” he laughs, straightening up. The teasing melts away so quickly it’s almost impressive. He folds his arms across his chest, posture shifting subtly. His shoulders square. His expression sharpens.
Business mode.
It fascinates me how easily he flips that switch. One second he’s joking, the next he looks like he’s about to close a multi-crore deal.
“Alright,” he says calmly. “I do have a reason to come here today.”
My stomach tightens slightly.
“Oh.” He reaches into his pocket. I watch his hand move. Slow. Deliberate. And then he places something on my desk. It makes a soft metallic sound against the wood. I stare at it. For so long it feels like the room has gone silent around us. A key. Not just any key. A car key.
“What’s that?” I ask, even though I already know.
He chuckles softly. “I’m sure you know how car keys look like, Ishika.” He says my name softly.
I roll my eyes, refusing to let him see how unsettled I feel. “What do I do with it, Aryan?”
“Use it,” he says simply. Like he’s telling me the weather forecast.
“Excuse me?” I tilt my head slightly, studying his face for a sign of a joke. There is none.
“Operate it,” he clarifies. “Drive it. It’s yours.” My heart drops.
No.
I frown immediately. “No.”
He blinks. “No?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
“I don’t need it,” I say, folding my arms tightly across my chest as if I’m physically holding myself together. My chin lifts on its own, defensive muscle memory kicking in before I even process it. “I am perfectly fine with the mode of transportation I already use.”
He exhales slowly and pinches the bridge of his nose, like he expected resistance but maybe hoped for something softer. That tiny flicker of disappointment in his face almost makes me look away. Almost.
“Ishika,” he says quietly.
God.
He needs to stop saying my name like that. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just…steady. Like it belongs to him for that second. Like he’s trying to reach something underneath all this steel.
“I am not fine with your current mode of transportation,” he continues, his brows drawing together. “Especially after that day.” His voice lowers at the end. It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t loud. It’s careful.
And I know exactly which day he means. The bus. The man. The way my skin crawled when I realized I was being followed. The way I pretended I wasn’t afraid.
Heat rises in my chest, not embarrassment this time—anger. Sharp and defensive. Because I don’t want that day to become a reason for someone to rearrange my life.
“I am not the first woman to be in such a situation,” I say, my tone firm even though something inside me twists. “It’s actually very normal.”
I hate how flat that sounds. Normal. As if harassment is just another inconvenience like traffic or bad weather. As if we’re supposed to adapt around it.
He flinches slightly at the word. His jaw tightens. He hates that I called it normal.
But it is. That’s the point.
“You guys live behind this facade of ‘I am a man, a protector, a provider,’” my voice sharpening despite the slight tremor in my chest, “and pretend like this is rare. It’s not. It’s common. It’s everyday life for us.”
Everyday life. The way we calculate routes. The way we share live locations, not that I have anyone to do that with. The way we memorize number plates. The way we pretend not to notice hands brushing too close.
He doesn’t interrupt. He just watches me, and that somehow makes the words come faster.
I draw in a breath, steadying myself before I go on. “But that doesn’t mean I will change my routine,” I say, my voice steadier now, anchored in something stubborn and raw. “Why should I?”
The question hangs there, heavy.
“I was nowhere at fault,” I add, each word deliberate. “The problem was that man. Not me.”
Not my clothes. Not my hair. Not my timing. Not my existence. The problem was him.
And I refuse—absolutely refuse—to let his actions dictate how I move through the world. “And besides,” I add, gesturing toward the key without actually touching it, like it might burn me if I do, “you don’t go around offering cars to all your employees. I don’t need or want any special treatment.”
The words come out controlled, but my pulse is anything but. I hop onto the edge of my desk and begin pulling things out of my bag with unnecessary focus—my notebook, my pen case, the measuring tape, a file I don’t even need right now. Anything to avoid looking at him.
Because if I look at him, I’ll see it.
Concern.
And concern from him feels dangerous. It feels like the beginning of something I am not ready for.
My fingers move automatically, lining things up on the table as if the neatness will steady the chaos building inside my chest. I keep my eyes down, fixed on the familiar comfort of objects I can control.
I won’t change for men who can’t control themselves.
The thought doesn’t just pass through my head—it anchors there. Firm. Stubborn.
Yes, it scares me. Of course it does. I am not delusional. I know how the world works. I know how easily a normal day can twist into something ugly. I know the weight of a stranger’s stare. I know the way my body tenses without permission when footsteps trail too closely behind.
I have felt hands where they shouldn’t be.
I have turned sharply in crowded buses and pretended not to notice because sometimes reacting is more exhausting than swallowing it.
I have walked home with keys pressed between my fingers, not because I wanted to feel powerful, but because I needed to feel prepared.
Prepared for what? For who? For men who think access is their right.
But I refuse to let that shape me into something smaller.
I refuse to adjust my existence to accommodate someone else’s lack of control.
I would rather fight. I would rather stand there and look them in the eye and let them know I am not prey.
If I change my routine, if I change the way I move through the world, then what does that mean? That they win? That fear gets to redesign my life?
No. I will not shrink. I will not calculate my clothing every morning based on male comfort levels.
I will not time my exit from work according to how dark the sky looks.
I will not lower my voice, soften my steps, shorten my stride just because someone else might misinterpret confidence as invitation.
I am human too. I deserve space. I deserve air. I deserve to exist loudly if I want to. The tightness in my chest grows, but I hold it there. Controlled. Contained.
My hands continue arranging papers that don’t need arranging. I can feel him still there. I can feel his presence the way you feel heat from a fire without looking directly at it.
Watching. Not judging. Not interrupting. Just waiting. And that unsettles me more than if he had argued back. Because silence means he’s thinking. And I don’t know what scares me more—him worrying for me, or him trying to understand me.
This conversation isn’t over. I can feel it hanging in the air between us like something unfinished.
But neither am I. And I refuse to bend first.