CHAPTER 20
ARYAN
She’s right. The problem wasn’t her. It never was. It was him. It was a man who mistook existence for invitation. It was a man who thought proximity meant permission. And that man was handled.
But that doesn’t erase the possibility of another one. And that’s the part I can’t ignore.
I stand there watching her arrange her things with that stiff, controlled anger that she wears like armor, and I let her words sink in properly.
She isn’t wrong. She shouldn’t have to change.
She shouldn’t have to rearrange her life because some idiot can’t control himself.
She shouldn’t have to accept limitations just because the world is unsafe.
But here’s the part she doesn’t see. The problem isn’t whether she can protect herself.
I don’t doubt that for a second. Ishika could probably set an entire room straight with just one look.
She’s brave in a way that doesn’t scream for attention.
She’s fierce in a way that’s quiet but unmovable.
I have seen the way she speaks to contractors twice her size and makes them listen.
I have seen the way she stood her ground even when I crossed a line.
She can protect herself. That’s not the issue.
The issue is me. Because I am afraid. Afraid that next time I won’t be there to walk in at the right moment.
Afraid that next time the situation escalates before she gets the chance to react.
Afraid that something happens and I only find out when it’s too late.
And I hate that fear. I hate that it exists. I hate that it makes my chest tighten like this.
So I do the one thing that makes sense to me. I step out of her office quietly and pull out my phone.
“Ajay,” I say when he picks up. He listens. As always. No unnecessary questions. Just a calm acknowledgement. A few quick confirmations. Logistics sorted.
When I hang up, there’s a small, satisfied smile tugging at my mouth.
If she won’t accept it as special treatment, then I’ll remove that excuse. I walk back into her office.
She’s already back in her zone. Pencil in hand. Head slightly bent. That strand of red hair slipping loose near her cheek. She doesn’t notice me until I clear my throat.
She looks up, irritation already forming.
I don’t waste time. I walk to her desk and gently push the car key toward her again.
She exhales sharply, the kind of breath someone takes when they are counting to ten in their head.
“Aryan—”
I grin widely and cut her off. “I am giving a car to all my employees. And currently you are one.”
I shrug casually. Her eyes widen. Not slightly. Fully. A soft gasp escapes her mouth before she can stop it.
I smirk.
“Are you completely insane?” she demands, standing up so fast her chair scrapes against the floor. She marches toward me, eyes blazing. “I don’t understand you. Are you highly stupid or do you genuinely think you need to fix all my problems because I don’t need—”
Before I even realize what I’m doing, I lift my hand and gently press a finger against her lips.
She freezes. So do I. Her skin is warm under my touch. Softer than I expected. Her eyes go wide, shock flickering across them.
“Let’s just go with I am stupid,” I say lightly, trying to keep my tone steady, “and I care for you.”
The words hang in the air. My brain catches up a second too late.
I care for you?
Did I just say that out loud? Her eyes widen even more.
Yeah. I definitely did.
“Care for me?” she whispers, like she isn’t sure she heard correctly.
My heart is beating a little too fast now, but I force my shoulders to relax. “Yeah,” I reply coolly. “We are friends after all.”
Coolly. I am absolutely not feeling cool. Inside, I am fully aware that I just crossed into dangerous territory. I am watching her process it and I am half prepared for her to shut down, build a wall, retreat.
“You care about all your friends, do you?” she challenges, though her voice is softer now.
I remove my finger from her lips, resisting the urge to linger.
“Yeah,” I say easily. “I once gifted a helicopter to Siddhant because he doesn’t like them.”
She blinks.
“Helicopter?” she shrieks, disbelief cracking through her anger.
I nod, amused. Her eyes sparkle for just a second before she can hide it. “Do you like them?” she asks, almost involuntarily.
I pause, surprised by the sudden shift. “Helicopters?”
“Yes,” she says quickly, then immediately clamps her mouth shut like she regrets asking.
I can’t help the small smile that spreads across my face. “A lot,” I admit.
For a fraction of a second, something soft passes between us.
Then she straightens. “Aryan, this is unacceptable,” she says, back to grumpy mode like she flipped a switch. “Please, I don’t really—”
“I need it,” I interrupt gently.
She frowns.
“I want you to be safe,” I say quietly.
Her expression flickers. “Like all friends do,” I add quickly, softening the weight of it.
“I—uh—I don’t…” she stutters, searching for a reason that doesn’t sound like pride.
I step closer, lowering my voice just slightly. “Please, Ishika,” I say. “This once.” There’s no joke in my tone now. No teasing. No ego. Just honesty. She looks up at me, really looks at me, like she’s trying to figure out if this is manipulation or sincerity.
“Okay,” she whispers finally. “Thank you, Aryan.”
The way she says my name makes something settle in my chest.
“But don’t pull something like this again,” she adds quickly, stepping back as if to regain control. “Is all.”
And just like that, she turns and walks back to her seat, dismissing me as if I’m a contractor who overstayed his welcome. I stand there for a moment, watching her sit down, pick up her pencil again, pretend like she didn’t just accept a car from me.
And I smile.
Because she does this so effortlessly. She pushes. She argues. She fights. And then, when she decides something, she ends the conversation like it was always her choice. And somehow, I always let her.
I always step back. I always walk away. Not because I lose. But because I don’t mind losing to her. As I turn and head toward the door, I realize something quietly.
This isn’t about control. It’s about wanting her safe without clipping her wings. And if that means bending my pride, reworking my approach, finding loopholes just to make her comfortable—I’ll do it.
Every time.
Because the truth is simple.
I care for her.
And that is no longer something I can pretend was accidental.