CHAPTER 22
ISHIKA
I hate gifts.
Giving them is worse than receiving them.
Receiving a gift at least gives you the option of nodding politely and pretending it didn’t affect you, but giving one means admitting something out loud without actually saying the words. It means acknowledging that someone did something for you that mattered.
And the stupid car key on my kitchen counter matters.
I stare at the small box on my dining table for a long time before leaving for work. It isn’t anything extravagant. In fact, compared to a car, it’s embarrassingly small. A matte black fountain pen. Simple, elegant, heavy enough to feel real in the hand.
I noticed it a week ago when we were going through documents. Aryan had borrowed Ajay’s pen because his had run out of ink and spent a full minute complaining about it like a dramatic child.
This one won’t run out of ink mid-signature.
It’s practical. Neutral. Safe.
Which is exactly why I picked it.
The box sits in my bag the entire drive to the office, and I spend the whole time questioning my life choices. What if he laughs? What if he makes some ridiculous joke about it? What if this somehow becomes a whole thing?
Why am I even nervous?
It’s just a thank you.
Nothing more. When I reach the office, I walk straight to his cabin before my brain can talk me out of it. The door is slightly open.
Aryan is inside, leaning back in his chair with his sleeves rolled up, one arm behind his head as he scrolls through something on his phone. His hair is slightly messy in that unfair way that somehow makes him look better instead of worse.
He notices me standing there and immediately grins.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite grumpy designer,” he says. “Good morning, Sunshine.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I step inside. “Good morning, Golden boy.”
He sits up straight, clearly amused. “That nickname is still a problem.”
“Your existence is still a problem,” I reply calmly.
He laughs under his breath like he enjoys being insulted. I place my bag on the chair opposite his desk and pull the small box out before I can lose my nerve. “This is for you,” I say, putting it on the table.
He looks at the box and then back at me, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Should I be worried?”
“Very,” I say flatly.
He picks it up slowly, turning it over once in his hands like he’s inspecting a suspicious object. “Is this a trap?”
“Just open it.”
He gives me a dramatic sigh but flips the lid open. For a moment, he just looks at the pen inside. Not speaking. Not joking. And suddenly I regret everything.
“It’s just a pen,” I say quickly. “Before you start being dramatic. A normal, functional pen. You sign a lot of documents. Your previous one betrayed you mid-meeting, so—”
“I remember that,” he interrupts softly.
He lifts the pen carefully, testing the weight in his hand. His fingers roll it slightly before he uncaps it and scribbles a quick line on a notepad.
The ink flows smoothly.
His lips twitch. “This is a good pen,” he comments after a moment.
“That’s…the point.”
He looks up at me again, something different in his expression now. Not teasing. Not exaggerated. “You got this for me?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply immediately, folding my arms so he doesn’t notice the strange tightness in my chest. “Before your ego gets carried away, it’s just a thank you for the car.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Just a thank you?” he repeats.
“Yes.”
He studies the pen again before placing it carefully on the desk. “You didn’t have to,” he says.
“I know.”
The room goes quiet for a second. Then he leans back in his chair and tilts his head at me. “So this means we’re even now?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I reply. “You gave me a car. I gave you a pen. You’re still ridiculously ahead.”
He chuckles. “You realize,” he says slowly, twirling the pen between his fingers, “this is the first time you’ve voluntarily given me something that isn’t sarcasm.”
“I give you plenty of constructive criticism,” I say.
“That’s not a gift.”
“It improves your personality.”
“My personality is already excellent.”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Khanna.”
He laughs out loud, shaking his head. I wonder sometimes how does he finds this funny when I deliberately say to make him feel bad so he leaves me alone. I point at him warningly. “Don’t make this weird.”
“I’m not,” he says innocently.
“You are.”
“I’m appreciating a gift.”
“You’re milking it.” He grins at that, clearly pleased with himself.
For a moment neither of us says anything. Then he uncaps the pen again and signs a random sheet of paper just to test it.
“This is dangerously smooth,” he murmurs. “You know what this means, right?” he says, looking up again.
I sigh. “I’m going to regret asking, but what?”
“Every contract I sign from now on will technically be your fault.”
I stare at him. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“How?”
“If I accidentally sign something terrible, I can blame the pen.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You bought it.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re welcome,” I mutter.
He laughs again, softer this time, and sets the pen down carefully like it’s something fragile. “Thank you, Ishika,” he says.
Not joking. Not dramatic. Just…sincere. The sincerity throws me off more than any of his teasing ever could.
I shrug awkwardly and grab my bag again. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” he replies. I pause at the door and glance back at him. He’s still looking at the pen. Turning it slowly in his fingers like it matters more than it should.
And for some reason that makes my chest feel strangely warm. Which is ridiculous. It’s just a pen. And he already gave me a whole freaking car.