CHAPTER 35
ISHIKA
I know something is wrong the moment Ajay walks into my office alone. It is an absurd thing to notice first. Not the file tucked beneath his arm. Not the measured expression on his face. Not the fact that he entered without his usual knock because his hands were full.
No.
What I notice is who is missing.
For one ridiculous second, I look past him, expecting Aryan to appear in the doorway with that infuriating grin, shoulders filling the frame, already halfway into some comment about how pale my office walls are without him in them.
He doesn’t.
The doorway remains empty. And the emptiness lands harder than it should.
I hate that I notice these things now. There was a time his absence meant relief.
Silence. Productivity. Peace. Now it feels like a room where the electricity has gone out—everything still in place, yet something essential missing.
That realization unsettles me enough to make me angry.
Because I have always known myself. I know what I want.
What I refuse. Where the lines are. How close to let people come before I shut the gate.
I have never been one of those people who sit by windows wondering what they feel.
And yet lately, I seem to be made entirely of contradictions.
Part of me wants to find him, fist his expensive collar in one hand, and tell him the truth.
That his smile is becoming a problem. That his eyes make me lose arguments I haven’t even started.
That every time he chooses patience when I hand him sharpness something inside me loosens against my will.
That kindness from him feels alarmingly like shelter.
That each stupid, steady effort chips at walls I spent years building.
Brick by careful brick. And another part of me wants to run. Run fast and somewhere far.
So yes, Ajay arriving without him should make things easier. Instead, it stings. “Ms. Vyas?” I blink. Ajay is watching me with the composed expression of a man who notices too much and says too little.
“Yes?”
“There was a fire in sir’s office last night.” The room tilts and my breath catches in my throat.
My chair scrapes violently backward as I stand so fast it nearly topples. “What?” The word tears out of me. Fear hits first—clean, immediate, merciless. It floods my chest before reason can reach it.
Of course something is wrong. Aryan Khanna would never willingly miss a chance to disturb my peace. If he is absent, then something must have forced him to be. “Was he there?” I hear myself ask. “Is he hurt? Where is he? Why didn’t anyone call me—”
“Sir is fine, Ms. Vyas.” Ajay says it calmly. Too calmly. There is something suspiciously entertained in his eyes.
I stop mid-panic. “He’s in a meeting.” Relief crashes through me so hard my knees nearly soften. Then embarrassment follows, hot and immediate. I sit back down with whatever scraps of dignity remain.
“Good,” I mutter, grabbing a pencil I do not need. “I was asking professionally.”
“Of course.” His face remains perfectly straight. Which somehow makes it worse.
I narrow my eyes. “Why are you here, Ajay?”
He steps forward and places the file on my desk. I stare at it like it might explode. “It’s a redesign agreement,” he explains. “For sir’s office.”
I look up slowly. “For Aryan’s office?”
“Yes.” I open the file, suspicion rising page by page. “He wants me to redesign his office?”
“You are already handling the Evergreen expansion. Sir would like continuity in design.” That sounds rehearsed. Too neat. Like lines practiced in a mirror.
Still, I turn the page. Then stop. Then look again. Then physically bring the paper closer to my face because perhaps my eyesight has chosen this moment to fail me.
The redesign fee is double my current contract.
Double.
I look up so fast my neck protests. “This is wrong.”
“It is not.”
“No one pays this much for one office.”
A strange smile touches his mouth. “You haven’t seen the office.”
Something about the way he says it makes me suspicious. Something about the number makes me deaf to suspicion.
Thirty lakhs. Forty-five lakhs in total. The figure pulses in my head.
Forty-five lakhs.
That is not luxury money to me. That is breath money. That is safety money. That is move-to-a-better-flat money. That is hire-help-and-grow-my-business money. That is stop-checking-my-account-before-ordering-dinner money. That is future money.
My fingers tighten around the pages. People who say money doesn’t matter have usually never lacked it. Money pays rent on time. Money buys exits. Money gives choices. Money lets you rest. Money lets you go looking for answers that grief buried years ago.
A private investigator. Records reopened. Names traced. Something—anything—about my parents beyond a file and silence.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “I’ll do it.”
The words leave my mouth before caution can stand up. Ajay’s smile widens. I dislike that smile immediately.
I haven’t even seen the damage and this is professionally stupid, but money blinds me because I clearly lack it.
“You can inspect it today.” Ajay comments as if reading my thoughts.
“I said I’ll do it.” Because I am many things, but not foolish enough to walk away from this kind of opportunity.
He offers me a pen. I take it. For one second, I hover over the signature line.
Not because of the work. Because of him.
His office means proximity. More time. More conversations that begin in annoyance and end somewhere dangerous.
More of those green eyes fixed on me like I am worth understanding.
More chances for my heart to continue behaving like an idiot.
I should refuse. I should protect my peace. I should keep distance while distance is still possible. Instead, I sign.
My name cuts across the paper in one sure stroke.
Done.
Ajay gathers the file, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I’ll inform sir.”
“Don’t.” He pauses. I clear my throat. “I mean, there’s no need to dramatize routine paperwork.”
“Of course.” Again with that tone. I point toward the door. “You can go now.”
He inclines his head and leaves. The second the door clicks shut, silence rushes in. I stare at the empty doorway. Then at my hands. Then at the contract copy. Then back at the door. What just happened? I got manipulated. That is what happened.
Somewhere inside this polished little arrangement is Aryan Khanna, smiling like a man who has committed a crime and expects applause.
I know it. I feel it. And yet—I still signed.
Because money is practical.
Because work is work.
Because opportunities do not politely return later.
Because I am intelligent enough to separate business from emotion.
Because I am absolutely not thinking about seeing him again.
Because I am definitely not wondering what expression he’ll wear when I walk into his ruined office.
Because I am not curious whether he missed me too.
I drop my head into my hands. This is bad. Very bad. I used to be rational. Now I am a woman who panicked over a man being hurt and signed a major contract while thinking about his face.
Humiliating.
I lean back in my chair and look around my temporary office.
Sample books stacked in uneven towers. Fabric swatches pinned to boards.
Pencil sketches layered over one another.
Black coffee abandoned near my elbow. This room has always made sense to me.
Work is the cleanest version of life. Budgets are clear.
Walls can be repaired. Lighting can be replaced. Damage can be assessed and fixed.
People are where everything becomes chaos. And Aryan Khanna is the most chaotic person I have ever met.
Too warm.
Too persistent.
Too observant.
Too kind in ways that feel dangerous.
Men like him are supposed to be surface-level creatures.
Charm. Money. Smile. Move on. He keeps refusing the script.
He notices when I skip meals. He remembers things I say casually.
He gives space when I need air and pushes when I hide too long.
He jokes when I stiffen. Softens when I crack. He is either dangerous or rare.
Possibly both.
My phone buzzes across the desk. Kamlesh asking about delivery schedules. Life continuing with no respect for emotional crisis. I inhale once and straighten. This is simple. A project. Good money. Nothing more.
I will redesign his office. I will remain unaffected. I will ignore his smile. I will not notice his eyes. I will complete the work, take the payment, and move on.
Easy.
My heart gives one hard, traitorous thud at the thought of seeing him. I glare at my own chest.
“Control yourself,” I mutter.
It does not.
And beneath the caution, beneath the irritation, beneath every practical reason I signed—there is one small truth I do not want to touch.
I am looking forward to it.
Which means I am almost certainly going to regret it.