CHAPTER 36
ARYAN
She fell for it. The second she walks into my office carrying her laptop, sketch folder, and that deeply suspicious expression she reserves only for me, I know the plan worked. I should probably feel guilty for orchestrating an elaborate professional trap just to get her in front of me.
I do not.
Because she is here.
Across from me. Yeah, I told her I would be where she wants me to be but that didn’t include her avoiding me as if it were her life mission so I had to do something.
In my temporary meeting room, since the actual office now looks like a badly judged action sequence happened inside it. She lowers herself into the chair opposite mine with the posture of a woman who already regrets every life choice that brought her here.
And yet she came.
That matters more than it should.
She is wearing a plain shirt today, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied up in a loose knot that is failing at its job because soft strands keep escaping around her face. There is no dramatic dress, no event makeup, no polished version of her.
Just Ishika.
Sharp-eyed. Guarded. And Very irritated. Beautiful enough to make a man forget his own name. I rest my elbows on the desk and smile slowly. “I heard you were concerned for me, Sunshine.” Her eyes lift immediately, narrowing with practiced annoyance. “I’m hurt you didn’t come yourself to see me.”
She scoffs and opens her folder with unnecessary force. “Don’t read too much into it. I just wanted to ensure you were okay so I get my fees.”
The laugh leaves me before I can stop it. Because she says it so dryly. So confidently. As if I didn’t know the way she stood up in panic when Ajay delivered the story. As if she isn’t biting back a smile right now.
Her mouth presses into a thin line, but the corners threaten rebellion.
God.
She has no idea how transparent she becomes in tiny moments. “Heartwarming,” I say softly. “Nothing says affection like invoice security.”
“There is no affection.” She rolls her eyes. “Stop over exaggerating things, Golden boy.”
“There is no over exaggeration either, Sunshine.” That earns me another near-smile. I could live off those almost-smiles for years.
“Let’s get to work,” she says, voice clipped.
I lean back in my chair. “Bossy.”
“Focused.”
“Same thing in your case.”
She ignores that and flips open a page of notes. “I inspected the office.” She winces.
I follow the expression with interest. “That bad?”
Her stare sharpens. “How did the fire happen?” I clear my throat and reach for the water glass though I am not thirsty.
There are moments where truth is noble. This is not one of them.
Because the real answer is: I had an impulsive idea, poor supervision, bad timing, and a deep desire to see you again.
So instead, I choose survival.
“It damaged almost everything,” she continues before I answer. “Furniture, wall paneling, electrical fittings, ceiling treatment. Smoke spread into the adjoining section too.”
I nod like a serious businessman. Inside, I am thinking about the way one curl has fallen beside her cheek. “I may need two full months,” she says, flipping another page. “Even if I rush it.”
Don’t rush it.
The thought arrives instantly.
Take six months.
Take a year.
Redesign one drawer per week if you want.
Stay near me.
I say none of that. “Take the time you need.” Her eyes flick up to mine briefly, as if surprised I’m not pushing deadlines. “I mean it,” I add. “Do it properly.”
She studies me for a second too long, then looks away. Something warm moves through my chest. Being taken seriously by her feels strangely intimate.
“How did it happen?” she asks again. Persistent woman. I admire that about her when it isn’t dangerous for me. She watches me with open suspicion.
“Insurance officers will handle the rest.” Another lie. There will be no insurance officers because reporting it means questions, paperwork, and possibly discovering I am an idiot. I don’t need any claims, I have got what I wanted.
No thank you.
“Okay,” she says slowly, clearly unconvinced. Then she turns professional. And I am helpless against that version of her too.
She begins explaining layout possibilities, material alternatives, lighting changes, acoustic treatment, a better storage wall, more natural textures, cleaner lines, softer seating for client meetings, concealed wiring, upgraded automation, color balance, functionality, warmth.
Words keep coming.
Smart words.
Confident words.
Passionate words.
Her hands move when she talks, fingers sketching shapes in air before pen touches paper. Her brows pull together when she concentrates. She taps the page when emphasizing points. She bites the inside of her cheek while thinking.
I hear almost none of the technical details.
Because I am too busy being ruined by the sight of her caring about something.
There is nothing more attractive than competence worn honestly.
She doesn’t perform intelligence. She lives inside it.
The room changes when she speaks about design.
She becomes brighter somehow. Less guarded.
Like passion opens doors fear keeps shut.
I could listen to her explain ceiling textures for hours if it means seeing this face.
She glances up mid-sentence. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“What did I just say?”
“That you are talented.”
Her expression goes flat and she studies me for a whole minute before shaking her head and huffing, “I hate you.” She mutters.
“No you don’t.”
“I professionally dislike you.” I grin.
She exhales sharply and continues. I make an effort this time. I really do. I focus on the plan. Glass partitions with privacy treatment. But then she leans across the desk to show me a sketch, and the scent of her reaches me.
Something soft. Clean. Faintly floral. Entirely distracting. My body stills. There should be laws. She doesn’t notice what she does to me. Or maybe she does and chooses violence anyway. Her finger traces a line on the page. “This wall can open the room visually. Right now it feels stiff.”
“Unlike me.”
She closes her eyes briefly. “Please try to behave like an adult for ten minutes.”
“That long?” I feign a pout trying to control my laughter.
“Yes.”
“You’re being cruel.” I clench my chest in dramatics. She mutters something under her breath.
“What was that?”
“I said focus.”
Liar.
I smile and obey for approximately forty seconds. When she finally finishes, she sits back, shoulders dropping slightly from effort. “That’s the concept. Final detailing will take a few more days.”
I look at her. At the flushed cheeks from talking too much. At the stubborn set of her mouth. At the eyes that never stop watching for danger even in calm rooms. “It sounds perfect.”
She blinks. Then suspiciously narrows her eyes. “You didn’t listen to half of it.”
“I listened to the important part.”
“What important part?”
“You made it.”
Color rises slowly in her cheeks. There. There it is. My favorite miracle. The way she blushes like she resents the body betraying her. “Ishika.”
“What?”
“You turn red when angry, embarrassed, complimented, or breathing near me.”
“I do not.”
“You’re doing it now.”
She grabs her folder at once. “I’m leaving.”
I laugh softly, then regret it the second I see her shoulders tense. Too far.
Again. I always push one step more than I should because teasing her is easy and stopping myself is not.
“Ishika—”
“I have work.”
The warmth drains from the room as quickly as it came. She stands, gathering papers too fast, too neat. Creating distance in every movement. I hate that I know this version too. The retreat. The shut door behind the eyes. And I hate more that I cause it. My voice softens without permission.
“I was joking.”
“I know.”
But she doesn’t look at me. Which means it still hurt. Something twists low in my chest. Because making her blush is fun. Making her pull away is not. She slides the folder into her bag.
“I’ll send revised material estimates.”
“Okay.” She nods once. Then she turns toward the door. I should let her go. I know that.
Instead I stand as she passes, and for one stolen second the scent of her wraps through the space between us again. Warm skin. Shampoo. Something sweet I can’t name. I inhale before I can stop myself.
Ridiculous man.
She pauses at the door, maybe sensing something, maybe not.
Then she leaves. And the room becomes only a room again.
I sit slowly and stare at the empty chair opposite mine.
At the place her hands rested. At the page where she drew a future for my office.
I should make this easier for her. But the truth sits plain and unmovable inside me.
I don’t know how to want her quietly. I don’t know how to look at her and feel less.
And if she pushes me away ten times, I’ll still be there the eleventh.
If she hides in work, I’ll find reasons to stand in doorways.
If she turns every conversation professional, I’ll smuggle warmth into the margins.
Because some people walk into your life and make surrender feel smarter than pride. She is one of them.
And I am many things. Patient. Persistent. Occasionally manipulative.
But I am not a man who gives up on what matters.
Especially not when what matters walks away smelling like spring and pretending she feels nothing at all.