Chapter 6
In the evening, one by one, employees packed up and left. Ishani remained at her desk, organizing tomorrow’s schedule.
The sharp click of heels announced Kavya’s approach before Ishani saw her. Marketing’s social media manager perched herself on the edge of Ishani’s desk, coffee cup in hand. Her eyes sparkled with barely contained curiosity.
“So,” Kavya began, blowing steam from her cup, “are we going to talk about what happened today?”
Ishani didn’t look up from her computer. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, come on.” Kavya set her cup down. “The entire executive floor is talking about it. Mighty Raghav Khanna, who once made the CFO rewrite an entire quarterly report over a misplaced comma, swooping in to rescue his assistant from a rude client?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“That’s not normal behavior for him. That’s not even in the same universe as normal. ”
“He was protecting the company’s reputation,” Ishani replied, echoing Raghav’s own explanation.
Kavya snorted. “Please. I’ve been here three years. Last month, the assistant of the finance head got reduced to tears by that awful real estate developer from Dubai. Boss walked right past her crying at her desk without even looking up from his phone.”
Ishani finally stopped typing, giving Kavya her full attention. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that Boss doesn’t care if clients yell at his employees. He cares about results and reputation, in that order.” Kavya took a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving Ishani’s face. “Until today, apparently. When someone yelled at you.”
Heat crept up Ishani’s neck. She turned back to her screen, resuming her typing though the words blurred slightly. “You’re reading too much into it.”
“Am I?” Kavya raised an eyebrow. “Samrat said Boss actually used the word ‘bastards’ when he told you to come to him with problem clients. Boss, who once fired an intern for saying ‘crap’ in a presentation.”
“Samrat should mind his own business,” Ishani muttered.
“And then you brought him coffee.” Kavya’s tone grew more pointed. “And stayed in his office with the blinds half-closed for what, ten minutes?”
“I thanked him for handling a difficult situation. That’s all.”
Kavya studied her for a moment, head tilted. “Look, I’m not judging. The man’s gorgeous in that intimidating, might-eat-you-alive kind of way. And that voice? That perfect suit? I get it.”
“There’s nothing to get,” Ishani insisted, saving her document with more force than necessary. “He’s my boss. I’m his assistant. Everything else is office gossip.”
“That wasn’t just about a client being rude,” Kavya continued, undeterred. “That was...” She trailed off meaningfully. “Well, let’s just say no one has never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you when he took that phone. Like he was ready to tear apart anyone who upset you.”
Ishani laughed, the sound practiced and dismissive. “Don’t be ridiculous. He would have done the same for any employee.”
“Would he, though?” Kavya pressed.
“Yes,” Ishani said firmly, gathering papers into her bag. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t feed the rumor mill. I’m still new here. I don’t need that kind of attention.”
Kavya held up her hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Consider it dropped.” She stood, retrieving her coffee cup.
“But just so you know, half the office is convinced he’s secretly in love with you, and the other half thinks you have dirt on him.
” She grinned. “Either way, you’re the most interesting thing to happen to this floor since Samrat accidentally sent his dating profile to the entire company instead of HR. ”
“Goodnight, Kavya,” Ishani said pointedly.
“Night,” Kavya called over her shoulder, already halfway to the elevators. “Don’t stay too late. Even Raghav Khanna’s favourite employee deserves a life outside these walls.”
Ishani watched her go.
Favourite.
The word lodged itself where it didn’t belong.
Was that what people thought? That she had crossed some invisible line? That she was no longer just efficient, reliable. But special?
The floor emptied soon after. Screens went dark. Chairs rolled back. The hum of the air-conditioning became louder in the quiet, joined by the distant sounds of the cleaning crew beginning their rounds below.
Ishani leaned back in her chair, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
She hadn’t imagined it.
The memory surfaced unbidden. The way he’d leaned in, close enough that she’d caught his scent. Clean. Expensive. Masculine. It lingered even now, hours later, like something branded into her senses.
She closed her eyes.
Too easily, her body remembered the moment, the sudden awareness of being caged in his presence, the sharp, unwelcome thrill that had raced through her. Her heart hadn’t pounded with fear.
It had responded.
“Stop it,” she whispered into the empty office.
This hadn’t been part of the plan.
She hadn’t expected the pull, the way her body reacted before her mind could catch up, the way his proximity unsettled her more than any raised voice or difficult client ever had.
It complicated everything.
Professional boundaries existed for a reason. More than that, she had reasons for being here. Purpose required clarity. Distance. Control.
All of which became harder to maintain every time her pulse jumped every time he said her name.
She stared at her screen, jaw tightening. She could deny many things. But not this.
When Raghav Khanna had stepped in. When he had taken the call. When he had defended her without hesitation… She hadn’t wanted him to stop.
And that, more than anything else, frightened her.
◆◆◆
Raghav loosened his tie as he cut through Mumbai’s evening traffic, the low purr of the Audi beneath him doing little to calm the tension coiled in his chest. The client meeting had ended over an hour ago, yet his thoughts kept circling back to the office, to Ishani at her desk.
The way her voice had steadied after Westbrook crossed the line.
How easily Raghav himself had crossed one he’d never even approached with any other employee.
At a red light, he reached for his phone and opened the company security app. He rarely used the employee tracker. Had no reason to. Still, his eyes went straight to her name.
Ishani Rao. Logged out ten minutes ago.
The screen went blank as the app auto-closed, but Raghav kept staring at it, mind filling in the gaps. Her leaving the building. The car he’d insisted on arranging waiting for her. The door opening. Closing.
Was she home already? Had she eaten?
The questions surfaced uninvited. He frowned and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
This wasn’t him.
He didn’t track employees. Didn’t wonder about their evenings. Didn’t care what happened once they left his office—as long as they showed up the next morning sharp, prepared, efficient.
Yet here he was, thinking about Ishani’s night. Wondering, absurdly, whether she thought about him once work ended.
Khanna Sadan came into view, the family estate rising behind high walls and iron gates. As he slowed to turn in, movement caught his eye.
A small crowd stood near the entrance. Young women, phones raised, a few holding handmade signs.
“Vikram! Vikram!”
Their faces fell when they realised it wasn’t his brother behind the wheel.
Raghav’s jaw tightened. Fangirls. Another complication he had no patience for.
Security rushed forward, clearing a path as the gates swung open. As he passed, he glanced up and caught sight of Vikram stepping out on the balcony—hair deliberately tousled, grin effortless, already waving.
His younger brother thrived on this attention. Needed it like oxygen. The contrast between them had never been more apparent—Vikram drawing crowds wherever he went, Raghav preferring solitude and order.
They were twins. And yet there was nothing alike about them. Not their temperaments. Not their instincts. Not even their faces.
The car rolled to a stop in the circular driveway. Raghav stepped out, already plotting a direct path to his rooms without family interaction. He nodded at the household staff who opened the massive front door, stepping into the cool marble foyer.
From the living room came the familiar murmur of the television—a news debate his parents pretended to watch every evening while actually judging the world.
If he moved quietly enough, he might make it upstairs before—
“Raghav?”
His father’s voice cut cleanly through the house.
Raghav stopped, eyes closing for a brief second. Of course. Harshit Khanna missed nothing. Not balance sheets. Not footsteps.
“Yes Dad,” he called back, already turning toward the living room.
His parents were exactly where he expected them to be. His father sat in the leather armchair, glasses low on his nose, remote in hand. His mother was curled into the cream sofa with her teacup, watching him over the rim like she’d been waiting for this moment all evening.
“You’re late,” Kavita Khanna said mildly.
“Work,” Raghav replied, stopping near the doorway. “I’m going to my room.”
“Sit,” his father said, calm but firm. Not a request.
Raghav exhaled and crossed the room, perching on the edge of the opposite sofa.
His mother smiled. The dangerous one. “We were just talking about the weekend.”
“I have meetings.”
“On Sunday?” she asked, eyebrows lifting. “Raghav, even prime ministers take Sundays off.”
Before he could respond, hurried footsteps thundered in. Vikram burst into the room, hair slightly disheveled, phone still in hand, grin already in place like he’d entered on cue.
“Oh good, you’re home,” he said brightly. “I was worried I’d miss today’s episode of Let’s Emotionally Corner Raghav.”
“Get out,” Raghav muttered.
Vikram ignored him and dropped onto the arm of the sofa. “So,” he said, clapping his hands once, “are we discussing marriage, or should I warm up with a monologue first?”
Kavita placed a hand on her chest. “See how casually he says it?” she said to Harshit. “Marriage. As if it’s not the most important thing in a mother’s life.”
“Mom—”
“I carried you for nine months,” she continued, undeterred. “Raised you. Fed you. And now I have two sons who treat marriage like a traffic inconvenience.”
Harshit cleared his throat, staring very intently at the television. His shoulders shook slightly. Vikram leaned closer to Raghav.
“For the record,” he whispered loudly, “this is better than anything I shot this year.”
Raghav shot him a look. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m an actor,” Vikram shrugged. “Drama is my oxygen.”
Harshit finally spoke. “We’ve finalized that family to meet.”
Raghav straightened. “Finalized? And what family?”
“I told you about this three months ago, Raghav. The girl is well-educated,” Harshit continued evenly. “Single child. Good values. Her parents are respectable people. Your mother has already spoken to them.”
“I don’t agree with this.”
“You can’t refuse either,” Kavita said gently. “And you’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m thirty-three, not eighty.”
“Exactly,” Vikram said cheerfully. “Prime age. Still brooding. Very marketable.”
Raghav stood. “I’m not interested.”
Harshit studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable. “We’re not debating if you’ll marry,” he said calmly. “Only when. Unless,” he added evenly, “there’s someone else.”
The question hung in the air.
Raghav didn’t answer immediately. For a split second, Ishani’s face crossed his mind—uninvited, unwelcome. He dismissed it just as quickly.
“No,” he said.
Kavita’s shoulders sagged at once, disappointment carefully performed. “So that’s it,” she murmured. “All my friends have daughters-in-law, sharing recipes, festivals… and I’ll just keep explaining why my sons are ‘too busy.’”
“Mom, don’t—” Raghav started.
She waved him off, already recovering. “It’s fine. I’ve waited this long. What’s a few more years?”
Raghav turned toward the stairs.
“Raghav,” Vikram called after him.
He paused.
Vikram tilted his head, grin easy but eyes sharp. “Just saying, if you’re lying, now would be a really good time to confess. Saves us all a sequel.”
Raghav didn’t look back. He walked upstairs. The first floor welcomed him with blessed silence. He unlocked his door, stepped inside, and finally allowed himself to breathe.
He stripped off his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair. The tension from the day had coiled tight in his muscles, demanding release.
He stepped into his bathroom, turning the shower to its hottest setting. Steam filled the space as he removed the rest of his clothing, stepping under the spray. The water struck hard, relentless, scalding his skin in a way that should have emptied his head.
It didn’t.
Bracing his hands against the marble wall, he let the water hammer his shoulders.
The image of Westbrook’s name on the caller ID returned, followed by Ishani’s careful voice trying to manage the situation.
The memory of that bastard’s voice, loud enough to carry through the receiver, insulting her, disrespecting her.
His fingers curled against the tile, nails scraping stone.
The fury he’d contained all day surged back, hot and sharp.
He’d wanted to reach through the phone and throttle Westbrook for daring to speak to her that way.
The intensity of his reaction had surprised even him—the visceral, protective rage that had nothing to do with company policy and everything to do with the woman herself.
“No,” he muttered under his breath, the word lost in steam. “It was about company reputation.”
The lie sounded thin even to him.
It had never been about Khanna Consolidated. It had been about her. About Ishani. About the unacceptable fact that someone had hurt something—someone—that was his.
The realization hit him with the force of the water pounding his skin. He wanted her. Not just professionally. Not just as his efficient, competent assistant. He wanted Ishani Rao with a possessiveness that shocked him with its intensity.
And that was a problem he had no immediate solution for.