Chapter 7
Raghav arrived at his office at six forty-five, more than an hour earlier than his usual time.
The executive floor was silent, lights dimmed low, the city outside still half-asleep. He stood at the window, watching Mumbai stretch awake, and felt the tension coiled tight in his shoulders.
Sleep had evaded him. Not because of work. Because of her. Because of the heat that rose uninvited every time his thoughts strayed where they had no business going.
The question that had followed him through the night surfaced again, unrelenting.
Did she feel it too?
He turned away from the window and shrugged out of his jacket, the movement sharp, impatient. His desk gleamed under the soft morning lights. A few reports lay neatly arranged at the center. Reports that didn’t require immediate attention but would serve his excuse of coming early.
He straightened papers that were already aligned, adjusted his pen to run parallel with the edge of the desk, checked his watch.
Six fifty-eight.
His gaze drifted, unbidden, to the desk outside. Her desk.
In thirty-two minutes, she would arrive. Exactly at seven-thirty. Ishani Rao did nothing casually. Her punctuality was precise. Predictable. Reliable.
Perfect.
The word lodged somewhere dangerous in his mind.
By seven-twenty, he had answered seventeen emails. He hadn’t absorbed a single one fully. His attention kept slipping toward the elevator doors, toward the empty chair that would not remain empty for long.
At seven twenty-nine, he stood.
He adjusted his tie with one smooth motion, unnecessary but instinctive.
At seven-thirty on the dot, the elevator doors slid open.
Ishani stepped onto the floor.
Her black suit was crisp, immaculate, her bag resting against her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back, exposing the clean line of her neck. She walked straight to her desk, unaware—or pretending to be unaware—of the eyes following her through the glass.
Raghav didn’t interrupt her.
He watched.
She logged in. Straightened a file. Adjusted her chair by a fraction. Settled into her space.
Only when she was done, only when she looked entirely composed, did he press the intercom.
She startled slightly and turned toward the glass. He was already inside. That was early. She picked up the receiver.
“Ishani.”
Her gaze met his through the glass wall. “Yes, Boss?”
Raghav held her gaze a fraction longer than necessary before speaking again. “Bring the quarterly reports. We need to review them.”
His voice was even. Controlled. It gave nothing away of the tension coiled tight beneath his skin, of the awareness that sharpened the moment her eyes locked onto his.
“Now?” A faint crease appeared between her brows. She knew those reports weren’t urgent.
“Now.”
The line went dead.
Ishani gathered the files and entered his office within forty seconds.
“Good morning,” she said, professional as always. No lingering aftershock of seeing her boss this early.
“Sit.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
She placed the folders down and took the seat.
“Page seventeen,” he said, reaching for the report at the exact moment she did.
Their fingers brushed. Less than a second. Long enough.
Raghav didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did she. The air tightened, stretched thin between them, before Ishani withdrew her hand.
“Which projections specifically?” she asked, voice steady, eyes already scanning the page.
Raghav leaned back, then stood in one smooth motion. He moved around the desk with unhurried purpose, each step measured, intentional. He stopped behind her chair.
Too close.
The warmth of him pressed in. The quiet authority. The faint scent of sandalwood, edged with something sharper, darker.
“These.” His voice dropped, low enough that it belonged only to her.
He braced one hand on the desk beside her, the silver of his watch catching the light. With the other, he pointed to a row of figures on the page. As he leaned in, his breath stirred a loose strand of hair near her ear.
“The Q3 growth estimate.”
Ishani’s spine stayed straight. Only her eyes moved.
“Finance verified these yesterday,” she said carefully. “But I can double-check if you’d like.”
“Do that.”
The words vibrated in the narrow space between them. He reached across her to turn the page. His sleeve brushed her arm, slow enough to register. Controlled enough to be deliberate.
“And this section,” he added quietly, “needs restructuring.”
The glass walls caught their reflection—his broad frame curved over hers, her smaller figure held in place by nothing more than proximity.
Ishani’s pencil stalled mid-stroke as his hand settled on the back of her chair. His little finger hovered close enough that she felt the heat of it through the fabric of her jacket, a near-touch that made her shoulder tense.
“There’s more.”
His voice was low, close. The scent of him deepened as he leaned forward to retrieve another report. His sleeve brushed her wrist. Then he reached past her for a pen that already lay within her reach, his chest almost grazing her shoulder, his breath warm against her temple.
Beyond the glass, movement slowed. A conversation paused. Someone glanced their way, then looked again before turning aside. Raghav caught his reflection in the glass—the corner of his mouth lifting, barely there. He knew what it looked like.
He didn’t step back.
“The Singapore presentation,” he said, pulling the folder free. “We need to adjust the timeline.”
Ishani’s fingers tightened around the edge of the file, careful not to touch the place where his hand had been. “Of course. What changes?”
“Show me what you have.”
She opened her laptop. As the screen lit up, Raghav shifted closer, erasing the last inches between them. His shoulder pressed against hers, fabric catching briefly before settling. He tapped the screen once, leaving a faint mark on the glass.
“This transition,” he said. “And this visual. It doesn’t land.”
The skin at her throat jumped. Once. Then again.
Her breath hitched before she caught it. Raghav noticed. The awareness sparked something slow and dark in his chest. Satisfaction. Primal satisfaction. She felt him.
“I’ll rework it today,” she said. The last word came softer, breathless. Her fingers pressed to the laptop’s edge before she closed it the moment he straightened.
She gathered the files with care. When he shifted again, she angled her body away, reclaiming space inch by inch. As she stood, she adjusted just enough to keep her jacket from brushing his arm.
“That will be all for now,” he said, returning to the head of the desk. His tone had cooled, but the heat hadn’t left his eyes. “I want the revisions by noon.”
“Yes, Boss.”
She didn’t meet his eyes. Balancing the laptop and folders with practiced precision, she turned toward the door, her posture flawless again.
Raghav watched her leave. The glass reflected him standing still, composed, in control. And utterly aware of the line he was no longer pretending he hadn’t crossed.
As she reached the door, his voice stopped her. “And Ishani?”
She turned, face composed, eyes alert now. “Yes?”
“Clear your lunch hour,” he said. “We’ll need to discuss the Singapore presentation further.”
It wasn’t a request. They both knew it.
“Of course.” She inclined her head once and slipped out, returning to her desk without looking back.
Raghav remained where he was.
The glass wall reflected him standing still while Ishani settled into her chair outside. Her shoulders squared. Her spine straightened—too straight. More rigid than her usual ease.
He flexed his fingers once. Then again.
The heat still lingered where he’d brushed her wrist, a ghost sensation that hadn’t faded with distance. He curled his hand slowly, as if containing something volatile.
He checked his watch. 11:17.
Two hours until lunch arrived from Taj. The vegetarian thali he’d ordered without asking, because three weeks ago, she’d chosen it without comment while they worked late. He hadn’t forgotten.
Two hours never seemed longer than they did today.
The intercom sat beneath his hand.
He could press it. Call her in again. Invent another reason. Another excuse to have her seated across from him, or worse, beside him.
His eyes drifted back to Ishani, focused and composed at her desk. This wasn’t a pursuit. This was claim.
She was not his employee. She was not his secretary. She was his.
◆◆◆
Lunch arrived.
Raghav stood at the window as two staff members wheeled in a cart lined with polished containers, the Taj emblem stamped on each lid. The spread was excessive for a working lunch. He knew she would notice.
That was the point.
He adjusted his watch out of habit and pressed the intercom.
“Ishani. Lunch.”
He released the button before she could respond.
Through the glass, he watched her pause. Just a beat. She lifted her gaze, met his, then closed the file in front of her. Her jacket was straightened in one smooth motion before she crossed the floor toward his office.
Raghav turned away and moved to the conference table in the corner as the staff set the place. Crisp white linen. Polished cutlery. Crystal glasses catching the light.
Too much for a Tuesday afternoon between a CEO and his assistant. Enough to unsettle.
“That will be all,” he said, and the staff withdrew as Ishani entered.
She stopped just inside the doorway, her eyes taking in the table before she schooled her expression. “This is… quite a lot for a working lunch.”
“Efficiency,” Raghav replied, pulling out the chair beside his. “Better food leads to better thinking.”
He waited.
After a brief hesitation, she sat where he indicated, placing her laptop and notebook neatly beside her plate. The chair positioned her closer than usual. Close enough that when she reached for her water, their elbows nearly brushed.
“I’ve updated the presentation,” she said, opening her laptop. “The data is cleaner now. I restructured the timeline to emphasize the three phases.”
Raghav glanced at the screen, then at her profile. Calm. Focused. Composed.
“Walk me through it.”