Chapter 8
Most of the floor had emptied. Ishani stood by the printer beside her desk, patience thinning by the second. The machine whined. Then stopped. She pressed the side panel, peering into the narrow gap. A strip of paper was lodged somewhere inside.
“Come on,” she muttered under her breath.
Nothing.
She straightened, exhaled slowly, then leaned in again, pushing harder this time. The panel refused to budge. A loose strand of hair slipped free near her temple, and she tucked it back with a sharp, irritated motion.
Enough.
She reached for the desk phone and dialed IT.
Inside his office, Raghav looked up.
His gaze landed on Ishani, noticing the tension in her shoulders and how quickly her fingers moved as she pressed buttons on the printer. When she grabbed the phone to call for help, something changed in his expression.
He stood.
His jacket remained on the back of the chair. Sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing strong wrists. He stepped out of his office, footsteps muted by the carpet.
Ishani was mid-ring when his voice reached her.
“Problem?”
She startled, breath hitching before she turned.
He was close enough to catch the faint trace of his cologne. Close enough to notice the sharp line of his jaw, the slight stubble that hadn’t been there in the morning.
“The printer’s jammed,” she explained, gesturing with her free hand while keeping the receiver pressed to her ear. “I’m calling IT.”
Raghav reached for the phone. His fingers brushed hers as he took it, the contact brief but deliberate. He replaced the receiver without breaking eye contact.
“I’ll handle it.”
Before she could respond, he stepped closer, guiding her back toward the printer with nothing more than presence. He didn’t touch her, but the lack of space made her acutely aware of the difference between them. Height. Width. Heat.
“Show me,” he said.
His voice was lower than usual. Softer. Too intimate for an office filled with glass and rules.
She turned back to the printer, aware of him directly behind her. “The paper’s stuck inside. The release won’t open.”
Raghav didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached around her. His chest hovered just short of her back as his arm moved past her shoulder. He could have asked her to step aside. He didn’t.
“Here,” he said quietly, his breath grazing the side of her neck. “It’s not the main panel.”
His fingers found a latch along the side.
Ishani stayed still, caught between the printer and the undeniable fact of him behind her. The air felt dense, charged with something she wasn’t ready to name.
“Let me show you,” he continued. “Guide your hand under mine.”
She hesitated only a moment before complying. Her smaller hand slid beneath his, fingers grazing his palm as he guided her to the latch. The contact sent a sharp awareness up her arm, her breath catching despite herself.
If Raghav noticed her reaction, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he pressed her fingers against the latch, his hand covering hers completely.
“Feel that?” he asked, voice dropping even lower. “Press there, then pull toward you.”
Ishani followed his instruction, hyper-aware of his breath against her ear, the solid wall of his chest behind her, the way his other hand had settled on the desk beside her, effectively caging her between his arms.
The panel gave way with a soft click. For a second, neither of them moved.
“Now,” he continued, still guiding her hand, “reach in and pull the paper out. Careful not to tear it.”
She leaned forward to free the jammed paper, the movement arching her back just enough to bring her spine flush against his chest.
The contact was brief. Accidental.
Unavoidable.
Her jacket did little to block the heat of him.
Raghav inhaled sharply, a sound so quiet it barely existed, except she felt it, right between her shoulders.
Instead of stepping away, he adjusted with her, his chest following the curve of her back, close enough that his presence wrapped around her completely.
Sandalwood. Something darker beneath it.
Ishani’s fingers closed around the crumpled edge of paper. She tugged carefully, easing it free.
“Got it.”
Only then did he move back.
She turned and found the space between them had not returned. The printer pressed lightly into her lower back. Raghav stood in front of her, close enough that a single breath would bridge the distance.
She tilted her head up.
His pupils had darkened, the office lights catching the edge of something raw in his gaze.
For three heartbeats, neither spoke. Ishani’s pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. His cologne filled her lungs with each shallow breath. Raghav’s gaze dropped to her parted lips, lingering there before rising slowly, deliberately to her eyes, leaving a trail of heat wherever it touched.
“Thank you, Boss,” she whispered.
The word didn’t restore order. It challenged it.
Raghav drew in a measured breath and stepped back at last, control snapping into place like a shield. As he moved away, his fingers brushed her wrist. The touch was light, fleeting, unmistakable.
“Next time,” he said evenly, rolling his sleeves down with deliberate care, “don’t call IT. Let me know.”
Ishani nodded, her professional demeanor back in place even as she felt the warmth from where he had been so close. “Of course,” she replied.
Raghav held her gaze a moment longer before turning and walking back toward his office, his stride purposeful. Ishani remained by the printer, watching him go, the crumpled paper still clutched in her hand.
◆◆◆
“Ishani. My office.”
Raghav’s voice came through the intercom at ten minutes to seven. The line went dead.
Ishani sighed, rubbing her temple.
Why had she chosen this route again?
To observe him. That had been the plan. To understand Raghav Khanna up close, without filters or assumptions. To see if the man behind the reputation was real.
So when did it start feeling like something else? When did observation blurred into attraction? And attraction into something far more dangerous?
Was she here to watch him… or to make him fall for her? Or worse? Had she been the one falling all along?
The thought made her stomach drop.
What if she was only seeing what she wanted to see? What if his intensity, his attention, his protection were nothing more than habit, control, instinct—things he gave and withdrew just as easily?
In that case, she was done for.
God. Completely done for.
She exhaled slowly.
At least she knew one thing for sure. She wouldn’t turn into Natasha. She had too much self-respect for that. Too much pride. If Raghav Khanna didn’t choose her, she would walk away with her dignity intact.
Still… the truth lingered, uncomfortable and undeniable.
Raghav Khanna had a way of making women fall for him without even trying. And the terrifying part? He didn’t even have to return the feeling for it to happen.
Anyway, she went inside.
Her boss had summoned her. As he often did. And God, how she wished the tables could turn someday. How satisfying it would be to keep Raghav Khanna on his toes for once.
The thought almost made her smile.
She bit the inside of her cheek instead, schooling her face into neutrality as she approached his desk.
“The dinner’s been cancelled,” he said, looking up from his screen. “One of the investors had an emergency.”
“Oh.” Her concern was genuine. “Then we can wrap up for today, Boss.”
He closed his laptop and stood. “It’s late. I’ll drive you home.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said at once. “The company car service—”
“Isn’t needed tonight.” He was already reaching for his jacket. “I’m heading in your direction anyway.”
It was a lie. They both knew it.
Raghav Khanna lived nowhere near Bandra, and her apartment was not on the way to anything he’d be doing at seven on a Tuesday evening.
She hesitated, something unreadable flickering across her face. “Really, it’s fine. I take the service almost every night.”
“Tonight you don’t.” His tone was calm, final, leaving no room for argument. “My car’s in the basement.”
She could have pushed back. Could have insisted. Instead, she nodded.
“Alright.”
The elevator ride was silent. The kind of silence that made you hyperaware of everything else.
Raghav stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the changing numbers above the doors. Ishani held her bag closer than necessary, the small space amplifying the heat of his presence, the awareness of how close he was without touching her.
The elevator doors opened to the parking level.
It was nearly empty at this hour, the space hollow and quiet, their footsteps echoing softly against the concrete as they walked toward his car. Raghav moved a step ahead of her, reached the passenger side first, and opened the door before she could.
He stood close enough that she had to brush past him to get in.
“Thank you,” she murmured, sliding into the leather seat.
The car smelled unmistakably like him—sandalwood layered with something deeper, warmer. The scent settled around her, intimate in a way the office never was.
She told herself not to look.
She failed.
Raghav slipped out of his jacket and draped it over the back of his seat, the movement unhurried, controlled.
Then he sat, loosened his tie with practiced ease, the slow pull at his collar making her throat go dry for reasons she refused to examine.
When he rolled up his sleeves, the simple motion drew her eye again.
The watch at his wrist caught the light as he moved.
She turned toward the window at once, irritated with herself for noticing any of it.
This space felt different. Smaller. Quieter. Almost… private.
He started the engine, the low, smooth rumble breaking the silence as they eased out of the parking bay and into the night.
Mumbai wrapped around them in neon and motion. Even at night, the city refused to slow down. Streetlights streaked past as Raghav drove, hands steady on the wheel, attention fixed ahead.
Ishani’s fingers drummed lightly against her purse. “May I ask you something personal?”
He glanced at her briefly, eyebrow lifting. “That depends.”
She hesitated, then turned slightly in her seat to face him. “What’s it like having a Bollywood star for a brother? The media attention alone must be exhausting.”
“Vikram enjoys the attention,” Raghav said, his tone deliberately neutral. “Always has.”
“He’s very talented,” Ishani offered. “I actually quite like him as an actor. His performance in ‘My girlfriend’s wedding’ was impressive.”
His grip tightened on the steering wheel as they passed beneath a row of lights. He didn’t look at her, jaw set in a way she hadn’t seen before.
“You’re a fan?” he asked, tone clipped.
“I enjoy good cinema,” Ishani said lightly, watching him now. “Your brother happens to be good cinema.”
The silence stretched. The car picked up speed, not reckless, just enough to register.
“I don’t watch his films,” he said at last.
“That’s unfortunate.” She tilted her head, curious now. “His last one was quite something. He plays this charming businessman who—”
The car stopped abruptly. The sudden halt jolted her forward, the seatbelt tugging her back just as the building came into view.
They’d arrived.
Ishani looked from the windshield to him, taking in his clenched jaw, the tension he hadn’t bothered to hide. Understanding dawned, followed immediately by amusement.
“Well,” she said lightly, holding her bag, “this is me. Thank you for the ride, Boss.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, still tight.
Her hand paused on the door handle. She glanced back at him, eyes bright with mischief. “Maybe someday you should watch one of Vikram’s films. You might surprise yourself.”
Before he could respond, she stepped out and closed the door softly behind her.
Raghav watched her walk toward the gate, the security guard nodding as she passed. She didn’t look back.
He stayed where he was, engine running, until a light flicked on in a corner apartment on the fifth floor. Balcony. Curtains drawn halfway.
Only then did he exhale.
The gated complex was secure. Well-lit pathways. Attentive security. She was safe here.
He shifted the car into drive but didn’t move.
Her last words stayed with him. Not the sentence itself. The ease of it. The unguarded warmth in her voice when she’d said Vikram’s name, like it belonged comfortably on her tongue.
That was the part that sat wrong.
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, the leather creaking softly under the pressure. He noticed the reaction only after it had already happened. He exhaled through his nose, irritation flaring.
Vikram had always been effortless. Likeable without trying. The kind of man people leaned toward instinctively.
Raghav pulled onto the road, jaw hardening.
It was absurd. Irrational. He didn’t compete for attention. Never had. Preference had never mattered to him, least of all when it came to his brother.
And yet, the thought followed him home.
He’d built his life on the certainty that outcomes bent to discipline, planning, and control.
This one didn’t feel inclined to bend at all.