I step away, exhale, and run a hand down my face. The sweat on my palm feels colder now.He’s watching me. The sentence loops like a ticking clock in my head.
I walk out into the sunlight. The heat doesn’t touch me this time. I unlock the car, slide into the seat, and grip the steering wheel. He wants to play games. That’s fine. But I’ve played before. And I play to win.
He doesn’t get to touch Varuna. Not my people. Not my work. Not the one piece of my life that wasn’t carved from blood.
Let him come. Let him try. He’ll see I’ve already buried the man he once knew.
CHAPTER 8
ADITI
There’s organized chaos—and then there’s Abhimaan’s inbox.
I’ve been clicking through unread emails for the last hour, eyes burning, posture slowly becoming a cautionary tale for desk ergonomics. A spreadsheet from finance. A marketing calendar with every task marked “URGENT.” Six meeting requests. Two flagged mails from legal. One subject line just says “FIX THIS ASAP.”
It’s like swimming through lava made of deadlines.
I sigh and push back in his very expensive, very uncomfortable chair. The view from his office is all sleek skyline and glittering glass, but it doesn’t make up for the fact that the man works like the devil’s chasing him.
I live with two brothers who are certified workaholics. I know what obsession looks like. I’ve seen Aarav fall asleep on his laptop more times than I can count. I’ve watched Rudraksh Bhai discuss quarterly growth projections before even brushing his teeth.
But this guy?
Abhimaan is a workaholic Pro Max with extra storage.
This week alone, I’ve seen him…
— take calls at 6:03 AM, not 6:00, not 6:05 (I had to come in early that day),
— forget it’s Friday and ask why the office is half-empty at 9 PM,
— cancel lunch meetings because he doesn’t do lunch, and
— answer calls in the elevators like he's auditioning for a scene in Succession.
Who skips lunch on purpose?
The man has two assistants—one that handles external affairs, and me, the poor unfortunate soul now glued to the internal side of things. He doesn’t trust anyone with delegation. If there were three of him, he’d probably fire two.
The landline on my desk rings. I jump slightly, then stare at it. Slowly pick it up.
“Aditi,” comes the all-too-familiar, calm-and-cutting voice. “My office.”
No hello. No reason. Just a summons. I resist the urge to say, "Yes, Your Highness," and instead slam the receiver down lightly and gather my notepad. My chair lets out a dramatic groan as I stand, which is appropriate because I, too, am groaning on the inside. Being an intern would definitely be easier, but I love torturing myself—anything for dreams, right?
I walk across the hallway with the weariness of a soap opera heroine and tap twice on his office door before pushing it open.
He doesn’t look up. “Sit,” he says, still typing.
I don’t sit. “You know,” I say, folding my arms and leaning against the doorframe, “if this is your idea of leadership—micromanaging my every move—it’s not very inspiring.”
Without missing a beat, or glancing up, he says, “If I wanted to inspire you, Aditi, I’d write a quote book.”
I blink. “Cute. Maybe include a chapter called ‘Let your intern breathe.’”
He finally looks up. His eyes were calm, unreadable. “You’re not an intern right now. You’re my assistant.”
I mutter, “Temporary assistant.”
