As I turn to leave, he adds, “And Aditi?”
I stop and turn slightly. “What?”
His voice is annoyingly smooth. “Make sure it’s formatted properly. I hate inconsistent fonts.”
I blink.
“Of course you do.” I feign a smile, then I storm out, muttering something about dictators in Dior suits, and open my laptop with renewed rage.
Because no way am I letting him win.
Even if he is weirdly hot when he’s being insufferable. Even when I know he's playing with me to get me to do his work. Dammit, he's good, and dammit, he knows how to pull my strings.
CHAPTER 9
ABHIMAAN
The glow from my monitor flickers across the desk, casting long shadows over the folders I haven’t touched in the last twenty minutes.
I’m still in my chair, spine stiff, tie loosened but not taken off. The office around me is still. Silent. That time of night when the hum of ambition quiets and what’s left is just… inertia. Focus. Or the ghost of it.
Everyone’s gone. They always are by eight. Except me.
And I assumed—logically, reasonably, with all evidence pointing that way—that she was, too. Until the door opens without warning. No knock. No announcement. Just the soft click of the latch giving way, then the sharp cadence of her heels against marble. Aditi storms in like the office belongs to her. Like I didn’t give her very specific instructions about protocol. Like there isn’t a hierarchy. A system. It's the way things are done here.
She crosses the room without pausing, stops at the edge of my desk, and slams a thick folder down. The sound lands like a slap in the silence. I glance at the clock. 8:02 PM.
I don’t flinch. But my eyes lift, slow and cold. She’s not winded or smug. She’s just there. Standing tall. Well, not tall, honestly. But chin up. Arms crossed. Not asking for approval. Not waiting to be dismissed. Typical. In years, I guess, she is the only gutsy one I have met who actually doesn't cower or avoid me. And that makes her very interesting.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under the shift. My fingers tap once against the desk. I gave her this task because I have found that I love challenging her; winding her up is a source of entertainment for me apparently, and it's been a long time since I have been entertained. She actually did complete it before going home; well, she overworked, but still, technically, she is a woman of her word, and I respect that. Highly.
The damn folder is color-coded. Tabs. Notes. Highlighted headers. Margins aligned. It’s not just done. It’s… presentable.
I open the cover. She watches me flip through. Doesn't say a word. I glance up, once, and she’s still standing there, arms crossed like she’s daring me to find a flaw. She doesn’t flinch either.
The room is too quiet. Just the faint whir of the AC and the occasional honk from the city below.
I return my attention to the report. The summaries are crisp. She’s cut fluff. Refined the data into something digestible. The finance section is bracketed. Legal is annotated. She even flagged a discrepancy in the operations numbers with a sticky note labeled “Cross-check with inventory logs?”
Impressive? Sure. For someone else. I like this. I snap the folder closed.
“This’ll do.”
She gives me a salute so sarcastic it almost counts as mutiny. Then she stands there like she’s waiting for something else. I don’t know what—praise? A medal?
I lift a brow. “You need something?”
“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “Just wanted to see if you’d actually look at it or pretend to.”
I say nothing. She takes that as permission to keep talking. Obviously. “You know, you could say thank you.”
“I could.”
She leans forward slightly, one hand braced on the desk. “But you won’t.”
“No.”
She exhales. Not dramatically—just enough to say typical. Then straightens.
