Her presence lingers longer than she does. When she turns and walks away, there’s no stumble, no hesitation. Just a clean exit, like she’s not waiting to hear more. I have been dismissed. I see so much of myself in her, and I already know she needs no lessons from me, but I will keep her here as long as she wishes to stay.
The door shuts behind her. Sharp click. Final. I sit still for a moment. Staring at the door she walked through.
I reach for the folder again. Flip it open. Re-read one of her sticky notes. “Timeline off by two days—suggest pushing legal review?”
She’s right. Damn it. I push the file aside. Lean back.
My eyes sting. I haven’t blinked properly in hours. Haven’t eaten, either, unless you count the coffee I abandoned three hours ago.
I should let it go.
But—she didn’t just finish the task. She understood it.
That doesn’t mean anything. People have flashes of competence all the time. Doesn’t make them reliable. Or safe. Or permanent.
Still... I rub the bridge of my nose. I’ve worked with hundreds. Hired dozens. Fired most. I’ve built this company from the ground up. Structure. System. Silence. That’s how it survives. That’s how I survive.
But there’s something about her I haven’t catalogued yet. Something... inconvenient.
Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t bend under pressure. Or the way she treats me like a person and a puzzle at the same time. Maybe it’s the fact that she makes my office feel smaller just by walking into it.
I shake my head. This isn’t about her. She’s not part of the equation. She's temporary. A shortcut because I needed someone to plug a gap for a few weeks. I’ve been through worse and worked with worse. She’s a bump in the schedule, nothing more.
I won’t make her into more than that. I can’t. I keep working. At least I pretend to. The report flutters open. The summary pages were laid out. But my focus has cracked.
The problem is I know people like her. Bright. Bold. Full of conviction. There are only two things I have seen happening: they burn out. Or walk away.
And when they do, they don’t just leave gaps in the company's functioning, but also in my functioning.
They leave cracks. I’ve built my world to be immune to that.
So whatever this thing is—that awareness in the room when she’s there—I ignore it.
I file it under distraction. Then I get back to work.
Because it’s late, the city’s loud, and I have no intention of letting a woman with too many opinions and clever sticky notes make it past my armor.
CHAPTER 10
ADITI
I am late.
Not like “two minutes and I can fake a bathroom emergency” late. I’m talking full-blown, oh-my-god-why-is-the-sun-so-bright late. A whole thirty freaking minutes. By the time I rush into the office, my kurti is half-untucked, my eyeliner’s smudged like I got in a fight with a kajal stick and lost, and I’m sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat.
I don’t even get to my desk before I hear him. “Aditi.”
Shit.
He says my name like it’s a headline. Like “Aditi is late” is a breaking news alert that ruined his morning schedule and possibly his belief in humanity.
I turn slowly. There he is. Standing in front of his cabin like a statue sculpted out of quiet judgment. Typical. Slate gray suit, sleeves rolled up to the forearms—because apparently he doesn’t feel heat or humanity—and those dark greyish-black eyes that never blink humanly. Ever. I swear I’ve been watching.
“Nice of you to join us,” he says, voice calm. Too calm. That should be illegal.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I reply, dropping my bag near my desk and pretending my heartbeat isn’t in full cardiac episode mode.
“You’re late.”
