It’s not a big laugh. Not loud or showy. Just this quiet, rough-edged chuckle that escapes before he can pull it back. But it changes his whole face—softens the lines that are usually drawn so tight, smooths that permanent frown between his brows. And his smile… God. It's unfair. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you. Not charming in a rehearsed, I-know-I’m-hot way. But real. Unexpected. Like the sun showing up on a cloudy day because it felt like it.
And I hate that I notice it.
I hate that my stomach flutters. Men like Abhimaan don’t smile often—and when they do, it feels like they’re handing you something they don’t give away easily. And I don’t want to want that from him. I shouldn’t.
But I stand there, throat dry, hands slightly curled at my sides, and all I can think is, "I want to see him do that again." And maybe be the reason for his smile?
“Good work today,” he says quietly, the soft smile still on his lips.
I smile back; nope, I grin at him and nod. “I know.”
He shakes his head, and I leave before I ruin the moment.
Because something’s shifting. Not fast. Not suddenly. But slowly. Like the way a lock starts to loosen before it clicks open.
And the scariest part? I think he sees it too because I can feel his gaze on me, and not momentarily; he looks at me till I pick up my bag and walk towards the elevator, finally done for the day.
CHAPTER 11
ADITI
I don’t know what cosmic force I’ve offended, but I’m starting to believe the office printer has a personal vendetta against me.
It’s not even pretending today.
I’ve cleared the tray, reloaded the paper, and whispered sweet threats under my breath—and still, the screen blinks back at me like I’m a toddler trying to fly a plane.
PAPER JAM: TRAY 2.
“Tray 2, again?” I mutter, crouching down to open the demon drawer for what feels like the tenth time this week. I tug at the crumpled sheet inside, part of it torn, ink smeared across the corner. A quiet sigh escapes me, one that quickly turns into a muttered curse.
I check the time. 11:45 AM.
The meeting starts in fifteen minutes.
And this—this exact moment—is why people think I’m dramatic. Because chaos, it seems, loves me with all its heart. I tug the paper out, smooth it against my palm, reload it, and press “print” again with all the hope of someone standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for a sign.
The machine groans. Whirs. Then, finally—finally—it starts printing.
The first clean sheet slides out like a reluctant olive branch. I yank it before the machine can change its mind and gather the rest into a folder, tapping the pages neatly against the desk with a sigh of both triumph and exhaustion.
The clock now reads 11:53.
Not ideal.
I grab the folder, shove a pen behind my ear, and speed-walk through the hallway, heels clicking, skirt swishing. A few heads turn. Someone tries to greet me—I offer a half-smile that looks more like a grimace. I’m not stopping. I can’t.
The conference room is already occupied. The glass doors offer a clear view inside: Abhimaan at the head of the table, a few clients in sleek suits and cold expressions, and department heads sitting straighter than usual.
I push the door open just enough to slip in without drawing more attention than necessary.
Abhimaan doesn’t look up, but I feel the shift, like he has noticed my presence. The air tightens just a little. Or maybe that’s just me, trying not to look like I just ran a 200-meter sprint for a stack of A4 paper.
I hand him the printed packets. He takes them without a word, flipping through the pages as one of the senior managers continues explaining some financial projection that sounds like a lullaby.
I take my seat—third from the end, beside a guy who’s already sweating through his shirt. The meeting rolls on. Graphsare discussed. Numbers are tossed around like confetti no one wants to catch.
Then, very suddenly, Abhimaan glances up from his file, his eyes scanning the room once before landing squarely on me.
