“Aditi. Walk them through the market viability section.”
My heart skips. Not in the fun, romantic way. In the oh-god-I-might-die way.
I blink. Once. Twice. Did I mishear? Dude, I need time to catch my breath, come to my senses, and actually understand what's happening. I feel like I am back in school, where the teacher used to ask me to read a paragraph, and I wouldn't even know the paragraph because I was dozing off.
He doesn’t repeat himself. I look around. All eyes on me. A few are skeptical. One amused. Another… almost smug. The kind of look that says, “Let’s see how the intern flounders.” Mrs. Hetal gives me a reassuring smile. Okay, then.
I stand. My palms are clammy, and my mouth is dry, but my voice, when it comes out, is steady. “We’re projecting a 17% uptake in metro regions this quarter—assuming our rollout plan remains tight. The Tier-2 delay isn’t just for cost-saving; it aligns with last year’s data and market behavior.” I take a breath. “If we lead with digital, we risk oversaturation. The second phase should include it, but let’s not open with a punch we can’t follow.”
I pause. Let it settle. One of the clients nods slowly. Another scribbles something down. The silence afterward isn’t tense. It’s curious. A different kind of quiet—the kind that fills rooms when people are genuinely listening.
I sit again. Calm on the outside. On the inside? I do a tiny victory dance. The meeting continues. Obviously there's no applause. But there are no dismissals either. That’s enough.
Hours later, when the office starts thinning out and the air smells faintly of leftover coffee, I’m still at my desk. Tidying the notes. Sending the recap. Double-checking follow-ups.
I stretch, rub my eyes, and start gathering my things. And then my eyes land on a brand-new printer sitting next to my desk.
A brand-new printer. No plastic cover. No setup box. Just sitting there, like it’s always belonged.
But there’s a sticky note on it.Try not to break this one.
The handwriting is familiar. Slanted. Clean. Sharp.
I pick it up and stare. I don’t laugh right away. First, I just feel… warm.
Because it’s not just about the printer. It’s about the fact that he noticed. That he remembered. That he didn’t thank me or praise me or even say a damn word—but he did this.
And somehow, this says more. I tuck the sticky note into the back of my planner. A small smile playing on my lips.
Then I turn off my system, sling my bag over my shoulder, and leave the office with something lighter in my chest.
Maybe printers dislike me. But maybe—just maybe—my boss doesn’t.
CHAPTER 12
ABHIMAAN
The package sits on my desk like it’s always belonged here.
No label. No logo. Just brown paper folded sharp at the corners and taped with too much care. Aditi found it on her desk this morning and handed it over with a shrug, like she didn’t want to ask questions. Smart girl. She doesn’t ask questions unless she needs to. And I—well, I don’t give answers anyways.
I stare at it longer than I mean to. My hand hovers above it for a beat too long before I tear the seal.
Inside, folded neatly between layers of tissue, is a photograph.
It’s old. Maybe fifteen years or more. The edges are frayed, the image yellowed with time. But I’d know it anywhere. Me—fifteen, thin as hell, too much anger in my bones and not enough space in the world to carry it. And beside me, the only person who ever called me son.
Anil.
My jaw tightens.
We’re sitting on an old wooden bench. The kind that belonged in train stations and borrowed playgrounds. Iremember that day. I remember the smell of sweat and diesel in the air, the sticky mango candy in my pocket I’d stolen from a vendor, and Anil’s voice—low, slow, calling me his boy like I was a medal he’d won.
I feel the rage crawl up the back of my throat before I shove the photo back in the envelope.
He’s playing. And he’s getting bold.
I should’ve known the day I got that email. This is just the beginning. Ruin was never going to come in numbers and leaks alone. No. Anil’s too theatrical for that. He wants me unsettled. Off my axis. And this?
