I take the final version back to Hetal’s desk, slightly nervous.
She scrolls through the slides, nodding slowly. “Good work,” she comments. “Really clean. You’ve got a strong grasp of structure.”
“Thank you,” I reply, warmth blooming in my chest.
Okay, I like her.
In my head, I do a tiny celebratory dance.
Kind boss? Check. Doesn’t micromanage or act like an overlord? Check. I might actually survive here.
She glances at the time. “The meeting is right after lunch. Come directly to the conference room, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As I return to my desk, Radha peeks over the partition. “Want to join me for lunch?”
My stomach grumbles like a traitor. “I’d love to,” I say.
We head down to the cafeteria—surprisingly modern, filled with employees, and with the scent of masala and espresso lingering in the air. I grab a paneer wrap and some iced tea. Radha gets salad.
“It’s giving first-day-of-school energy,” I say.
Radha laughs. “Welcome to corporate kindergarten.”
We settle at a table. She’s easy to talk to—funny, smart, and brutally honest.
“You are so lucky,” she says, sarcasm dripping in her voice. “You are meeting the CEO on your first day itself.”
My eyes widen. “Mr. Abhimaan?”
“Yeah.”
She leans in. “He's stuck-up. Terrifying. No one speaks unless spoken to. Some say he doesn’t blink. Ever. Try not shitting your pants, okay?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like a robot.”
She grins. “A very rich, very grumpy robot.”
“If given the chance,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows, “I could totally fix him.”
Radha snorts into her water. “Girl, save yourself. That man is a lost cause.”
We eat, we laugh, and for a while, I forget the nerves. After lunch, Radha nudges me. “Come on. We have to set up the room. The meeting’s in an hour.”
As we head toward the conference hall, I clutch my notes tighter.
I’ve worked hard for this. I’m here on my own terms.
And whatever happens next—presentation, grumpy robot CEO, or world war—I’ll face it with spine and sarcasm. Bring it on, life.
CHAPTER 2
ABHIMAAN
The stock ticker flashes across the bottom of the muted TV screen, its red and green numbers crawling like ants—constant, hungry, and meaningless without context.
My phone is wedged between my shoulder and ear as I review the performance dashboard on my laptop. Red flags. Again.
