She walks through the front doors of the office like nothing ever happened.
Back straight. Hair braided over one shoulder. Dressed in that particular shade of blue that makes her look like she knows something the rest of us don’t. Like she’s already won the argument we haven’t started yet.
But her steps are a little too measured. Her left hand tightens slightly at her side when she thinks no one’s looking. And when she turns too fast, she blinks—just for a second, like the world tilted and caught her off guard.
She’s not fine.
She shouldn’t be here.
And yet… she is. Yesterday when she proposed that she was well enough to go home, I dismissed her, but after one hour of arguing, I knew I was never going to win against this woman (or I don’t want to; I might have to ponder on that), so I let her go. Not only because she gave fair points but also selfishly I needed some space. After the closeness, seeing her fit perfectly in my house, I felt like, what if I started liking it too much? I didn’t want that. I am alone and I will always be, and I don’tthink a brown-eyed girl can change that. But when she did leave, I felt all the warmth and energy vanishing from the house, quite literally, and I don’t know how to explain that.
She promised she had taken a week off, but I think I might be stupid to have believed her. She’s back. Back to her desk. Back to war with the printer. Back to running this office with more efficiency than most of my senior staff.
And I—I’m hovering.
God help me.
I, Abhimaan—who doesn’t do “checking in” or “hovering” or “soft” of any kind—am walking half a step behind my assistant. Watching the way her shoulder occasionally tenses. Timing her steps. Making sure she sits down between tasks, even though she pretends not to notice me forcing the damn chair under her knees every thirty minutes like I’m some glorified human stool.
This is ridiculous.
I’m assisting my assistant.
The irony is not lost on me.
Neither are the stares.
People look. They glance between us. Whisper behind coffee mugs and flick open emails they’re clearly not reading. I know what they’re thinking. I can hear it even though no one says it out loud.
Is he following her? Why is he following her? Has he gone completely insane?
Maybe.
I don’t care.
She got hit by a fucking car. Her driver vanished. Her brakes failed. And he sent me a message right after—this was just a warning.
So no. I don’t care if I look insane.
Let them stare.
Let them whisper.
Let them wonder what’s gotten into me.
Because until I find him, who’s playing games with my life—and with hers—she’s not going anywhere without me being three steps behind with a damn medical chart and backup plan.
She turns around suddenly, catching me mid-step.
“I’m going to the fifth-floor meeting room,” she says, arching a brow.
I nod. “Take the elevator.”
She glares. I glare back. A standoff in the hallway, surrounded by confused interns pretending to study notice boards that haven’t changed since 2018.
“God, you’re stubborn,” she mutters.
“You’re injured.”
