They stepped into a system they didn’t fully understand—and they fixed it. People don’t usually do that here. They wait for instructions. They hesitate. This person didn't. I am impressed.
I don’t like wild cards. I don’t like surprises. But I respect efficiency. And something about this… this intern… says they didn’t stumble into this.
They meant to leave a mark. And now whoever it is will be on my radar, unless this was just a one-time thing.
That’s either the best thing that’s going to happen to their career. Or the worst.
I push back from the desk, standing. I adjust my cufflinks, roll my neck once, and smooth the front of my shirt.
Let’s see if this intern survives a week here.
Not many do.
CHAPTER 3
ADITI
The conference room smells like coffee and expensive cologne, and my hands are damp as I sit in the last seat on the left, closest to the window. It’s not nerves, not really. More like... alertness. A buzzing under my skin. The room is packed—people from marketing and some executives I’ve never seen before.Obviously. There’s an energy to it. Unease mixed with anticipation. I try not to slouch.
I glance around. Everyone’s too focused to notice me anyway. Radha gives me a small smile from three seats down. That helps. People start presenting—some with confidence, some with a tremble in their voice that’s hard to miss. I watch carefully. Observe. I’m always learning, even in silence. Especially in silence.
I don’t know who the CEO is. I should. I know his name—Abhimaan—and that’s it. No surname. None. Just… Abhimaan. That really intrigued me. It's very uncommon to see people without surnames in India anyways. I never googled him. I know it's a stupid move. But it felt useless. I mean, I’m just a meager intern. How many times will I actually cross paths with the guy? He probably doesn’t even know I exist.
Still, there’s a flicker of curiosity. No surname? That’s bold. Maybe even symbolic. I’d love to know the story behind it. There always is one. My thoughts are interrupted by five unfamiliar men seated at the front. Not part of marketing, clearly. Consultants, maybe? They keep whispering among themselves, occasionally scribbling something on their iPads.
Then one of them speaks up.
His voice is sharp. Not loud, but loud enough. “That’s your customer segmentation strategy?” he scoffs. “That model’s been dead for five years.”
A few people shift uncomfortably. The presenter, a soft-spoken man named Ronak, stammers a reply.
“Consumer behavior is shifting, but this framework still holds—”
The rude man cuts him off. “That’s textbook bull. Did you even do field testing, or are you just copying slides from someone else’s deck?”
My eyes widen. What the hell? The other four men look around quietly, clearly aligned with this human equivalent of a broken razor blade. Ronak visibly wilts. He mumbles something along the lines of "I will work on it, sir" and ends his segment. The man says nothing more—mission accomplished.
I clench my jaw. Another teammate, Priya, presents next. I am so good with names, and I am proud of that. She tries to recover the tone, but mid-sentence, the same man interrupts again.
“Your visuals are cluttered. Are we trying to blind the board with color? This looks like a college project.” My fingers curl into fists in my lap. That’s it. I’m someone who believes in freespeech. Debate. Discussion. But not at the cost of someone’s dignity. Not like this. I look around the room. No one speaks. Everyone just… takes it. I can see it on their faces: shame, defeat, resignation. Sure, he looks old enough to know more than most of us, but how is it fair to embarrass someone so badly? He could have just given his advice subtly.
I push back my chair and stand up. It’s not dramatic. I don’t slam anything. But the silence that follows is immediate. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Who do you think you are?”
The man slowly turns to me, brows raised like he can’t believe someone dared to interrupt him. And for a moment I forget to breathe because of what Greek god-level handsomeness he has. His black-greyish eyes, his chiseled jawline, and his perfect nose—wow, he looks like God took her (yes, God can be a woman too, and I believe she is a woman). Peridot) sweet time making him. I cringe internally. Eww. Even though he’s a very, VERY good-looking man, the way he is with people around makes me want to ban him from this premise. What kind of employees does Mr. Abhimaan hire? Huh.
“With all due respect, sir,” I continue, heart pounding, “this marketing strategy you’re suggesting? It’s outdated. You’re aiming for a market that’s dead. And while I appreciate strong opinions, there’s a line between feedback and humiliation.”
You could hear a pin drop in this room. He leans forward slightly, assessing me like I’m a new species he hasn’t seen before.
“And you are…?” he asks, his voice so deep and velvety that it makes a shiver run down my spine.
“Aditi,” I say. “An intern. And apparently the only one in the room not afraid to speak.”
More silence. A few gasps. My pulse is roaring in my ears, but I keep my chin up. I look around at my colleagues who have surrendered to this toxic performance. I won’t be one of them. My self-respect is non-negotiable.
“You can’t go on judging someone’s work so harshly,” I say. “You don’t know how hard these people worked—”
“Aditi.” It’s Mrs. Hetal who speaks now. Her tone is firm.
