His voice cuts through the room like a scalpel—sharp, emotionless, precise. He doesn’t look at me. Just continues typing on his laptop, sleeves rolled up, veins taut on his forearm as he works like the world might collapse if he slows down for even a second.
It’s 12:45 PM, and I haven’t had water since 10. I feel like strangling him with his own stupid tie.
Or kissing the life out of him.
I can't decide which.
I close the file on my laptop a little harder than necessary. “Slide twelve is done. And Priya’s on the call. Anything else, Your Highness?”
He glances up then. Just for a second. And something flickers in his eyes—recognition, amusement, maybe even a little softness—but it disappears as fast as it came. He nods. “Good.”
And just like that, I want to throw something at him again.
I mutter under my breath and reach for my bottle, which is, of course, empty. Fabulous. I get up and head toward the small pantry, trying to cool down, but before I can even step out of the cabin, his voice follows me.
“Lunch?”
I pause. “What?”
“Lunch. Come eat with me.” His tone is casual. But the way he leans back, eyes trained on me like I’m the only thing worth watching, makes my heart hiccup.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you bipolar, or am I imagining things? Because half an hour ago, I was genuinely debating whether to break your laptop in half.”
He leans forward now, elbows on the desk, a slow smile playing on his lips. “And now?”
I blink. “Now you’re asking me to lunch?”
He stands. Doesn’t answer. Just walks to the other side of the desk, opens the drawer near the couch, and pulls out a small tiffin. Stainless steel. Two tiers. Wrapped in a cloth, the way my mom used to pack it for school.
My curiosity flares.
He opens the lid, and the smell hits me immediately. Warm, spicy, familiar.
Rajma chawal.
My heart stutters.
He sits on the couch and pats the seat next to him. “Come here.”
I hesitate. I should say no. I should act mad a little longer. But my stomach growls like a traitor, and I haven’t had rajma chawal in weeks. And the bastard knows it.
I sit.
He takes a spoonful, blows on it—like it’s too hot—and then holds it up to my mouth.
I stare at him. “You’re feeding me now?”
“I’m being nice.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
His lips twitch. “Fine. You look like you’ll forget to eat otherwise. And I don’t like watching you work yourself into a migraine.”
I hesitate. Then take the bite.
