I see from my peripheral vision that she rises. Straightens. Nods once. And walks out. Doesn’t slam the door. I smile—just a little. This might actually be fun.
CHAPTER 5
ADITI
There are some people in life who just rub you the wrong way. Abhimaan is that person for me. Cocky. Condescending. The kind of man who walks into a room and somehow makes it about him without saying a word. His jaw could cut glass, his shirts are always crisp enough to slap someone, and the way he talks—it’s like he’s permanently lecturing the universe on how it could do better.
But—and I hate that there’s a but—what he said makes sense. Ugh.
After he told me to visit him in his cabin, I was nervous, not afraid, just nervous because why did he want me to wait till the end of the day? I could have just followed him to his cabin like a student in trouble who’s called to the principal's office. He made me wait the entire day; I was dying with the whole‘I don’t know what my fate has in store’thing. But I am proud of myself for not apologizing like everyone there suggested to me; I had no reason to. Sometimes I feel very privileged, which I definitely am, because I do not have to care about money, because if I were a middle-class woman, I would have to swallow my pride. I am glad I am not because my ego’s too big to stay quiet, nod, and listen to whatever anyone says.
‘Follow me. Sit in my meetings. Watch the chaos. Learn from it.’
His words echo in my mind. Working directly under the CEO, even a broody one with a god complex, will give me an inside look at how this company functions from the top down. And Varuna Enterprises isn’t just any company—it’s the blueprint for how I eventually want to run my own.
My dream isn’t some Pinterest mood board or a vision journal entry—it’s real. A fashion empire that prioritizes ethical sourcing, fair labor practices, and eco-conscious materials and doesn’t treat affordability like a dirty word. And if I want to make that dream breathe and walk, I need to understand business—real business, not just textbooks and inspiration reels.
And sometimes dreams require discomfort. In my case, discomfort looks like a six-foot man with too-perfect hair and the emotional range of a cactus. Sure, I could just work under one of my brothers and learn freely, but I don’t think I can ever do that because yes, they would love it, and I would have all the resources in the world, but I would also be treated like a princess, which I absolutely hate at this point.
So here I am, standing outside his office, knocking like I’m voluntarily stepping into a lion’s den. Which I might be.
“Come in,” his voice calls, deep and even. Like he already knows who it is.
The door swings open on its own. Fancy. Of course.
I take a breath, straighten my blazer, and step inside. His office is all glass walls, clean lines, and a minimalist desk without a single paper out of place. There’s a floor-to-ceiling window behind him, Mumbai stretching out like a storm waiting to happen. Abhimaan sits at the desk, dark shirt, sleeves rolled,jaw sharp enough to file complaints against, and not even pretending to look up.Wow. He’s gorgeous, and he doesn’t care. With those looks he could get any girl he wants, well, except me, I think, because I do not like his personality, unfortunately. Wait. Why unfortunately? Fortunately. I do not need one more man trying to make my life theirs, deciding what I should do, or how I should protect myself from ‘MEN.’ It’s always funny to me that men know they are the problem, yet they want to have the power to control a woman rather than work on their own species.
His eyes flick to me. Finally, I almost roll my eyes. But I guess I have to maintain professionalism.
“You are here,” he says as if he were certain I had come. I dislike being predictable. “I take it your 24 hours of soul-searching went well?” I want to punch him.
I take a seat without being asked. “I decided I’d rather deal with a difficult boss than be a safe intern on the sidelines.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Bold choice.”
“I prefer ‘strategic,’” I say, matching his tone. A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crosses his face. It disappears quickly.
He clicks his laptop shut and leans back, appraising me like I’m a negotiation deal that just got interesting. “Then let’s get this over with.”
I arch a brow. “I feel so welcomed already.”
“The job is straightforward,” he says. “You’ll be handling all my internal scheduling, external meeting prep, and anything else that falls through the cracks. There will be travel—thoughyou won’t accompany me unless necessary—and there will be days you’ll leave late.”
I nod slowly. “So, assistant-slash-crisis-manager-slash-psychic.”
“Exactly,” he says without blinking. Doesn’t understand sarcasm.Cute.Focus, Aditi.“You’ll get a stipend of fifty thousand per month, plus bonus incentives based on performance.”
I try to hide the surprise on my face. That’s… significantly more than I expected considering I am just a fresher.
“In return,” he continues, “you get full access to the upper management workflow—real-time business decisions, strategy meetings, and operations insight. You’ll see how things run here, for better or worse. And you’ll either rise from it or quit in a week.”
I lean back in the chair. “Wow. You really know how to sell a position.”
“I don’t believe in sugarcoating,” he says, tone flat.
“No kidding,” I mutter. I saw a full demo yesterday. He ignores that. Or maybe he chooses not to.
“Your mornings start with reviewing my inbox. I don’t like fluff. Filter out what I need to know; ignore the rest. Meetings need to be timed like clockwork. I hate wasting time.”
