I blink at him, stunned.
The boss voice is back.
But so is the warmth in his eyes.
My heart is full—too full—and I don’t know where to put all of it.
This man wants to know me. Not just kiss me. Not just wake up next to me.
He wants to understand my dream.
That’s rare.
That’s everything.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing hard. “I don’t have a name yet,” I mumble. “I didn’t think I could actually do it.”
“You can do everything, Aditi.” He says as if he means it, “I mean, you madeMEfeel things, and out of thousands of people I know, no one has been able to do it.” He chuckles, shrugging, and I shake my head. Of course, arrogance. Everything is about him. As it should be.
He believes in me. And that solely makes me want to marry him right here and right now, because a man who can handlean ambitious woman? Rare sight. But I don’t say this out loud, obviously, because I don’t want to scare him, but I know I will marry him someday. I can see that happening already.
CHAPTER 43
ABHIMAAN
The city lights glitter below like a lazy constellation, blurred behind the office’s tall glass walls. The hour is too late for work, too early for sleep—it’s just quiet. My jacket hangs on the back of my chair, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. Aditi is across from me, sitting with her knees drawn up slightly, mug cupped in both hands as if it holds warmth she doesn’t feel inside.
She hasn’t spoken in ten minutes. That’s how I know she’s spiraling again.
I glance at her over my laptop, and she looks—small. Still in her power suit, but it’s like she’s shrunk inside it. Her eyes are distant, focused somewhere past the rim of her tea. Her thumb strokes the ceramic without thought. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
She’s still thinking about the deal.
The one we lost this morning.
The one she thinks is entirely her fault.
It wasn’t. But I know better than to say that again. I’ve already tried logic. Reason. Facts. I’ve even pulled the “I’m your boss, and I said drop it” card.
Didn’t work.
Hell, I even told her if she apologized one more time, I’d fire her.
That was a mistake.
She had looked up at me then, lips parted in surprise. And something in her gaze had broken—shattered so quietly I almost missed it. She didn’t cry. She never does in front of me, especially in the office. But she flinched like I slapped her. And that hurt worse.
I lean back in my chair and exhale slowly, staring at her as she watches the steam fade from her mug. She’s wearing her hair loose tonight. The way it curls over her shoulder softens the sharp lines of her tired face.
It’s haunting, the way guilt lives in her body. Like she owes the world penance just for existing. Like being good at something means never being allowed to fail.
But she’s not just good. She’s brilliant. Fierce. Stubborn. Loyal.
And tonight, she’s punishing herself for being human.
I close my laptop.
She doesn’t notice.
