I blinked and looked at her for a few seconds. I clearly remembered her message from last night. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. I’m here only to represent our media division and introduce the content formats we usually create. Not for a meeting,” I replied, hesitating.
Her brows furrowed. “But aren’t you the co-responsible lead for the communications team in this project? Mr Aditya texted us this morning. You’ll be stepping in since he’ll often travel out of town. Isn’t that the procedure?”
“Ahh, yes—HAH?!”
What?!
Me? Responsible for the content team in this project? The project that involved Zioh and INDTV Group?
When? How? Who decided that—
Aditya.
That man, seriously.
I stood there gaping, dumbfounded, staring at Natasha with wide eyes. Then, a scoff broke the silence.
Glancing past Natasha, I found Zioh’s eyes already on me. His lips twitched into the faintest smile as he exhaled.
And everything inside me went blank and silent.
This was his first real reaction to me since we met again. Proof that I wasn’t invisible after all shook me to my core.
He walked ahead, leaving us behind. My gaze stayed glued to his back, my head spinning, my breath trapped in my throat. Then his deep voice reached me, low but clear enough to hear: “Nothing’s changed. At all.”
My heart dropped to my toes.
He remembered me.
4
Tshabina
“These are some examples of the content our team usually produces for the company. Each platform has a different approach. On Instagram, we focus more on visuals, adding explanations directly on the slides and using shorter captions. Then…”
When we entered the meeting room, I tried to explain in the calmest tone I could muster. It was just the three of us in this spacious room. I sat alone on one side of the long oval table, while Natasha and Zioh sat across from me, both looking at the iPad I presented.
No. Not both.
Only Natasha.
Because Zioh’s eyes burned into me.
He stared at me with such focus, as if dissecting me with that sharp gaze. His expression stayed flat, making me swallow over and over again.
Each time I spoke, my voice faltered, and my fingers shook while I pointed at my iPad. In the pause of my words, the clock’s ticking grew louder, and the air conditioner’s cold sank into my skin deeper than it ever had before.
When I dared glance at him, his eyes weren’t just cold; there was something else—a quiver so faint that it vanished the moment I blinked.
And then, when our eyes held each other, something shifted. For a second, his lids fluttered, and faint lines appeared on his forehead. But as quickly, he shook his head, clenched his fists on the table, and the chill greeted me again.
“Change it.” Zioh’s sudden command, punctuated by his fingers tapping against my iPad screen, broke the moment. “I’m not keen on the last one.”
His voice.
I went rigid, struck by its sound. I’d heard it before, but this time, it vibrated through my very bones. It had grown deeper and rougher with age and maturity.
Blinking a few times, I drew in a trembling breath and tried to steady my heart, which stuttered in its rhythm.
