I reach the reception desk, but I don’t look up. I never do. I keep my voice calm, professionally flat, refusing to show the internal riot going on inside my chest.
“Contract for Ishika Vyas,” I say, keeping my eyes on a vague spot on the counter.
The receptionist gives me a warm smile. I pretend I don’t see it, mostly because my face can’t currently mimic a socially acceptable expression. She hands me a long envelope, and I take it like it’s fragile, expensive, and possibly explosive.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and then I leave before anyone can blink, before anyone can recognize me as the idiot who scolded the CEO for being late.
The moment the glass doors slide open, a welcome rush of outside air hits my face. The world feels too loud, but at least it’s real. I walk to the side of the building, where there’s a small stone bench half-hidden by a row of plants. It’s not glamorous, but it’s shaded, and more importantly, it’s empty.
I sit down so abruptly the bench trembles.
Okay. Deep breath. Maybe several.
My hands are shaking a little when I open the envelope. Inside is a neatly printed contract and attached at the top—of course—is a bright yellow sticky note. It’s impossible to miss. The handwriting is meticulous, confident strokes, clean lines, not a single hesitation mark.
The note reads:
Don’t be hangry tomorrow, Sunshine.
– A.K.
I freeze.
Of course he would double down on that stupid nickname. Of course he would find a way to tease me even when not physically present. Of course I have to deal with a CEO who thinks sticky-note sarcasm is a valid communication method.
And of course I blush. Because my body is my enemy.
I slap the note face-down on my lap and stare ahead, mind swirling in too many directions. Part of me wants to crumple it and throw it into the nearest dustbin. Another part wants to frame it so I remember forever not to embarrass myself again. A third part—traitorous and annoying—keeps replaying the way he said Sunshine. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just amused. Like I was…cute.
Disgusting.
I push every thought out of my head and force myself to focus on the contract. This is what matters. Not him. Not the stupid green eyes that somehow change shades when he smiles. Not the ridiculous rolled-up sleeves or the fact that sitting next to him made me hyper-aware of my own breath.
Fifteen lakhs. Experience. Portfolio boost. A way to finally build something of my own.
I read through the contract carefully, forcing myself to underline the practical points: timeline, deliverables, payment schedule, usage rights. It’s solid, direct, and surprisingly fair. I expected complicated jargon or some hidden clause requiring me to hand over a kidney. But it’s straightforward, almost…thoughtful.
I shouldn’t read too much into that. Some companies are just decent with contracts.
Still, my stomach softens a little.
Fifteen lakhs. My pulse jumps each time I think of the number. I wouldn’t have to juggle twelve small freelance projects just to pay bills. I could buy better software. Better tools. I could maybe—eventually—start collecting clients for my own tiny firm. No more waiting on luck. No more depending on people who may or may not remember my existence when a better designer crosses their path.
But then there’s him.
Aryan Khanna.
The rude fact about him. The unfair existence of him. The nerve he has to exist with that combination of attractive and irritating at the same time.
And I know attraction is not something I am allowed to indulge in—not because of professionalism but because of the way my past relationships have burned me. Not after learning repeatedly that loving people means giving them the power to disappear when they feel like it. I don’t want that chaos in my life again.
But this job… the job is different. Work doesn’t leave unless you fail it. Work doesn’t promise you the world and then ghost you in the middle of building it. Work is controllable.
He is not.
Still—I sign the contract. My name loops across the page sharply, the way it always does when I’m trying to appear braver than I feel. Maybe this is bravery. Maybe it’s stupidity. I don’t know. But I need the money, and he said he liked my ideas, andI’d be a fool to walk away from this opportunity just because the CEO has stupid nice eyes and a smile that could melt the glaciers.
The signature dries quickly. My chest feels lighter and heavier at the same time.
