His voice drops just enough to make every nerve in my body stand at attention.
“Oh, I know exactly where to find you.”
I freeze for a second, heart stumbling over itself. His assistant shifts his weight awkwardly, as if sensing something he absolutely should not be sensing in a workplace environment.
I force myself to turn around, chin lifted like I’m not internally combusting, and walk out of the room before I do something embarrassing. My steps are too fast. My pulse too loud. My thoughts too messy.
I push through the door and once I’m out of sight, I exhale so hard it feels like I’ve been underwater.
Why do I react like this around him? WHY?
I don’t react to people. I barely even notice people unless they’re creating problems. I am usually the queen of ignoring nonsense. Ignoring comments. Ignoring everything.
But around him, the part of my brain responsible for dignity shuts down completely. It’s like a switch flips the second he opens his stupid mouth. Either I’m fuming or blushing or getting flustered like someone who has never interacted with a man before.
It’s scary, honestly. Scary because I don’t like feeling anything that isn’t in my control. Scary because he seems to enjoy every second of it. Scary because it makes me aware of how unprepared I am for someone like him. And scary because it feels like he sees right through all the walls I’ve spent years building.
I walk back toward the site, trying to calm my breathing.
I need space. I need work. I need silence. I need anything that isn’t Aryan Khanna.
Because if one more word leaves his mouth in that amused, teasing tone, I might explode.
Not at him.
At myself.
Since apparently, I am the problem here.
I hate it.
I hate how he affects me.
I hate how I react.
I hate that he makes me feel anything at all.
And yet, a tiny, traitorous voice inside me whispers the one thing I absolutely refuse to think: You don’t actually hate it.
I glare at the empty hallway like I can scare the thought away.
No.
I do hate it.
I have to.
Because the alternative is far too dangerous.
I square my shoulders, walk faster, and bury myself back into work—where things make sense, where lines stay straight, where people stay in their boxes, and where my heart doesn’t try to run marathons without my permission.
Whatever this strange pull is, whatever nonsense my brain is doing around him…it stops here.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Even though a small, irritating part of me knows—I’m lying.
CHAPTER 11
