Two of them nod. One scratches his head. Another mutters something to the one beside him. I’m used to it. I’ve learned how to speak over doubt. Learned how to hold my ground without screaming.
I step closer to demonstrate. Raising my hand to point at the glass but words dry in my throat when I feel a hand on my ass, firm and quick and by the touch I know it’s deliberate.
For a split second, my body doesn’t register it. Then it does. My spine locks. My stomach flips. My skin burns. I jerk forward instinctively, disgust hitting me so violently I almost lose balance. I spin around immediately—but there are fivemen behind me. Five faces. Some blank. Some confused. Some looking away too quickly.
I don’t know which one. That’s the worst part. If I knew, I could at least anchor my anger somewhere. But now it floats. Directionless. Heavy.
“Continue later,” I say, my voice tight but steady.
They look at me, unsure.
“Later,” I repeat.
I walk away without waiting for a response.
My steps are fast. I try not to run or flee, just walk fast enough that I don’t have to look at any of them again. My hands feel dirty even though no mark remains. My brain replays the moment again and again like it wants to confirm it happened.
It did.
I hate this part of being a woman the most.
Not the comments.
Not the stares.
Not even the fear.
The part where your body stops feeling like it belongs to you for a second. The part where you feel exposed without actually being exposed. The part where you wonder if it was your fault. If your blouse was too fitted. If your hair was too noticeable. If you stood too close. Because that’s how society has convinced us women that it’s always your fault, sometimes it’s the clothes, sometimesit’s the time. It is always your fault and not the man who tried to touch me without my permission.
I reach my office and shut the door behind me. The noise dulls. The space feels smaller, but safer, away from the world. My temporary metal gate—installed the day I took this job—rests behind me like a silent guard. I need this for a second, so I can breathe again.
I lean against the desk and inhale slowly. You’ve handled worse. Fifteen-year-old me handled worse. Fifteen-year-old me learned how to hold keys between fingers like weapons. Learned how to look men in the eye so they’d know I wasn’t afraid. Learned how to walk alone without looking lost. Learned how to survive alone. So I can handle this.
I sit down and open my laptop, forcing myself to work. Because work makes sense. Work is predictable. Work doesn’t betray you.
The door clicks shut.
I look up.
A man stands there.
He isn’t one of the regular workers. I know faces. I remember them. This one is new. Or maybe I’ve seen him in passing. I don’t know. But I know he doesn’t belong inside this office.
I stand immediately, spine straight, eyebrow raised. “Who are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He closes the door fully behind him. Something cold creeps up my back. “I know almosteveryone here,” I continue, keeping my tone controlled. “I’ve never seen you.”
He smiles. And it's not a friendly smile.
“You might be so desperate for attention,” he says. My stomach drops. “Red hair,” he continues, eyes scanning me slowly. “Sleeveless blouse. Your inner is visible.”
My fingers curl into fists. “Show some to me,” he says casually, like he’s asking for a glass of water. For one split second, my brain freezes.
Then it switches. I measure distance. Door. Table. My phone. My weight shifts slightly. Before I can move—The door slams open. It bangs so hard it hits the wall. I turn, confused.
Aryan.
He stands there, breathing hard, eyes dark in a way I’ve never seen before. There’s no teasing. No smirk. No amusement. This isn’t his usual self. He looks furious. Before I can say anything, he strides forward and grabs the man by his collar, yanking him away from me so fast the chair behind him falls.
