The thought doesn’t just pass through my head—it anchors there. Firm. Stubborn.
Yes, it scares me. Of course it does. I am not delusional. I know how the world works. I know how easily a normal day can twist into something ugly. I know the weight of a stranger’s stare. I know the way my body tenses without permission when footsteps trail too closely behind.
I have felt hands where they shouldn’t be. I have turned sharply in crowded buses and pretended not to notice because sometimes reacting is more exhausting than swallowing it. I have walked home with keys pressed between my fingers, not because I wanted to feel powerful, but because I needed to feel prepared.
Prepared for what? For who? For men who think access is their right. But I refuse to let that shape me into something smaller. I refuse to adjust my existence to accommodate someone else’s lack of control. I would rather fight. I would rather stand there and look them in the eye and let them know I am not prey.
If I change my routine, if I change the way I move through the world, then what does that mean? That they win? That fear gets to redesign my life?
No. I will not shrink. I will not calculate my clothing every morning based on male comfort levels. I will not time my exit from work according to how dark the sky looks. I will not lower my voice, soften my steps, shorten my stride just because someone else might misinterpret confidence as invitation.
I am human too. I deserve space. I deserve air. I deserve to exist loudly if I want to. The tightness in my chest grows, but I hold it there. Controlled. Contained.
My hands continue arranging papers that don’t need arranging. I can feel him still there. I can feel his presence the way you feel heat from a fire without looking directly at it.
Watching. Not judging. Not interrupting. Just waiting. And that unsettles me more than if he had argued back. Because silence means he’s thinking. And I don’t know what scares me more—him worrying for me, or him trying to understand me.
This conversation isn’t over. I can feel it hanging in the air between us like something unfinished.
But neither am I. And I refuse to bend first.
CHAPTER 20
ARYAN
She’s right. The problem wasn’t her. It never was. It was him. It was a man who mistook existence for invitation. It was a man who thought proximity meant permission. And that man was handled.
But that doesn’t erase the possibility of another one. And that’s the part I can’t ignore.
I stand there watching her arrange her things with that stiff, controlled anger that she wears like armor, and I let her words sink in properly. She isn’t wrong. She shouldn’t have to change. She shouldn’t have to rearrange her life because some idiot can’t control himself. She shouldn’t have to accept limitations just because the world is unsafe.
But here’s the part she doesn’t see. The problem isn’t whether she can protect herself. I don’t doubt that for a second. Ishika could probably set an entire room straight with just one look. She’s brave in a way that doesn’t scream for attention. She’s fierce in a way that’s quiet but unmovable. I have seen the way she speaks to contractors twice her size and makes them listen. I have seen the way she stood her ground even when I crossed a line.
She can protect herself. That’s not the issue. The issue is me. Because I am afraid. Afraid that next time I won’t be there to walk in at the right moment. Afraid that next time the situation escalates before she gets the chance to react. Afraid that something happens and I only find out when it’s too late.
And I hate that fear. I hate that it exists. I hate that it makes my chest tighten like this.
So I do the one thing that makes sense to me. I step out of her office quietly and pull out my phone.
“Ajay,” I say when he picks up. He listens. As always. No unnecessary questions. Just a calm acknowledgement. A few quick confirmations. Logistics sorted.
When I hang up, there’s a small, satisfied smile tugging at my mouth.
If she won’t accept it as special treatment, then I’ll remove that excuse. I walk back into her office.
She’s already back in her zone. Pencil in hand. Head slightly bent. That strand of red hair slipping loose near her cheek. She doesn’t notice me until I clear my throat.
She looks up, irritation already forming.
I don’t waste time. I walk to her desk and gently push the car key toward her again.
She exhales sharply, the kind of breath someone takes when they are counting to ten in their head.
“Aryan—”
I grin widely and cut her off. “I am giving a car to all my employees. And currently you are one.”
I shrug casually. Her eyes widen. Not slightly. Fully. A soft gasp escapes her mouth before she can stop it.
