He stands then. Gracefully. Confidently. In a way that tells me he is very used to rooms shifting when he moves. He slides one hand into his trouser pocket. Calm. Effortless. The other hand extends toward me.
“Aryan Khanna,” he says with a polite, almost amused calm. I stare at him, confused for a single heartbeat. Then the words land. “The said CEO,” he finishes, dimples forming.
Aryan. Khanna. The CEO.
The man I’ve been waiting for.
The man I ranted about.
The man I insulted. Multiple times.
The man I mocked.
The man who bought me coffee I nearly spat at.
The man I accused of poor management.
The man I mentally accused of manspreading crimes.
My blood drains. My lungs forget their purpose. My hands go cold.
“And you should probably learn to ask for a person’s name before ranting,” he chuckles, “which I am not complaining about because it was cute.”
I am going to die. Right here. In this expensive room. My spirit will haunt Evergreen’s conference table forever.
I yelled at the CEO.
Insulted his punctuality.
Insulted his coffee.
Insulted HIM, directly.
Mentally insulted his thighs' seating habits.
Fifteen lakhs vanish from my imagination like smoke from a doused candle. This is it. This is the end of my career at twenty-five. I will become a cautionary tale told to interns. And he is still smiling, waiting for me to shake his hand.
My mouth moves before my brain approves.
“…shit,” I whisper.
Because honestly—what else is left to say?
CHAPTER 5
ARYAN
There are very few moments in my adult life when someone stuns me into silence. I’m usually the one doing that to other people, not the other way around. But right now—seeing her stare at my outstretched hand like I’ve asked her to hold a venomous snake—I feel something warm and ridiculous spread through my chest.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, pupils blown in panic, lips parted just slightly. The flush climbing up her neck and cheeks is instant and honestly it's kind of adorable. Not the childish sort of adorable. More like the kind where you want to watch what she does next because every twitch of her expression is unexpectedly captivating.
Her hair catches my attention next—an unmistakable shade of red that shouldn’t work on most people but suits her in a way that feels…intentional. Not loud, not rebellious—just her. Framed around her face, the soft waves give her a sort of fierce softness, like she’s trying her best to appear put-together but the world keeps messing with her, and she keeps showing up anyway. I notice the tiny silver nose pin glinting on her left side, subtle but impossible to miss, and the kajal rimming her eyes that makes them look sharp, alert, expressive. She looks small but somehow takes up the entire room.
Her fingers twitch once—barely a movement, but enough to show she’s arguing with herself. I wait. I don’t move. I don’t rush her. Partly because I don’t want to scare her, and partly because watching her panic spiral is easily the most entertaining thing that has happened to me this entire month.
When she finally does speak, it comes out in a flustered rush.
“I just—I had been sitting here since—you know—half an hour,” she says, voice wobbling like she’s trying to sound mature while her brain is tripping over its shoelaces.
