That’s what’s sitting heavy in my chest right now. Not the punch. Not the man.
Her.
The way she looked at me after. Like I had crossed a line. Like I had taken something from her. Like I had stripped her of control. I sit down slowly in my chair and lean back, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t think. That’s the truth.
I had developed this habit of looking at her, absorbed in work usually, very rarely scrolling through her phone, but I like seeing her while I took some time off work. This was one such case, but this time I saw her cornered in her office, the space she built for herself, with her cactus on the table and her files lying there in a mess, and all I did was see red. It was as if I had shut off my brain and before I knew my legs were carrying itself to her, her office, I didn’t think about protocols. I didn’t think about security. I didn’t think about the consequences. I just moved.
I don’t regret punching him. I regret how it made her feel. That’s the difference. She didn’t yell because I defended her. She yelled because I didn’t give her a choice. And that…that stings more than anything. She has built herself around control. I seethat now. Every sharp reply. Every defensive comment. Every refusal to accept help. It’s not arrogance. It’s survival.
And I barged in and took over. I close my eyes and replay the moment. The way she stood there when I grabbed him. The way her jaw tightened. The way she said,“You don’t get to do that.”Not because she didn’t appreciate it. Because she needed to believe she could handle it. She needed to believe she wasn’t helpless.
And I know she wasn’t. She is fierce. She would have handled herself. I don’t know what came over me, I am not like this, but seeing her step back, being afraid, I had never seen her like that, I have always seen Ishika in control, in power so it filled me with rage.
My fingers curl loosely over the armrest.
The second thought hits me again. She needs a car. It’s not about preference anymore. Not about whether she likes “fresh air” or not. Not about whether she thinks she can manage. It’s about safety. He followed her. From the bus. To the building. Into her office. That’s not coincidence. That’s deliberate. And I don’t like it. The idea of her walking alone at night again makes my stomach tighten. The idea of her standing at a bus stop alone makes my jaw clench.
She can argue all she wants about independence and I am all for it. But independence doesn’t stop predators. I rub a hand over my face and exhale slowly. If I give her a car outright, she’ll refuse. She’ll glare. She’ll probably lecture me about charity and independence and how she doesn’t need saving.
She doesn’t need saving, that’s true and I am not trying to be controlling. But she does need security. There’s a difference.And the thought of something happening to her makes me feel responsible and…scared.
I’ve never wanted to fix something so badly. I don’t want to be the man who takes her power away. I want to be the one who stands beside her while she uses it. There’s a line. A thin, fragile line between protection and control. And today, I stepped too close to the wrong side.
I rest my elbows on my knees and lean forward, hands clasped loosely. I’ll apologize tomorrow. Not casually. Not jokingly. Not with some dramatic one-liner. A real apology. I owe her that. I owe her acknowledgment.
Her voice echoes in my head again. Playing on a loop.
“I’ve been able to do that since I was fifteen.”
Fifteen.
I try to picture her at fifteen. Smaller. Younger. Probably already carrying more than she should have. And something in my chest aches in a way I don’t quite understand. I don’t know her story. But I want to. And it’s not out of curiosity but because I hated that look, the look of loneliness, she has given up, she doesn’t want anyone near her but she still longs for it. And the realization that I saw all this in her scares me a little bit. Because she’s just an employee. Because caring changes things. It makes you vulnerable.
And yet, here I am, sitting in my office long after she locked me out, thinking about how to make her feel safe without making her feel small. That’s new. I’ve handled billion-rupee negotiations with less mental effort. This is different. This feelspersonal. I stand up and walk to the glass wall, looking down at the site below. Work continues. Noise returns. Life goes on.
But in her office, behind that closed door, she’s still sitting alone right now. And I hate that. Because she shouldn’t have to. I press my palm lightly against the glass. Tomorrow, I’ll apologize. Tomorrow, I’ll listen. And somehow, without hurting her pride, without stepping on her independence, I’ll make sure she’s never cornered like that again.
Not because she can’t fight. But because she deserves not to. And as the realization settles fully in my chest, heavy and undeniable, I finally admit the truth I’ve been circling around for days.
This isn’t just concern anymore. It’s something deeper. Something steady. Something that makes the idea of her being hurt feel unbearable.
And I don’t know when that happened. But I know this—I’m not walking away from it.
CHAPTER 17
ARYAN
Her office light is off. I notice it before I even take off my jacket. It’s stupid how quickly my eyes search for that one specific square of glass every morning and how my lips curl up when I see her mess on the desk. It’s become routine now. . But today, her office is dark. Not pitch black because of the sunlight, but she’s definitely not there.
I frown.
Maybe she’s just late. It happens. Even though she pretends punctuality is a religion, she’s human. She could be stuck in traffic. Overslept. Decided to take a slower morning. I get my coffee, get one for Ajay too sometimes although I know he’s a tea person. I sit down and open my laptop anyway. The market opens in ten minutes. Emails are already piling up. There are three files Ajay left on my desk last night that need my signature. There is enough work here to drown a normal person.
But I don’t look at any of it. My gaze keeps drifting back to that empty space. It’s irrational. It’s barely nine. Calm down. I try to focus on the numbers on the screen, but they blur. I refresh a chart and immediately realize I’ve processed none of it. My brain is running on a completely different track.
Did I screw up?
The memory of yesterday flashes back—her voice sharp, eyes blazing, door slammed in my face. Did I push too far? Did I make her uncomfortable enough to not show up today?
