The way she says my name makes something settle in my chest.
“But don’t pull something like this again,” she adds quickly, stepping back as if to regain control. “Is all.”
And just like that, she turns and walks back to her seat, dismissing me as if I’m a contractor who overstayed his welcome. I stand there for a moment, watching her sit down, pick up her pencil again, pretend like she didn’t just accept a car from me.
And I smile.
Because she does this so effortlessly. She pushes. She argues. She fights. And then, when she decides something, she ends the conversation like it was always her choice. And somehow, I always let her.
I always step back. I always walk away. Not because I lose. But because I don’t mind losing to her. As I turn and head toward the door, I realize something quietly.
This isn’t about control. It’s about wanting her safe without clipping her wings. And if that means bending my pride, reworking my approach, finding loopholes just to make her comfortable—I’ll do it.
Every time.
Because the truth is simple.
I care for her.
And that is no longer something I can pretend was accidental.
CHAPTER 21
ARYAN
The first warning sign is Ajay knocking twice before entering. He only does that when something—or someone—important is behind him.
“Sir,” he says, stepping aside slightly, “someone’s here to see you.”
I don’t even get the chance to ask who. “Move, Ajay,” my mother’s voice floats in before she does, warm and unapologetic as always.
I look up from my laptop just in time to see her walk into my office like she owns the place. Which, technically, she kind of does. If not legally, then emotionally. This company exists because she let me chase it instead of forcing me into something safer.
“Ma?” I stand up immediately, half surprised, half delighted. “What are you doing here?”
“What? I need permission to visit my own son now?” she replies, eyebrows raised in mock offense.
Ajay hides a smile and excuses himself.
I walk around the desk and pull her into a quick hug. She smells like home. Maybe because she is home. I inhale the scent of sandalwood and the faintest hint of spices which means she was cooking before she came here.
“You could’ve called,” I say.
“And give you time to escape?” she shoots back. “No, thank you.” I chuckle. She does know me well because I would have escaped. CEO or not, mothers can dictate their children anywhere and everywhere. She once pulled me by my ear in front of my staff because I had not attended my cousin’s birthday party and all I could do was follow her.
Before I can reply, there’s another knock on the door. “Come in,” I instruct.
Ishika. Of course.
She steps in with a file in hand “Mr. Khanna, I needed you to sign—” she starts, then pauses. Stopping mid-step when she notices my mother standing there, “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.” Her posture straightens instinctively. Not nervous—never nervous—but cautious. Measured. Professional.
I can see it—the immediate shift in her tone. Calm. Polite. Guarded.
“Ishika,” I say quickly, a smile forming without permission, “this is my mother.”
My mother turns toward her with immediate interest. The kind she reserves for things she finds intriguing. “And this,” I continue, unable to hide the warmth in my voice, “is Ishika Vyas. Our interior designer.”
Ishika gives a small nod. “Hello, ma’am.”
