Thirty minutes.
Thirty.
Three. Zero.
I feel my jaw tightening every time the second hand clicks forward. How does someone in charge of an entire empire have the audacity to be late to a meeting he scheduled himself? If this is how Evergreen operates—rich people running on their own version of time, untouched by the inconvenience of punctuality—then maybe I should walk out.
But then the mantra starts again, soft at first, then louder, like a pulse I can’t ignore.
Money.
Fifteen lakhs.
Money.
Independence.
Money.
Better clients.
Money.
My own design studio one day.
The number bounces around in my head like an overly enthusiastic child. Fifteen lakhs. For someone like me—who counts every transport ticket, every grocery purchase, every freelance invoice—that number is not just money. It’s security. It’s choosing myself. It’s a future. And because of that, I force myself to inhale deeply and give this delayed CEO ten more minutes. Fifteen lakhs deserve ten minutes of patience. Ten more minutes of humiliation inside this overly polished fishbowl of a conference room.
I tap my pen against the sleek wooden table. The sound echoes obnoxiously, almost accusatory, as if the room itself is judging me for being irritated. Everything in here screams wealth—the sculpted chairs, the digital screen that probably folds into the wall, the faint scent of pine and something expensive I can’t name. I feel like a mismatched accessory someone accidentally placed here. An outsider.
Then the door opens. My pen stops mid-tap. For a moment—just a moment—the world seems to tilt.
A man walks in. No, scratch that. A presence walks in. Tall enough that I automatically adjust my posture as if my spine wants to compete. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, clean-shaven, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—revealing forearms I am certain could carry this entire table without needing a second hand. His trousers are dark, fitted, and dangerously formal. His hair is messy in an intentional way, a soft wave falling across his forehead like it’s committed to seducing someone.
He looks like he works out, but not the obsessive gym bro type—more like he’s naturally strong and just maintains it for theheck of it. He seems the kind of man who gets what he wants without lifting a finger. The kind of man who could ruin your day just by existing too close to where you breathe. And then smile afterward in a way that makes you question your sanity for being mad in the first place—which annoys me immediately.
Then he sees me—and smiles.
A slow, warm, unfair smile that feels like a spotlight turning on. It’s not creepy. It’s not overly charming. It’s just… soft. Like he knows me. Which is ridiculous because I have never seen this man's face before in my life.
“I brought coffee for you,” he says casually, holding out a cup.
His voice is deep—not intimidating-deep, but warm-deep. Smooth, even. The kind of voice you’d want narrating an audiobook when you’re having a bad day. I stare at him, then at the coffee cup, then back at him again.
“Coffee?” I repeat, because my brain short-circuits when it’s overwhelmed and defaults to repeating nouns like an idiot.
He tilts his head slightly, amused. “Yeah. Are you a tea person?”
The way he says it—not rude, but with a teasing tone—makes me think he’s already judging me based on the answer. Interesting. He judges tea drinkers. I kind of like that in a person. Mostly because the world assumes all Indians live on chai, and people act like not liking it is a crime. I don’t meet people often, but when I do, the phrasechai loge na?pops up like a glitch in the matrix.
I take the cup from him because I was told to accept polite gestures even when annoyed. I lift it to my lips and take a careful sip.
The moment the liquid hits my tongue, I choke.
This is not coffee. This is sugar’s evil cousin pretending to be coffee. This is milk attempting to cosplay caffeine. This is trauma in liquid form.
I gag, cough, almost spit it out, and finally glare at him like he just poisoned me.
“What—what is this?” I sputter, eyes watering.
