CHAPTER 34
ARYAN
I don’t regret shit. I walk into my office with coffee—exactly the one she hates—in hand, tie half done, mind already on her.
I may have gone a little overboard on the balcony.
Fine.
Maybe more than a little.
Maybe most sane men do not corner a woman they like under moonlight, tell her they’re not going anywhere, nearly kiss her, then kiss her forehead like some lovestruck idiot trying to be noble.
But I still don’t regret it.
Because someone had to say those things to her. Someone had to tell her that surviving isn’t the same as living. Someone had to look at all those walls she wears like armor and sayI see them, and I’m still here.
And if that someone had to be me, then so be it.
The problem is, Ishika apparently disagrees.
Because for the last four days, she has been avoiding me like I personally caused inflation. No weekly update meetings. No walking into my office with files clutched to her chest and irritation already loaded on her tongue. No dry comments. No eye rolls. No mutteredGolden boyunder her breath.
Instead, every update arrives through Ajay. A file placed on my desk. A typed summary. Measurements, material costs, timelines, vendor approvals.
Exactly like work should be. Exactly unlike anything involving her ever feels. “She left this ten minutes ago, sir.” Ajay places another folder in front of me and tries very hard not to look amused.
I stare at the file like it insulted my family. “She was here?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t come in?”
“No.”
I look up slowly. He coughs into his fist to hide a smile. “I see.”
“She seemed busy.”
“Sure,” I mutter.
Ajay’s mouth twitches. I glare at him and bark out, irritated that he finds this funny, “Get out.” He leaves laughing. Traitor. I open the file and scan the pages, but every line reminds me of her. Her handwriting in the margins. Sharp, slanted notes.
Wrong shade.
No.
Why would anyone approve this?
Fix your color choices before I lose respect for humanity.
I smile before I can stop myself because I strangely feel so proud that she still doesn’t back down from being herself. Then immediately stop. This is what she has reduced me to. A grown man smiling at aggressive stationery. I lean back in my chair and glance through the glass partition toward her office.
Empty. Again.
She has become suspiciously mobile this week.
Suddenly she is personally inspecting marble samples, lighting fixtures, upholstery fabric, hardware fittings, wood finishes, decorative panels, and whatever else people in design say dramatically while holding catalogs. She is never in one place long enough for me to catch her.
