For some reason, I was hyper aware of his presence beside me.
My mind was racing. How much had he heard? Just the dick part? The whole rant about margins, red pens and feeling scrutinised? God, what if he’d heard me say he hated me?
I snuck a glance at him.
His expression was unreadable. Jaw set, eyes forward, walking as if nothing had happened.
A flush climbed up my neck.
‘Kavita … she wasn’t feeling well. I sent her home,’ he said, his voice neutral.
‘Is she okay?’
‘Yes. Just tired.’
‘Oh.’ This wassoawkward.
By the time we arrived at the conference room, every seat but two was taken.
Suraina Mukherjee.
Oh my god. OH MY GOD.
She was here. In the flesh.
Get a grip. Stop making a fool out of yourself.
I slid into the empty chair beside Jai at the end of the long table, still dazed. A man stood near the screen, the first slide of a presentation glowing behind him.
A neat stack of papers sat before each person.
‘We have prepared two pitches for the marketing campaign of this season’s festive line,’ he started. ‘The Last Light’ dominated the screen. ‘The Last Light is a five-day Diwali celebration hosted by a celebrity family in a palace …’
My gaze drifted to Suraina ma’am. Her silver-streaked hair was cropped short. The only make-up she had on was the kajal lining her eyes and crimson lipstick. She wore an ivorychanderisuit and akundanring – her signature piece of jewellery.
Her gaze rested on me for a moment, and I dropped my eyes.That was close.
I turned to the screen.
‘… tradition and fashion. It puts us in the centre of cultural aspiration,’ he concluded, looking at Jai hopefully.
‘I love it,’ Jai’s brother, Ayaan, remarked. I recognised him from my interview prep. ‘The Rathods would be perfect for it. They’re celebrities and royalty. Their ancestral palace would be the perfect place to host this party.’
‘Let’s talk numbers,’ Jai said.
‘Of course.’ The man took us through the figures.
‘The idea is good. But I’ll have to be honest – at this scale, it doesn’t align with our budget.’ Jai’s statement fell like a hammer, flattening the room’s optimism.
‘Let’s move on to the next one,’ the presenter said and started a new deck.
‘Virasat’ popped up on the screen. ‘We’re not selling couture. We’re offering legacy.’ The next slide was a picture of an old woman fastening a clasp at the nape of a young woman’s neck. Between them was the fall of a heavy silk sari. ‘Our clothes are designed to be …’
Beside me, Jai flicked through a stack of papers. A stylish Audemars Piguet watch glinted against his tanned skin. His hands were large with veins standing out.
The fall replayed in my mind. The rush of the drop. His strong, steady grip. Fresh, woody scent.
I blinked hard, forcing my attention back to the presentation.
