14
Projections
Ananya
The city lights glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Most of the office had cleared out hours ago, leaving just the two of us with the occasional click of Jai’s keyboard and the low hum of the air conditioning.
I stifled a yawn, rubbing my eyes. We’d been going over the budget projections for Rivaayat since five. It was almost eight now.
A knock.
‘Come in.’
The security guard entered and dropped our delivery bag on the desk.
‘Thank you.’ I smiled gratefully.
He nodded and left.
I closed my laptop. ‘That’s it. I can’t look at another number.’
Jai laughed, shutting his own. ‘Thanks for staying today. I know budgets aren’t exactly your favourite.’ He grabbed the bag and sat on the couch, unwrapping our food: Mediterranean wraps, warm pita bread with beetroot hummus and baklava.
I grabbed plates for us from the sideboard and settled beside him. ‘It’s fine. Rivaayat’s important.’
His tired face softened. ‘It is.’
I watched him portion out the hummus methodically. The same way he approached everything.
‘He’s new to the position. Perhaps he’s making mistakes.’Rekha’s voice echoed in my head. But observing him so closely, working for hours, obsessing over every detail, triple-checking numbers, I couldn’t see the reckless person she’d described.
Maybe if I understood their relationship better, I’d understand what she was worried about. Why a mother would take such extreme measures to spy on her son.
Maybe then, I’d figure out a way to make her stop.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I asked, keeping my tone casual as I kicked my heels off and tucked my legs beneath me. ‘About your family.’
His hand paused mid-reach for the pita. ‘What about them?’
‘I realised I don’t really know much about them.’ I tore off a piece of bread, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘You don’t talk about them much. I’m ... curious.’
He paused. I could feel him weighing the question. Then he exhaled, setting down his wrap. ‘You’re right. I don’t talk about them much.’ He stared at his plate. ‘There’s a reason for that.’
Guilt twisted in my stomach. I was fishing for information about Rekha and her plausible motives, and he thought I was being a caring girlfriend.
Both were true.
But one felt like a betrayal.
‘My mom … she died when I was three,’ he said quietly.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
‘I—’ My voice came out strangled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Finally, the pieces came together before my eyes.
Rekha wasn’t his mother. She was his stepmother.
