“Market conditions,” Raghav answered smoothly. “New data from our Asian team suggests we’re underestimating potential returns by at least fifteen percent.”
It was a lie. The projections were perfect—Ishani’s work always was. But he needed a reason to keep her here, away from Citrus, away from Samrat and his questions about her.
“I’ll revise them right away,” Ishani said, already pulling up the spreadsheets.
“Not just the numbers,” Raghav said, scrolling back through the deck. “The structure needs work. We’re burying the impact. Start again from the acquisition premise.”
Ishani nodded and adjusted her screen.
What followed made sense on paper. A revised framework. A different narrative flow. Cross-checks that led to more cross-checks. Each instruction was reasonable. Taken together, they stretched the evening far longer than planned.
Ishani worked through it without comment. She flagged issues, made revisions, moved on. When one task ended, she was already halfway into the next, unaware that none of this had been on the agenda an hour ago.
The office thinned out around them.
First the support staff, then the department heads. Conversations faded. Elevators chimed and went quiet. By the time the floor finally settled into silence, the only sounds left were the soft tap of her fingers against keyboard and Raghav’s occasional instructions.
Through the glass, he saw Kavya’s group heading out, laughter spilling down the corridor. Samrat walked with them, easy and unhurried, hands in his pockets like the world waited for him.
Raghav returned his attention to the screen, aware of a small, undeniable satisfaction he chose not to examine too closely.
“I think we’ve covered everything now,” Ishani said, checking the time—7:48 PM. “Unless there’s something else you’d like me to revise?”
Before Raghav could invent another task, Ishani’s stomach growled audibly in the quiet office. She pressed a hand against her abdomen, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
Raghav didn’t hesitate. He picked up his mobile and placed an order.
“Twenty minutes. We need to finish before the food arrives,” he said, turning back to the files.
Ishani nodded and returned to her spreadsheets, at least in appearance. Her eyes flicked up anyway, betraying her.
Raghav sat rigid at his desk, shoulders tight beneath his perfectly cut shirt, fingers striking the keyboard with the ease that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.
She bit her lower lip to suppress a smile. Oh, she’d definitely caught that little door click earlier—subtle as a sledgehammer. And the timing of his intercom buzz the moment Samrat’s name came into the conversation? Remarkable timing, really.
She’d seen Raghav negotiate million-dollar deals without blinking, but apparently the mere suggestion of after-work drinks with another man triggered an emergency Singapore proposal revision.
The man was about as subtle as a peacock in mating season, all puffed-up possession without a single direct word. Ridiculous. Infuriating. And yet—heaven help her—why did she find his territorial display so absurdly appealing?
With a small sigh, she forced her attention back to the numbers. Let him think he was being clever. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d noticed.
They worked in silence for another twenty minutes until the security came with the delivery. Raghav had it set down on the conference table in his office.
“Come,” he said, already moving toward it.
Ishani hesitated only a second before following. When he opened the containers, the scent of tomato, garlic, and spice filled the room. He slid the penne arrabbiata toward her without comment.
Ishani stopped short. Blinked. Then looked up at him. “How did you…?”
“Eat,” he said, reaching for his own fork.
No explanation. No acknowledgment of how he remembered a casual dinner order from weeks ago. Just a command, issued with the same authority he applied to business decisions.
Ishani picked up her fork, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips before she quickly suppressed it.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
