I wasn't breathing.

I think I forgot how. Or maybe my lungs just gave up halfway through the sentence "I'm transferring firms."

"Denied." He wasn't teasing anymore. It was just a calm verdict that sliced straight through my delusion.

Because standing there, with my back against the CEO's office door, his office door. I wasn't just facing the man I married. I was facing my boss.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

The private elevator. The unapologetic confidence. The way he said "I don't need an appointment."

The audacity wasn't delusion. It was legit. And I didn't know whether to scream, cry, or file for annulment through HR.

I closed my eyes and inhaled sharply. Panic and embarrassment clawed at the back of my throat.

He was still watching me. Calm. Composed. Like he hadn't just turned my entire career into a soap opera.

And me?

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Or at least launch me into a parallel universe where I'd married someone boring. Like an accountant. With zero LinkedIn presence.

My heart started racing in my chest and my brain was speed scrolling through every dumb thing I'd said since entering the building.

"Kill me now."

It escaped before I could catch it. A breath of humiliation slipping out, because in that moment, I honestly wished I could disappear.

His eyes met mine, there was no teasing or amusement in them. He just stood in front of me, quiet and patient.

And he had the audacity to look guilty. As if that could undo the past twenty minutes of my soul disintegrating into the floor.

"You knew," I said finally. "This entire time, you knew. And you still let me embarrass myself."

"That wasn't embarrassing." His reply came without a pause.

And he said it like stating a law of nature. As if it was as obvious as the sun rising or the earth turning.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

The question tumbled out. Cracked and raw. My voice had forgotten how to sound steady.

His features softened- brows barely drawn, like he almost regretted it.

"I didn't know either," he said. "You told me this morning."

"You could've told me before we got here." I was trying to sound logical, rational. But my emotions clung to every syllable.

"Would you have believed me?" He asked.

There was no tension in his face, only the faint trace of something quieter... Like he wasn't defending himself, just laying out a truth he hoped I'd understand.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Because no, I wouldn't have. Not in a million years. I would've laughed in his face. Denied it.

"I thought you worked at Malhotra & Co.," I admitted softly. Like maybe that made my disbelief make sense.

Something in his expression shifted when I said that. Barely a flicker. But enough to know I'd hit something I wasn't supposed to touch.

"I don't." His face was blank when he replied. But behind those dark brown eyes that gave nothing away, something lingered- just out of reach.

I didn't push.

"I can't work here," I said after a beat.

"Diya-"

"You're my boss," I whispered. It came out small, like the truth had stolen my breath.

He looked at me then- straight and sure, like he'd already made up his mind.

"That doesn't change a thing."

🪔

The silence in his office was almost clinical, like the space itself didn't know how to hold the weight of what had just unfolded between us.

The glass walls, the polished desk, the muted hum of the city beyond, everything screamed professionalism.

I sat stiffly on the couch, legs crossed at the ankle, trying to keep myself composed. But my fingers betrayed me- tapping, twisting, restless.

I was barely holding myself together.

I had it all planned. Leave early. Stay late. Sleep early. Spend weekends with Misha. Avoid reality. Avoid... him.

But no. Of course the universe had to pile this onto my crumbling sense of reality by making him my boss.

My CEO.

He sat next to me. Not too close, not too far, just enough to make the air between us feel a little less hostile.

"Please let me transfer firms. I don't want this... affecting our careers." I said, voice controlled, rehearsed.

Like this was just a professional concern and not my personal nightmare unraveling in real time.

"It won't. Especially not yours." He replied far too calm.

I hated that it comforted me a little. And I hated that I wasn't sure if he was saying it professionally or personally.

"What if someone finds out?" I pressed. "I don't want to jeopardize your reputation."

He just looked at me for a second. Then he tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. "How would they know?"

I exhaled sharply. "I've never married a CEO before, you see? I don't know... how this works."

He blinked once.

Then, "I've never married an article before either."

And then? We just... looked at each other. Soaking everything in. Like the moment already knew what we couldn't say.

I couldn't hold his gaze, so I stood, searching for air, for clarity, for anything that wasn't him. "Alright. Let's just keep it professional then. Mr. Malhotra."

He rose too, matching my stance with maddening ease. "Sure."

"We're only doing this for the families, not the world. So we're good... I guess." I looked at him, willing him to agree with that version of reality.

He didn't reply. Just gave the slightest nod. The kind people give in board meetings when they don't agree but can't be bothered to argue.

"I'll take my leave now," I said, adjusting the strap of my bag, heading toward the door.

But before I could touch the handle-

"Miss Sharma."

My hand stilled on the door handle. He had never called me that before.

I turned slowly, heart skipping. He was no longer relaxed. His voice was firm, formal. So unlike the version of him I'd just spoken to.

He took a step closer, there was no warmth in his gaze anymore, just something unreadable.

"You're not permitted to use offensive language when referring to our employees. On or off the clock."

I blinked. "I didn't-?"

"K!ll me now," he quoted. My own words. Thrown carelessly when the world felt like it was crumbling.

I hadn't thought they'd land anywhere but in the void.

I swallowed. "That was just a-"

"Don't say that again," he cut in. "Not here. Not anywhere."

It didn't feel like he was saying it as my boss. I didn't know why it sounded different.

But maybe this is what professionalism looks like when it's done right.

I was the one who asked him to keep it formal. I should get used to it.

"It's against our workplace policy," he added.

I couldn't form a reply.

Couldn't fight the heal crawling up my neck.

So I just nodded and left.

And for the first time today. I actually felt like I married my CEO.

🪔

I stood at the end of the cafeteria line, eyes drifting over the glowing menu screen like any of it mattered.

The words swam in sharp fonts and neat colors. But hollow in my stomach wasn’t the kind food could soothe.

Just as I stepped forward to order, voices behind me caught my ear.

“I think the CEO’s getting married.”

My body stilled slightly, i felt the ground shift half an inch, enough to lose balance but not enough to fall.

“Wait, what if he’s already married? Someone like him would’ve made headlines, right?”

My throat went dry. I didn’t dare turn around.

“Seriously. I saw a wedding band on his finger this morning.”

My hand twitched before I could stop it. I curled my fingers slightly, instinctively hiding the ring on my own hand.

“Damn, I didn’t even know he was seeing someone.”

“Watch it be some big shot’s daughter. One of those high profile alliance types.”

A short laugh followed.

I stared harder at the menu. The letters blurred, melted into one another.

Suddenly, food felt absurd.

My hunger vanished.

The noise grew louder. And I stepped out of the line like I was never there, like nothing had happened.

The hallway echoed under my shoes, each step too sharp, too loud, like the floor had turned into glass. Every click of my heel echoed.

By the time I returned to my desk, my ears were still ringing with voices that didn’t belong to me.

I sat down, opened my laptop, and let the home screen glow at me, waiting. I didn’t move. Didn't click. Just… stared.

They didn’t say anything cruel. They weren’t even wrong. But even words without edges can cut. And these? They slid under my skin and stayed there.

Because if just a ring could stir up whispers... What would the truth sound like?

The thought of him getting dragged into these conversations, reduced to assumptions, speculated, a name passed between curious lips—

It sat wrong with me.

Bothered me.

Too much for something that wasn’t supposed to matter.

But it did.

Because he’s respected here. People walk a little straighter when he enters the room. They speak with a little more care.

Not like at my old firm, where the CEO’s name was thrown around like a curse, spat out behind closed doors.

But Mr. Malhotra… He’s different.

And no. I'm not saying that because I wear his ring. I felt it long before I knew who the CEO even was.

There was always this quiet reverence surrounding his name. Stories about his work ethic. How he never raised his voice. How he never misused the weight of his position. How he made people feel seen, even when he wasn’t obligated to.

There’s silence when he passes.

Not fear. Just weight.

But now… now everything feels too fragile.

What if someone finds out?

What if they realize the truth... that he married an article working two floors below him?

They don’t know how it happened. They don’t know it wasn’t love, or a scandal, or a story worth retelling.

They don’t know that he didn’t even know. But facts won’t matter. People will be quick to question him, his credibility, his judgment, his integrity.

Will they doubt the deals he’s signed?

Whisper about the promotions he’s approved?

I don’t want him dragged into this.

Not because of me or for something he never asked for.

I shook the thoughts away.

Tried to focus. To drown myself in spreadsheets and numbers. Pretend I could separate myself from the noise.

But who was I fooling?

The day crawled. I did my job, mechanically. Got the work done, but I wasn’t efficient, I was just functioning.

And the moment the clock gave me permission to leave, I didn’t hesitate.

I shoved everything into my bag, barely caring if the zipper caught the edge of my files, and walked out.

I booked a cab in haste. Thankfully, it arrived within two minutes.

Just as I opened the door, my phone buzzed in my hand.

Mr. Me: Did you leave already?

I froze. I was getting notifications from him for the first time.

For a second, I just stared at the screen.

A tiny text. Yet somehow it felt dangerous. Because I was scared that even a reply could bloom into another rumour.

Still, I typed a plain “yes” and hit send before I could overthink it again.

Then slid into the cab and shut the world out.

The drive home was uneventful, the city rushing past in a blur of headlights and chai stalls.

As I stepped inside, the faint murmur of voices met me soft and domestic.

In the living room, Kavita aunty and Meera aunty sat on the couch, fingers working methodically as they peeled peas into steel bowls balanced on their laps.

And on the carpet beside them, Misha was knee deep in her tiny Lego kingdom, completely immersed.

The moment she spotted me, her face lit up like morning. “E-yaa!” she squealed, arms lifted in unfiltered joy.

I felt something in me soften.

Kavita aunty and Meera aunty turned, smiling in that easy, welcoming way only women of the house can.

“Aagayi, beta?” Kavita aunty asked, her voice gentle.

I just nodded politely, the weight of the day still pressing against my shoulders.

Then Meera aunty looked up, her eyes soft, kind, in a way that reminded me painfully of Ma. “Thak gayi? Kaisa tha din?” she asked.

“Theek tha, aunty,” I replied, the lie slipping out like second nature.

From the floor, Misha raised her arms toward me. “E-yaa!”

I slid the bag off my shoulder and scooped her up into my arms. Her tiny arms wrapped around my neck.

I sank onto the couch, holding her close. My palm found its way to the back of her head, cradling her instinctively.

I don’t know if this makes sense, but somehow, she always manages to quiet my world.

When she hugs me.

When she runs to me.

When she says my name in that joyful, broken syllable.

E-yaa.

In that moment, I stop thinking.

The noise, the tension, the day, it all fades. All that remains is her.

Her warmth. Her breath. Her trust.

She peeked up at me through the curtain of her curls, waiting.

“Peek a boo?” I whispered.

She giggled, pure, unfiltered joy.

Tanya walked out of the kitchen holding Misha’s milk bottle like it was a trophy.

“Boo boo time!” she announced brightly.

And Misha?

The second her eyes landed on that bottle, she started wiggling in my lap like she’d just seen gold.

Her tiny body wiggled with delight, legs kicking, arms flailing, as if the very sight of milk had rewired her entire being.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Tanya settled beside me, the couch dipping slightly under her weight. I instinctively moved to pass Misha to her, assuming that was the plan.

But instead, Tanya held out the bottle to me. “Do you want to feed her?” she asked, voice light, like it was no big deal.

“I can?” The words left my mouth too quickly, too eagerly. But I meant it. My chest fluttered at the thought.

Meera aunty and Kavita aunty exchanged amused glances before chuckling. I knew I probably looked like a kid being offered a chance to drive a spaceship.

“Yes.” Tanya smiled, her eyes warm. “You absolutely can.”

Oh. My. God.

Me.

Feeding Misha.

This might be the best thing I do all day.

“Can you show me how? I’ve never done this before,” I admitted, embarrassed and excited all at once.

Tanya nodded, shifting closer, already moving to help. She tucked a cushion behind my back, gently guiding me to lean into it. Then she took my arm and helped me cradle Misha properly, my hand curving behind her tiny head.

Misha clapped, delighted, as if she was the one getting to feed me.

Tanya brought the bottle to her lips with the practiced calm of someone who’d done this a hundred times. Then she let me hold it.

The bottle warmed my fingers, and her tiny lips latched on with a quiet eagerness that made my heart ache in the best way.

Her wide, curious eyes stayed locked on mine as she drank, lashes fluttering, her whole body relaxed in my arms. Her tiny fingers brushing against my wrist every now and then.

“What all does she eat?” I asked, lowering my voice like the question might disturb the magic in the room.

It was genuine curiosity. I'd never really been around babies before. Everything felt new and oddly important.

Tanya smiled, stretching her legs a little.

“We give her everything that’s healthy. Mashed fruits, yoghurt, soft veggies. She’s not a fussy eater, thankfully.”

I nodded slowly, looking down at Misha.

Then Tanya sighed, her smile turning a little wry.

“But her favourite beverage is still breastmilk.”

I blinked, amused by her honesty.

“She still breastfeeds?”

“Yes,” she chuckled. “She just turned one. The doctor advised I continue for another six months… but honestly?”

She sighed with a soft laugh. “I doubt she’ll give it up that easily. She’s… very attached.”

Right on cue, Misha let out a content little hum, like she was proudly agreeing, and the room burst into laughter.

“Misha toh kuch nahi hai, beta,” Meera aunty said, shaking her head like she still couldn’t believe it herself. “I nursed Vedant for two and a half years.”

My smile faltered for just a second.

I blinked, and before I could stop myself, my brain offered up a ridiculous image: A tiny version of him, same intense eyes and the same impossible stubbornness.

“And Atharv?” Tanya asked, curiosity lighting up her face.

“Of course,” Kavita aunty replied with a resigned nod. “He followed in his big brother’s footsteps. I nursed both Avni and Atharv for nearly three years.”

She sighed, the way only mothers do when they secretly loved every exhausting second of it.

Tanya gasped, eyes wide. Visibly stunned.

And me? I was still trying to catch up, mentally counting years like a clueless guest at a mommy podcast. Okay… three years must be considered a lot.

“Don’t you dare take after your dad or bua,” Tanya mock scolded Misha.

“Too late for that, she already takes after me.”

A familiar voice cut through the air, teasing and loud.

We turned toward the door as Atharv bhaiya entered, tossing his keys onto the table.

Laughter burst out across the living room, warm and contagious.

Misha clapped at the sight of her dad. She was visibly excited in my lap.

Everyone chatted for a while, before Atharv bhaiya finally climbed the stairs, probably to change out of his office clothes. Meera aunty and Kavita aunty disappeared into the kitchen, their voices fading into a hushed symphony of clinking steel and gentle conversation.

And just like that, it was quiet. Just Tanya, me, and the little princess in my lap.

Misha’s bottle was tipped at the perfect angle. Her little fingers now clutched the bottle, but the milk inside had almost vanished.

“Should I take it from her now?” I asked, glancing at Tanya.

She nodded with a knowing smile, and I gently tugged the bottle out of her mouth.

Misha sighed.

Not a baby sigh.

It was the sigh of a corporate employee who just shut her laptop after a draining 9 to 5 and barely survived traffic, and finally kicked off her shoes.

I stifled a laugh. It was without a doubt the cutest thing I’d ever seen.

“She’s not sleepy today,” Tanya murmured, looking at her affectionately, “Usually, she knocks out the second that first drop of milk hits.”

I was about to say something back, but before I could, Misha started squirming in my lap. Her little body wiggled. I instinctively held her, steady and close.

Then— she stretched her arms out toward the main door, all sparkly eyed and full of flair.

“E-dant!” she squealed, grinning from ear to ear.

I blinked.

And then I followed her tiny outstretched hand. He was walking in, sleeves rolled up, blazer in hand.

Misha squealed again, more urgent this time.

“E-dant!” she called, bouncing slightly on my lap, arms fully extended like she’d been waiting a lifetime.

The moment he reached us, he sat down beside me, and without missing a beat, Misha threw herself into his arms.

“E-dant!” she repeated, all breathy and giddy, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing a wet, uncoordinated kiss to his cheek.

And I—

I just sat there.

Stunned.

Abandoned.

She didn't kiss me when I picked her up... I even fed her.

So this is what betrayal feels like.

Right then, Meera aunty walked back in, balancing a tray of mango shakes in her hand.

She placed it on the center table before asking. “Where are Atharv and Vivaan?”

“Here!” came a chorus from the staircase.

We turned to see both Vivaan and Atharv bhaiya descending together, mid conversation, laughter still lingering on their faces.

Meera aunty looked around with that motherly glow. “I made mango shake for all my kids,” she said with such soft joy, you could almost taste the love in the air.

“With love,” came two voices at once, Vivaan’s and Meera aunty’s, perfectly in sync, like an inside joke too rehearsed to be accidental.

Vivaan laughed, his dimples making an unsolicited appearance as he settled into the armchair. “Bhabhi, did you know maa has a cooking channel?”

I blinked at him, caught off guard.

He leaned in, amused by my silence. “What? I’m not joking. Ask bhai if you don’t believe me, she has over one million followers.”

I turned to Meera aunty, eyes wide with disbelief. “Really?”

She smiled shyly, like she wasn’t used to the attention.

“It started with sharing recipes for fun,” she said, her voice soft, almost embarrassed. “Then it grew.”

“Bhai and I learned to cook from her videos only,” Vivaan added, pride tucked into every word.

I wanted to say something, anything, but I was too stunned. Too charmed. Too… everything.

I was still processing.

“What’s the name?” I asked, a little too quickly. “I might need it,” I mumbled, mostly to myself.

“Meera’s Kitchen,”

I grabbed my phone and searched. “This one?” I held up the screen to her.

She leaned in, smiled, and nodded.

I scrolled through the videos, beautifully shot, easy recipes, her calm voice guiding every step. Most of them had over ten million views. My jaw actually dropped.

“You’re so good,” I said, completely in awe. And I meant it. Every bit of it.

“Taste my recipe and rate it,” Meera aunty said with a playful glint in her eyes as she passed around tall glasses of mango shake.

Mango shakes are my comfort drink. Always have been. But let’s be real, not everyone gets them right. Most people think it’s just mangoes and milk, maybe a dash of sugar, but no. There’s an art to it. The balance, the creaminess, the chill. And trust me, I’ve messed it up more times than I’d like to admit.

I took a cautious sip.

Oh.

Sweet, smooth, perfectly chilled, and just the right hint of cardamom. The kind of taste that makes your shoulders drop a little, that tells your body it can finally relax. After the chaos of the day, this was exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

“This is so good. Badi maa, like always,” Atharv bhaiya called out from the other couch, his tone soft, affectionate.

I turned slightly, my gaze unintentionally falling on Mr. Malhotra.

Misha still nestled comfortably in his arms, her tiny fingers curled around the rim of his glass as he gently helped her taste it. His hand steady, movements unhurried, gaze entirely on her like nothing else existed. There was something heartbreakingly beautiful in that quiet bubble.

Misha took only a little before wiggling out of his lap and tottering over to Atharv bhaiya, arms stretched out as she called, “Papa.”

Mr. Malhotra watched her with this unreadable softness etched into his usually sharp features.

“Diya,” Meera aunty’s voice pulled me back gently. “How is it? Did you like it?”

I nodded with all the enthusiasm I could muster. “It’s really good,” I said, honest and grateful.

Vivaan chimed in before I could finish chewing on another compliment. “Bhabhi, you didn’t even need to say it— your face says it all.” He chuckled.

Then he took out his phone and snorted. “Both husband and wife can’t drink mango shake without growing a mango moustache.”

My eyes widened. I turned to look at Mr.Malhotra.

He looked back at me, the yellow smear was decorating his upper lip.

I almost laughed but then I realised I probably have one too.

Before either of us could fully process the mango catastrophe—

Click.

Our heads turned in unison.

Click.

“Are you… clicking our picture?” I asked, my voice low in embarrassment and disbelief.

“Yes,” vivaan nodded, unapologetic, laughter bubbling out of him.

“You have one too.” I said looking at him.

He didn’t.

I lied.

He was having too much fun.

He quickly turned his camera around, frantically inspecting his face.

Beside me, Mr. Malhotra shifted, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Then slowly, without a word, he reached for a napkin and held it out to me.

I took it quickly wiping my lips.

Vivaan was still squinting at his reflection. "Wait, where did yours go?” he asked, staring at Vedant now. “I wasn’t done clicking you two. You wiped it already?”

“Stop bothering them. They just got home from work,” Meera aunty chided, half laughing as she swatted at Vivaan’s arm.

“oOKay,” he drawled.

The room was warm with easy chatter, evening light pouring in soft through the curtains. For a second, I almost let myself settle into it.

Until—

“We have your pag phera tomorrow,” Meera aunty said then, looking between the two of us.

I stilled.

“Did you guys take some day off from work?” she asked, voice expectant.

And that single question… it brought everything crashing back.

The weight I’d left at the doorstep when I walked in, the pressure, the ache of pretending, the helplessness I’d tucked into some corner of my chest just so I could get through the evening, it all landed again, full force.

I looked at him instinctively.

And found him already looking at me.

His gaze held a question, not a demand—Do you want to tell them?

And all I could do was blink once. Yes.

"Arey, ek dusre ko kya dekh rahe ho?" Meera aunty laughed again, a lightness in her voice we didn't match. “Batao na?”

“Maa,” he spoke first. Calm. Composed in that maddening way only he could be. “We work in the same firm.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then—

“What?”

Meera aunty.

Vivaan.

Tanya.

Atharv bhaiya.

All at once. A perfect, stunned chorus.

“I work at Whitestone Consulting,” I added softly, eyes flicking to him before settling on the curious faces around me.

Meera aunty lit up, her smile blooming like she’d just received the best news of the evening. “Sacchi?”

I nodded.

“Konsi movie ka plot hai ye?” Vivaan’s jaw had practically dropped. “Do you guys secretly work for Dharma Productions?” He looked from me to him.

“Talk about coincidence,” Tanya said, her voice lighter, warm with amusement, her eyes meeting mine in a quiet little moment of shared surprise.

“You don’t have to worry about their leaves now, Badi Maa,” Atharv bhaiya chuckled, arms folded.

Meera aunty shook her head, somewhere between baffled and delighted. “Pehle kyun nahi bataya?”

“We didn’t know either.” I admitted, trying not to sound as awkward as I felt.

“How did you find out? Oh my God, tell us everything! It must’ve been like... office rom com level entertaining.” Vivaan was already lounging on the couch, hands clasped like it was prime time.

My brain started replaying every embarrassing, career limiting, sleep regretting thing

I’d said today. I could feel my soul leaving my body for the second time.

That's when it hit me again.

I was sitting with my CEO.

They hadn’t exchanged a single word all day. Not in the living room, where they were surrounded by chatter and laughter. Not in their bedroom, where they silently slipped past each other to freshen up. Not even at dinner, where clinking cutlery filled in for conversation.

And yet, the silence tonight wasn’t the kind they knew.

It gnawed at them, quietly, cruelly. Not because they’d ever been the kind to chatter endlessly, far from it. Words were never their love language. They'd barely spoken before too, and yet, those silences used to feel like soft places to land.

But this... this was different.

This silence wasn't shared. It was suffocating.

It wasn’t just the absence of words.

It was the presence of everything they didn’t know how to say.

And they both felt it pressing on their chests like a weight neither of them asked for.

They climbed the stairs together after dinner, Diya a few steps ahead, her dupatta ghosting behind.

Their bodies moved out of habit, but their minds were elsewhere, overthinking, rewinding, replaying.

She stepped into the room first, her footsteps quiet against the marble floor, but her thoughts loud, scattered, deafening.

She didn’t turn on the lights. The moonlight spilling through the curtains was enough to guide her toward the couch.

Away from him.

Away from the weight of everything unsaid.

But before she could escape into the pretense of sleep, a hand reached out, warm and careful, wrapping gently around her wrist.

She stopped.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Vedant asked turning on the lights. His voice low, soft, unthreatening.

She turned slowly, the air between them thick with unspoken things. “I’m not avoiding you,” she said, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder, anywhere but the storm waiting in his gaze.

“Look at me.”

Her chest tightened. Her pulse stuttered. She didn’t want to. Because when she looked at him, the rest of the world went quiet. And she didn’t trust herself with that kind of silence right now.

But her body betrayed her, eyes lifting, drawn to his like gravity had made a personal exception just for him.

And then it hit her.

The moment their eyes met, she knew, he knew.

He saw it all. The guilt. The confusion. The ache lodged somewhere between her pride and her vulnerability. Her walls had crumbled the second his gaze held hers.

“Say it now,” he murmured, not letting her look away.

“I’m not—” she faltered, her voice thinner this time, trembling at the edges. Her eyes dropped, almost instinctively, like she’d burned herself.

“—avoiding you,” she finished, quieter.

It didn’t sound like truth.

Not even to her.

“I’m sorry,” Vedant said, voice quiet but unwavering, still holding her wrist gently, like letting go might break whatever fragile honesty they’d found.

Diya blinked, startled. “Why are you saying sorry?”

“For making you mad. Or sad. Or… whatever it is that’s making you not look at me.”

Her breath caught. And then, for the first time that evening, she met his gaze fully. Because something about his tone tugged at her.

“I’m not sad or mad at you,” she said, her voice firm.

But he wasn’t convinced.

“Is it because you think… whatever happened was embarrassing?” he asked carefully, voice lower now, eyes searching hers for the truth she hadn’t said out loud.

“You’ve already seen me cry,” she replied, voice light, attempting a smile. “Nothing’s more embarrassing than that.”

He didn’t smile back.

“I’m still sorry,” he said again, softer this time.

If there was one thing Diya knew how to recognize, it was a mind going off the rails. She took a breath, her brows slightly drawn as she met his eyes.

And as someone with a PhD in overthinking and a diploma in spiralling, she knew the signs. He was spiralling. Quietly, but unmistakably.

“I’m not mad at you, okay?” she said gently. “I’m not sad either. I didn’t take anything personally. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

Still holding her wrist, he guided her to the bed and made her sit down on the edge. She resisted for a heartbeat, but the concern in his eyes softened her reluctance. She sat. He followed, sinking beside her.

“What is it?” he asked, turning to her, his voice low, soft. None of the cold command he’d used earlier today.

She looked at him... and then away. “Nothing,” she mumbled, like the truth was too big to roll off her tongue.

“Diya,” he said again, gentler now, like he already knew she was lying, but wasn’t going to push too hard.

Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. Her voice barely a whisper. “I heard people talk...”

His brows furrowed slightly. “What did you hear?”

She hesitated. “Someone saw that ring on your hand. And they think you’re getting married. Or... already married.”

Silence.

So quiet, she could hear the hum of the air conditioner and the distant tick of the wall clock.

“So?” he asked.

Her eyes snapped to him, eyebrows shooting up. So?! Was this man genetically engineered to never panic? She thought to herself.

He just sat there, steady, unreadable, unbothered, while she was practically dissolving into self made scenarios and imaginary headlines. Marriage rumors? Office gossip? The fact that her entire identity was built around staying invisible and now this?

He blinked at her.

“They were already speculating things just by seeing a ring in your hand,” she said, words tumbling out fast, her tone edged with worry. “Do you have any idea what they'll assume if they find out about... this?”

She gestured vaguely, unsure what this even meant. Whatever existed between them didn’t come with a name. But apparently, it came with gossip.

His face remained neutral.

She sat straighter, her voice firmer now. “They’ll question you. Your judgment. Your professionalism. You're the CEO, Mr. Malhotra. And I’m just an article. It won’t take them long to twist this into something ugly.”

Concern knitted her brows together, the anxiety in her chest now sitting openly between them.

And Vedant?

Vedant just looked at her. The same look. The one that felt like her words were less alarming and more… adorable.

He’d had that look in the morning too, when she nervously said, “I don’t want to jeopardize your reputation.”

Amused.

Back then, and now.

Because here she was again, her voice low, laced with concern, not for herself, not for the swirling office gossip, but for him. For his name, his image, as if he were some delicate porcelain doll and not the man who practically owned the building.

And this girl, this soft and silent overthinker who believed she was “just an article,” had no clue how deeply her concern echoed in his chest.

And then she started speaking again. Quiet at first, then all at once.

“I don’t know if you realise this, but people respect you. A lot. I do too. Even before I knew you were... you. I’d hear them talk, in the corridors, by the coffee machine… always good things. About your work ethic. Your attitude. Your looks. The way you treat your employees. And not once, not even once, have I heard anyone say something bad about you. Not even when they thought no one was listening. And I know, it’s not luck. It’s not handed to you. I know that kind of reputation doesn’t come easy. You’ve earned it. Every bit of it. With your hard work. Your discipline. Your... I don't know... probably everything? And now… this marriage. Me. What happens when they find out? That you married someone from your own firm? An article of all people? They won’t wait for context. They’ll assume. They’ll talk. They’ll twist it into something it never was. And you... you will be the one they doubt. Your intentions. Your integrity. Everything you’ve stood for.”

Diya exhaled sharply, almost like she’d been holding her breath through it all.

“I don’t want that to happen. Ever.” She said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Vedant sat there, still as stone, except for the slight tilt of his head, like he was memorising every word she had said. Not because he was worried.

But because she was.

She didn’t realize how much had poured out of her, how much she’d been carrying. It started as a cautious whisper, but spiraled into a breathless avalanche of sincerity.

Her hands moved when she spoke. Her voice trembled in places. Her gaze dropped, then snapped back up, fierce with emotion.

He looked at her.

At the way her eyes dropped right after, like she was scared she’d said too much. At the way her hands fidgeted with the edge of her kurta.

And god, if she thought he was worried about his reputation…

He was worried about her. Because she didn't know that she'd just pulled a thread in his chest he’d worked very hard to sew shut.

Vedant just sat there. Frozen. Too stunned to say a word.

Because no one had ever spoken about him like that. Not his colleagues. Not his family. Not anyone. No one had ever looked at him and seen more than the title. More than the numbers. No one had paused long enough to notice the man behind the name. His effort. His sacrifices. The quiet fire that built him.

And now here she was, this girl in a pastel kurta, someone who hadn’t even known he owned the damn company until this morning. Someone who still probably didn’t know his favourite food or how he takes his coffee.

And yet… she saw this.

She saw the respect he’d earned. She acknowledged the weight he carried. And she... she was worried. For him. Not herself. Him.

He didn’t even realise he was holding his breath… until she took it away.

And the wild part? She didn’t even realise it. She didn’t know how obvious it was, how her voice cracked only when she said you. How everything she said sounded less like fear of judgment and more like fear of hurting him.

How her words, unfiltered, messy, breathless, had found their way into the cracks he never let anyone see.

She didn’t know it, but she had just healed something in him...

Something she never broke.

"I know I asked you to keep it professional,” she started again, her voice quieter now, eyes drifting away from his. “But I don't know if that will be enough. I don’t know, I’m sorry— I probably don’t make sense... it’s just... I don’t want to ruin things for you.”

She didn’t dare look at him. Silence stretched between them, soft and heavy.

Until he breathed her name.

“Diya.”

His voice had none of its usual sharpness. It was raw. Gentle. So unlike the man the world knew, this version of Vedant Malhotra didn’t belong to anyone but her.

“You would never ruin anything for me,”

She couldn’t look at him. Her gaze dropped to her hands tangled nervously in her lap, sleeves of her kurta twisted between her fingers. Her lips parted, then closed again. Because what was she supposed to say to that?

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Is it my fault that things turned out like this?” he asked, his tone laced with a calm that steadied the storm still flickering in her chest.

Her head moved slowly, eyes still fixed on the crumpled fabric in her grip. “No,” she whispered.

His voice softened even more. “Is it your fault?”

She hesitated, but only for a second.

Then she shook her head again. Firmer this time. Like something was untying itself in her mind.

“No one is to be blamed, right?”

The question hung in the air, like a delicate thread between them. Not heavy, not accusatory. Just… understanding.

Diya finally looked up.

And when she nodded, small, unsure, but real. Vedant exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for hours.

Her eyes glistened, with unshed guilt, but her expression was lighter. Less burdened. Like his words had reached the part of her that was too used to blaming itself for things beyond her control.

“If they find out…” Vedant’s voice trailed, low and cautious, “they’ll talk about you too. You’re not worried about that?”

She looked at him, steady, unblinking, unafraid.“I know how to handle that,” she replied, calm as ever.

Like she already had a contingency plan tucked somewhere between her logic and her stubbornness.

“They’ll have to know one day,” Vedant said quietly. “And when they do?” He exhaled, gaze steady on her. “Let them talk. But it won’t get to you. Or to me.”

His voice had a finality to it.

Not defensive but decisive.

Then softer, like a feather brushing over bruised skin,

“Okay?”

Diya looked at him. Really looked at him. And something in her chest, tight and coiled, unraveled just a little.

She nodded. Barely. But it was enough.

A beat passed. Silence hung between them, not awkward, just full.

And then, he tilted his head slightly, that low calm still resting in his tone.

“Is there any other reason?”

“What reason?” she asked, genuinely puzzled, her brows knitting together.

Vedant looked at her for a second, long enough to make her fidget, then said, “For avoiding me. For saying 'I’d already left…'”

His voice was quiet, but not accusatory. “When you hadn’t even stepped into the cab.”

Her eyes widened, caught mid breath. “You knew?”

He just shrugged.

“Why did you take the cab?” he asked, tone still calm but unmistakably curious.

Diya looked down at her hands for a second, then answered with surprising honesty, “It would’ve been too obvious if we left together.”

“We work in the same office. Live in the same house,” Vedant began casually, though his eyes were watching her every micro expression like a hawk. “Don’t you think we should... save fuel, the cab driver’s time, the environment?”

She blinked at him, suspicious.

“One less vehicle in traffic,” he added like he was auditioning for the Ministry of Transport. “You wait for your cab, it cancels half the time… So much time and energy wasted when we can just... go together?”

His tone was light, but his intent? Criminally persuasive.

Diya narrowed her eyes, but she was visibly thinking now. And he could see it, her resolve bending.

“And about people getting to know?” he continued, voice softer now, dipping just a little more intimate. “They mostly won’t. I leave after everyone. And even if someone does see us… you don’t have to worry.”

He tilted his head, calm, unwavering. “I’ll handle it.”

She looked at him for a second, then gave a small, slow nod.

“…Okay.”

He was getting too good and this,

and he knew it.

“Also… Arnav knows,” Vedant said, tone careful, like he was handing her a glass bomb.

“Arnav?” she repeated, blinking.

Diya and names? A tragic love story. Faces? Even worse.

“My P.A.”

“Oh,” she said, recognition dawning, and sarcasm blooming right after. “The one who helped you pull off… whatever that was today?”

Vedant winced internally. “Yeah.”

The passive aggression in her tone was thick. And he knew it. Which is why he didn’t dare move.

“I’d like to meet him sometime,” she said with a smile so sweet it could erode iron. “Preferably outside working hours.”

Vedant’s lips twitched. Oh, he almost laughed. Almost. But he’d rather swallow a stapler than risk altering any expression on her face right now.

“Sure,” he replied, straight faced.

“I’m applying for leave tomorrow. How many days do we need to take off?” she asked, all business now.

“I’ll handle it. You don’t need to apply,” he replied casually.

“But—” she began, that crease of worry forming between her brows.

He didn’t let her finish. “No one’s going to find out, Diya,” he said gently, the way you reassure someone who overthinks in silence.

She narrowed her eyes. “Alright, sir. I’ll take my leave then,” she quipped, voice laced with mocking obedience as she got up from bed and turned to her couch.

Vedant chuckled under his breath. “Sure,” he said, watching her go like she just pulled the rug from under him but left the floor looking better anyway.

Sleep had long abandoned me, and for once, it wasn’t because of work, stress, or another relentless midnight call.

It was her.

Her voice still echoed in my head, soft and earnest, like a melody I hadn’t realized I’d been aching to hear.

And God, I was smiling... at the ceiling... like an idiot. I tried to school my face into something sane. But I couldn’t.

Because no one’s ever said those things to me before.

Not my family.

Not my “well wishers.”

Not even me.

I’ve bled for Whitestone. Brick by brick, I built it with my hands, my mind, my sleepless nights. I sacrificed years for it. And still, I never paused long enough to be proud. Never let myself feel seen.

But tonight… she saw me.

Tiny and stubborn. She was worried about me. Like genuinely, absurdly worried.

Who does that?

Why worries for a man like me?

I exhaled, slow and shaky, and turned for the fifth time. My body craved rest but my mind was wide awake. Obsessing. Wondering if she was still curled up on the couch. If she was okay. If she meant every word she said.

I think I'm going crazy.

I reached for my phone, fingers fumbling.

2:00 AM.

I flicked on the flashlight, careful not to blind myself and stood up. The plan was simple: step out into the balcony, breathe some night air, get a grip. Maybe stop being completely unhinged over a girl who probably has no idea what she’s doing to me.

But then I saw her.

She wasn’t on the couch properly. Her head had slipped off the pillow, hanging awkwardly at the edge, her hand dangling beside it like she just gave up mid thought. My breath caught in my throat.

Should I wake her? Guilt trip her into taking the bed? Tell her something like "you’re wasting resources by being stubborn"?

God, I sound insane.

But again, why wouldn't she take the bed!?!?

I crouched beside her, heart pounding far louder than necessary for someone just adjusting a pillow.

Slowly, gently, I slid my hand beneath her head and eased it back onto the pillow. The flashlight stayed tilted away from her face, I couldn’t bear the thought of startling her.

And then— her hand.

I moved to lift it back onto the couch, but paused.

Henna. Still dark, fresh, vivid against her skin.

And right there, twisted in the vines and curves—

Was that... my name?

No. No way.

I squinted like a deranged lunatic.

Do I have pareidolia or something?

I shook my head, forcing a breath out. Touch some grass, Vedant. Touch a forest.

Still, I moved her hand with the same care I’d use holding glass. Set it gently back on the couch.

And then I saw it.

Again.

A curve in the henna, familiar. Too familiar.

I paused, heart stuttering mid beat.

The flashlight was angled away from her face, but I shifted it lower, slowly, until the beam brushed over her wrist.

And in that quiet pool of warm light… I stopped breathing.

Vedant.

My name.

On her skin.

It was there, twisted gently into the flowing vines of her henna, nestled between petals and paisleys.

I wasn’t imagining it. It was really there.

And I just sat there, with the flashlight trembling slightly in my grip and a thousand emotions crowding my chest— none of which I had a name for.

I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was disbelief. Maybe it was something far more dangerous. But I reached out, slowly, carefully, and traced it with my thumb.

Soft enough not to wake her. Firm enough to feel the truth.

It was real.

The curve of the “V,” the swirl of the pattern that cradled each letter…

And then—

beneath my thumb,

something fluttered.

A tremor beneath her skin.

I stilled.

My breath caught.

And before I could even process it—

my hand recoiled.

Like I’d touched something forbidden.

The closeness of it had short circuited my entire nervous system.

Because it wasn’t just her skin.

It wasn’t just henna.

It was her pulse...

Alive. Warm. Beating.

Right there, beneath my name.

I sat there, frozen, my hand hovering mid air, half guilty, half breathless.

I couldn't help but feel it again.

It was subtle, that second beat. Quieter. But now that I’d felt it once,

I couldn’t unfeel it.

Because there was something about it— her pulse beating beneath the name she never even speaks.

Then my gaze fell to her face. It was barely visible behind the soft curtain of her wavy hair, strands spilling across her cheek.

I shouldn’t have.

But I did.

With slow fingers, I brushed the hair aside, careful not to wake her. The light caught her face, and somehow, that made it worse.

Because my heart was now asking questions I didn’t understand,

demanding answers I didn’t have.

She slept like a baby, completely at ease, not a trace of tension on her face. Her brows smooth, lips slightly parted, the corners curled just faintly, like her dreams were kind.

I realized, this was the first time I was seeing her this close. This unguarded.

And it felt illegal.

So I tore my gaze away. Pulled back before the temptation to stay lingered too long.

I stood up, heart still thudding, throat dry, and forced myself back to where I was.

Tried to sleep. Tried to forget how fragile she looked. How soft. How real.

But I knew it already—

Tonight, sleep wouldn’t come easy.

Not after everything.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

ig : authorem_

Thankyou for reading.

- M 💌