She wasn't imagining it.
She knew she wasn't.
There was something in Arnav Singh Raizada's eyes when he looked at her—something she couldn't categorize, couldn't interpret, couldn't even safely ignore.
It wasn't the cold sharpness she expected, nor the annoyance she feared.
It was… quieter. Like a thought he didn't want anyone to see.
Before she could understand it, his voice came.
"Come to my office."
Her breath caught.
Now normally, a command like that should've echoed like thunder. He was the CEO, after all.
Important people said important words and made the whole world shake.
But this?
This wasn't loud.
This wasn't harsh.
It slid somewhere dangerously in the middle—between firm and something she couldn't name.
Her throat tightened. "Yes."
Her feet began moving before her mind did. She walked past him, her senses suddenly on high alert.
She could hear everything—her sandals tapping gently against the polished floor, the low hum of the air conditioner, the soft brush of her dupatta against her arm.
And then… his cologne.
Sharp. Clean. Masculine. Too close.
Too distracting.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides to hide the warm tremor that threatened to show.
The moment the office door clicked shut behind them, the world changed.
The noise of the main floor disappeared.
The space grew tighter.
Quieter.
Almost intimate.
Khushi swallowed, eyes sweeping around the room. It was perfectly organized, sleek and modern, like a place where emotions weren't allowed.
No clutter.
No warmth.
No softness.
Except maybe… him.
But she shut that thought down fast.
He walked past her, the sound of his footsteps controlled, grounded, certain. He placed a file on the desk, then turned.
And he looked at her.
No—observed her.
Not in a hovering way.
Not in a dismissive way.
But in a way that made her spine straighten and her breath stop.
She felt like he could see through her.
Through every nervous thought, every trembling breath, every exposed vulnerability she was furiously trying to hide.
Did he know she had no idea what she was doing?
Did he know she was terrified of messing up again?
The silence thickened, pressing against her skin until her lungs felt tight.
Then his voice came—smooth, firm, low.
"You'll assist with internal coordination today."
Her back stiffened. "Yes."
"Scheduling. Documentation. Minor tasks," he continued.
She nodded again. "Yes.
He gestured to the side counter.
"Coffee."
She blinked.
"For… you?"
"Yes."
Her heart raced—not because she was bringing coffee, but because everything felt heightened.
The small tray, the warm cup, the faint steam rising—it all felt absurdly significant.
The cup clinked softly against the desk as she set it down.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
It was just a second.
Just a breath.
But the moment stretched, warm and electric, curling around her like a thread of heat she didn't know how to escape.
"Thank you," he said.
Softly.
So softly she wasn't sure she heard it correctly.
Her breath hitched.
It wasn't the kind of softness people used with her out of politeness.
It wasn't mocking.
It wasn't demanding.
It sounded… involuntary.
She turned away quickly—too quickly—and that's when she froze.
The reflection in the glass wall behind his desk—
He wasn't looking at the files.
He wasn't looking at the coffee.
He was looking at her.
Her heart jumped to her throat.
His eyes were dark, unreadable, steady.
And then, in the next second—
His gaze snapped away.
His jaw tightened.
He straightened his shoulders, slipping back into that impenetrable cold exterior he wore like armor.
"Anything else?" she whispered.
He paused long enough for her pulse to stutter.
"No."
Just one word.
Flat.
Neutral.
Yet somehow loaded.
She swallowed, nodded, and walked toward the door. Her fingers trembled as they touched the handle.
She stepped out, closing it softly behind her.
And finally—
Finally—
She exhaled.
She didn't realize she had been holding her breath until her chest ached.
Her heartbeat felt too loud. Her palms too warm. Her skin too sensitive.
She walked to her desk, trying desperately to appear normal. Files. Pens. Computer. Easy. Simple. Ordinary.
But nothing felt ordinary.
She caught herself smoothing her hair. Checking her dupatta. Making sure she looked presentable.
Why?
Why?
Why did she care suddenly?
She sat down, inhaling deeply, trying to force her thoughts into order.
"Professional," she whispered under her breath.
"Be professional."
Her mind ignored her completely.
Instead, it replayed everything.
The softness in his voice.
The stare in the glass.
The way it felt when he said "thank you."
The way something shifted inside her, warm and confusing.
She shook her head, reaching for a file.
Her fingers still trembled.
The office around her was its usual busy, packed self—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, colleagues talking in low voices.
But she felt something else.
A presence.
A weight.
A strange, warm awareness.
Like someone was watching her.
Not threatening.
Not inappropriate.
Just… intense.
She swallowed.
Don't be silly. He's busy. He's the CEO. He doesn't—
A pen fell from her hand.
She bent to pick it up, trying to focus, but she couldn't shake the feeling pressing between her shoulder blades.
An invisible thread.
A pull.
A connection she didn't ask for, didn't understand, didn't want to acknowledge.
She stood to organize the side shelf, her dupatta slipping slightly. She tugged it back in place, cheeks warming when she realized her hands still shook.
Why was she so nervous?
Why did she feel—
No.
No. No. No.
Dangerous territory.
She forced her breathing to steady, placed the last file on the shelf, and whispered to herself again:
"Don't get distracted."
But the truth pressed harder:
She wasn't distracted by work.
She was distracted by him.
And even more dangerous—
For the first time in her life,
for the first time in years,
in spite of all the fear and uncertainty and chaos—
she felt something she wasn't ready to name.
Something she had only read about in books.
Something she never thought she'd feel standing inside a corporate office under fluorescent lights.
Something that terrified her more than losing her job ever could.
Khushi Kumari Gupta felt drawn—helplessly, stupidly drawn—to a man she didn't know.
A man she didn't understand.
A man who didn't smile.
A man who carried storms inside him.
She swallowed.
Fate… what are you doing?
Because every instinct in her whispered the same thing:
This man will change your life.
And not gently.
And yet—
She didn't step back.
She didn't hide.
She didn't run.
Instead, she sat at her desk, heart unsteady, mind swirling, pulse soft and frantic.
And she whispered to herself—barely audible, barely believing it:
"Why do I feel like you're going to matter?"
She didn't know that, behind the closed door she had just left, someone was watching her.
Not out of irritation.
Not out of suspicion.
But with something far more dangerous.
Attention.
---
The door clicked shut behind her.
And with that single, soft sound, the fragile thread of control he'd wrapped around himself… snapped.
Arnav didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
He just stood there, staring at the empty space where she'd been only seconds ago—small, nervous, trembling in a way she thought she hid but he saw. He always saw.
His hand lifted before he could stop it, fingertips brushing the spot on the desk where she'd placed the coffee cup. It was still warm.
Her warmth.
Her presence.
He snatched his hand back, jaw tightening.
Ridiculous.
He had important work to do. Meetings. Deadlines. Contracts. He didn't get distracted. He didn't waste focus.
And he definitely didn't stand around like an idiot thinking about a girl who smelled like fresh jasmine and nervous hope.
He turned sharply toward the monitor mounted on the side wall—the internal floor feed he used only for oversight.
A single tap.
The screen brightened.
There she was.
Khushi.
Sitting at her desk with her shoulders just slightly hunched, her hands fidgeting nervously with a pen, her dupatta slipping off her shoulder before she tugged it back with an almost embarrassed fluster.
His breath froze.
Why did she look unsettled?
Why did she look like she was trying not to tremble?
Who had made her uncomfortable?
The answer appeared immediately, brutally.
He had.
And instead of fixing it…
his eyes stayed glued to her.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—slow, unsure, delicate. She didn't know she did it. Didn't know he noticed. Didn't know he was noticing everything.
His jaw flexed.
She reached for a file, and her fingers trembled. The tremor was tiny—barely visible. Most people would miss it.
He didn't.
And that small, fragile shake punched straight through the wall he'd spent years constructing.
Because she wasn't weak.
She wasn't incompetent.
She wasn't fragile.
She was nervous.
And she shouldn't have to be.
Not here.
Not under him.
He leaned closer to the screen without realizing it, studying every movement—every breath, every bite of her lip, every attempt she made to steady herself.
Why was she trying so hard?
Why did she care so much?
Why did she look like she needed reassurance?
The thought hit him like a blow.
Does she think I'll be hard on her?
He swallowed, the tension in his throat unfamiliar.
On the screen, she whispered something to herself—so faint he couldn't hear. But he read the movement of her lips. He forced himself not to zoom in.
First day. Don't mess up. Breathe.
A soft exhale escaped him—half frustration, half disbelief.
Why did he care?
He didn't care about anyone's nervousness.
He didn't pay attention to anyone's expressions.
He didn't sit and watch interns fuss with their dupattas and fight their own panic.
Except he was doing exactly that.
He forced himself upright, straightening like he could undo what he'd already done.
Distance.
Control.
Boundaries.
He needed them.
But his eyes dragged back to the screen anyway.
Khushi was reorganizing her desk again—pen alignment, file sorting, small repetitive motions that looked like self-comfort.
Delicate, the word whispered again in his mind before he could stop it.
He shut his eyes hard.
No.
He didn't use words like that.
He didn't get sentimental.
He didn't indulge in softness.
He especially didn't feel… protective.
When he opened his eyes, she had stood up from her desk, adjusting her dupatta again. Her fingers brushed her neck lightly, and something sharp stirred in his chest.
The feeling was fast.
Unwanted.
Uncontrolled.
Possessive.
He hated it.
He felt it anyway.
Her eyes lifted, scanning the office floor. Searching.
For what?
For comfort?
For confidence?
For escape?
For… him?
The possibility rooted him to the spot, pulse jumping in a way it hadn't in years.
No.
Impossible.
She barely knew him.
He shouldn't be thinking this. He shouldn't be looking at her. He shouldn't be reacting like—
She sat back down, her shoulders still tense, her breath still uneven.
He exhaled sharply.
Enough.
He switched off the screen.
Immediately, darkness filled the monitor.
But the darkness didn't erase her.
If anything, it sharpened the imprint she'd left on his senses.
Her voice.
Her nervous swallowing.
Her tiny tremor.
Her reflection in the glass when she caught him staring.
And the worst—
the very worst—
the way his own voice had softened when he said "Thank you."
Soft.
He never spoke softly.
He didn't even know he could.
Arnav dragged a hand across his face, forcing himself into the leather chair. He leaned back, eyes closed, inhaling deeply like he was trying to drag oxygen back into lungs she had somehow disrupted.
He had crossed a line.
He knew it.
He felt it.
He had no idea when it happened.
Was it the café?
Her tears outside?
The moment she looked at him with those huge, earnest eyes?
Or when she entered his office today, heart pounding so loudly he could almost hear it?
It didn't matter.
The line was gone.
He sat forward, hands clasped so tightly the tension burned through his knuckles.
This needed to stop.
She was an intern.
This was her first day.
She needed guidance, not… this. Whatever this was becoming.
He needed distance.
He needed discipline.
He needed to remember who he was.
But then,
something inside him twisted violently.
He stood abruptly.
Distance was impossible.
Discipline was failing.
And whatever was pulling him toward her…
He didn't know how to stop it.
His phone buzzed with a message, but he ignored it.
His eyes were on the frosted boundary of his office—the thin separation between him and the girl who was rearranging pens because she was nervous.
The girl who whispered to herself because she wanted to do well. The girl who had looked at his reflection in the glass and seen something he didn't intend to show anyone.
Khushi Kumari Gupta.
A storm outside.
A tremor inside.
A softness he didn't understand.
A danger he couldn't resist.
He walked to the window, staring out at the city, hoping distance from the screen would bring clarity.
It didn't.
Because all he could see behind his eyes was her.
Her shy inhale.
Her careful smile.
Her trembling fingers.
Her bright, anxious energy that didn't belong in his dark, controlled world.
She was chaos wrapped in innocence.
He was order wrapped in stone.
But somehow—
somehow—
she was already slipping through cracks he didn't know he had.
And in the silence of his office, with no witnesses and no escape, Arnav finally allowed the truth to form, sharp and dangerous:
He didn't want distance.
Not from her.
Not at all.
---
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