Delhi's twilight had a way of softening the edges of the world, turning traffic into a hum and lights into a distant constellation.
But tonight, it felt different—like the entire city was listening to her heartbeat.
Khushi stepped out of AR Designs with a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her fingers tightened around her bag as the cool air kissed her cheeks. She needed clarity, calm, something normal to ground her.
But all she could think was:
Why did he look at me like that?
Why did it feel like he was reading my pulse?
Why did I feel like I couldn't breathe when he stood too close?
The pavement stretched ahead in a long line of yellow streetlights. She walked slowly, uncertainly, hugging her dupatta closer. The day felt unreal, like someone had picked her up and placed her in a different world.
Everything replayed with ridiculous sharpness.
The way he said, "Come to my office."
Firm, no-nonsense, yet there had been something else underneath—
something she didn't understand,
something she didn't want to understand.
Then the moment at the glass wall.
The reflection had caught him off-guard—his eyes lingering on her longer than they should have. She remembered the exact second his gaze snapped away, as if she'd burned him.
Khushi touched her cheek absentmindedly.
What did he see?
And why did she care so much?
Her sandals clicked softly against the pavement as she crossed the first street. A gentle breeze tugged at her dupatta, and she exhaled a shaky sigh she meant to hide even from herself.
"Just a job," she whispered.
Just a job.
But even she didn't believe it.
Her stomach fluttered traitorously. Her skin remembered the near-brush of his fingers when he handed back her notebook earlier. Her ears replayed that startlingly soft "Thank you" as if it were a secret meant only for her.
A stupid smile threatened to curve her lips.
"No, no, no—stop thinking like this," she scolded herself, smacking her forehead lightly.
The street wasn't empty. People hurried home, children tugged their mothers' hands, bikes zipped and wove through traffic lanes.
Everything was normal.
But something felt… off.
A tingling at the back of her neck, a strange awareness prickling her senses.
She looked over her shoulder.
Nothing unusual. Just commuters and the fading evening.
She shook her head.
Stop being dramatic, Khushi.
Delhi at night always felt like this.
She turned the corner, stepping onto the familiar stretch of the road that led toward Lakshmi Nagar. The sweet smell of roasted corn wafted from a street vendor. Normally she'd stop. Usually she couldn't resist.
But today her mind wasn't hers.
It was full of him.
Not the arrogant boss whose words cut sharper than scissors.
Not the business tycoon who sent a tremor through the room when he entered.
But the man who said "thank you" like he'd never said it before.
The man who had looked away from her reflection like he was afraid of being seen.
She wasn't ready to unravel any of that.
Maybe she'd never be.
But her thoughts didn't listen.
---
By the time she reached her neighborhood, the sun had dipped beneath the skyline. The streetlights flickered above in soft amber halos. She climbed the stairs to her house, the familiar metal railing cool beneath her touch.
Before she even reached the door, it flew open.
Payal stood there, worry etched into every line of her face.
"Khushi! Finally!" she whispered, pulling her inside. "Do you know how many times I called?"
Khushi blinked. "Five minutes late, jiji. Bas."
"Bas?" Payal placed a hand on her hip. "You work for THE Arnav Singh Raizada now! Anything can happen!"
Khushi scrunched her nose. "Jiji, he's not a mafia leader. He's just—"
"Powerful," Payal cut in. "Too powerful. And men like that… they don't think before they act."
Khushi frowned. "He's not—bad. He's just—"
What was he?
Cold. Intense. Impossible. Unpredictable.
But also… unexpectedly gentle at the edges.
Payal noticed the pause. "Khushi. Don't tell me he shouted at you on your first day? I swear I'll—"
"No! Nothing like that!" Khushi said quickly, resisting the urge to fidget. "He didn't shout even once."
Payal's eyebrows shot up.
"That's impossible. Are we talking about the same—"
Before she could finish, a new voice boomed from behind them.
"HAI RE NAND KISORE!"
Khushi winced.
Here it comes.
Buaji swept into the room dramatically, pallu flying like a warrior entering battle.
"That man will swallow your soul and your salary, both!" she thundered. "Arnav Singh Raizada! Even his name sounds like he chews nails for breakfast!"
"Buaji!" Khushi protested.
"Tat-tat-tat!" Buaji wagged a finger in her face. "I have seen the world, titaliya. Men with too much money and too little smile are trouble."
Khushi tried not to smile. "He does smile—sometimes."
Payal and Buaji froze.
Together:
"HE WHAT?"
Khushi mentally slapped herself.
"No, no—not at me! Just… generally. I think. I mean—he's not always—"
She stumbled through the words, heat rushing to her face.
Buaji folded her arms. "Stay away from that man. You hear me? Far, far away!"
Khushi nodded dutifully.
But the truth was whispering stubbornly inside her:
I don't think I can.
Not because she wanted anything to happen—of course not.
But because something had begun shifting, weaving, pulling…
And she didn't understand any of it.
Not yet.
---
After dinner, after Buaji's warnings, after Payal's worries, Khushi finally slipped into her small bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed, hands resting in her lap.
The room felt cozy, familiar, grounding.
She should have felt safe.
Instead, she felt… suspended. Like she was on the edge of something she couldn't name.
Her eyes drifted to the window.
The moonlight rested gently on her hands. A breeze fluttered the curtains.
And her heart whispered the truth she'd tried ignoring all evening:
Something is happening.
Something is changing.
Something is coming.
She pressed her palm flat over her chest.
"Why does it feel like fate is pushing me toward him?" she whispered.
No answer came.
Just the soft hum of the city, the rustle of her curtains, and a restlessness she couldn't shake.
That night, she dreamed for the first time.
And in her dream, someone's eyes—dark, intense, familiar—held her like she belonged to him.
---
Arnav's Night
Arnav closed the blinds, but it did nothing to close the distance she had carved into him.
His office felt suffocatingly quiet—too quiet. Usually, he thrived in silence. Controlled it. Owned it. But tonight, the stillness pressed against his ribs like a weight.
His mind replayed her entire day with maddening clarity:
The tremor in her fingers when she placed the coffee cup on his desk.
The way she stood—straight, nervous, determined.
The way she spoke—soft, earnest, trying too hard to be professional.
The way she looked up at him, like she wasn't sure whether to fear him or trust him.
No one had ever looked at him like that.
He didn't like it.
He didn't dislike it either.
He didn't know what it was doing to him.
Arnav sank into his chair, elbows braced against his knees, hands clasped tightly. His breathing was steady, disciplined—but something inside him felt unsteady, defiant.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered under his breath.
She was an intern.
A temporary employee.
A distraction he could not afford.
And yet…
The way she had walked out of the building flashed in his mind—
small, unaware, exposed.
Too exposed.
Delhi's streets were unpredictable at night.
He knew that better than anyone.
He reached for his phone again.
Not a hesitation.
Not a second thought.
Just instinct sharpened into command.
"Rishi," he said the moment the bodyguard picked up. "Where are you?"
"Outside the east gate, sir."
"And Dev?"
"Beside me."
Good.
Arnav leaned back, voice low and composed.
"Follow her route home. Carefully. Keep distance. She must not notice."
"Yes, sir."
"If someone approaches her—"
"We intervene."
"Before she even realizes," Arnav added sharply.
Rishi understood.
"Yes, sir."
Arnav ended the call and pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was not personal.
This was responsibility.
Protection.
Professional concern.
Except it wasn't.
He knew it wasn't.
Because he had never assigned shadows to an intern before.
Never monitored anyone's walk home.
Never cared how someone breathed in his presence.
But something about her—
Fragile yet steady.
Innocent yet brave.
Nervous yet unbelievably sincere.
It pulled at him in ways he had no blueprint for.
He didn't have the right to feel this.
He didn't have the capacity.
He didn't have the time.
And still…
His gaze drifted to the coffee cup on his desk.
He touched the rim with his fingertips, remembering the accidental brush of her hand earlier.
Too soft.
Too warm.
Too dangerous.
He dropped his hand as if burned.
This needed to stop.
If only his mind listened.
Arnav Leaves the Office
The building was mostly empty when he walked out—employees gone, lights dimmed, the city echoing beyond the glass doors.
His steps were sharp, measured, echoing in the marble lobby.
He reached his car but didn't enter.
Instead, he paused.
An unsettling tightness sat at the base of his throat, a hollow he couldn't swallow away.
Was she home yet?
Was she safe?
He cursed under his breath.
What was happening to him?
He turned sharply, dropping into the driver's seat, pushing the ignition harder than necessary. The engine roared to life.
As he pulled out onto the road, his phone vibrated.
A message from Rishi.
"She reached home. All clear."
Arnav exhaled slowly.
Relief.
Immediate.
Unwanted.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Why did her safety feel like his responsibility?
Why did the idea of something happening to her make his chest tighten?
Why did the very thought of her walking alone stir anger he didn't know he was capable of?
Questions he refused to answer.
He drove through the streets, but his mind wasn't on the road.
It was on a girl standing in his office earlier—
heart pounding, eyes wide, fingers trembling.
She didn't belong in his world.
She didn't know its shadows.
Its dangers.
Its consequences.
He needed to protect her from all of it.
But more importantly—
He needed to protect her from him.
---
His penthouse greeted him in darkness—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, lights glimmering like scattered diamonds.
Normally he found solace here.
Tonight the silence felt accusing.
He tossed his keys on the counter and loosened his tie, but the tightness in his chest remained.
He walked toward the balcony, pushing the glass door open.
The night air was cool against his skin.
He stared at the city, jaw clenched.
His thoughts kept circling back like a loop he couldn't break.
Her smile—small, nervous, fleeting.
Her eyes—too expressive.
Her voice—too soft.
Her presence—too distracting.
He closed his eyes briefly.
He shouldn't have looked at her reflection.
He shouldn't have stared at her hand on the coffee tray.
He shouldn't have watched her from the window as she walked away.
But he had.
He couldn't deny it.
He didn't want to deny it.
And that was the problem.
He gripped the balcony railing hard.
"She's just an intern," he told himself.
But even he could hear the lie.
Arnav's Thoughts Before Sleep
He showered, changed, but nothing washed her from his thoughts.
The image of her biting her lip while searching for a paperclip replayed with maddening clarity.
Why did such small things matter?
Why did they pull him in like gravity?
Why did he remember the exact tilt of her head.?
The exact tremor in her hand?
The exact moment she caught him looking?
He lay down, but sleep felt far away.
His phone buzzed again.
Another message from Rishi.
"Tomorrow we follow again?"
Arnav's reply was immediate.
"Yes."
He placed the phone down and stared at the ceiling.
Not obsession.
Not infatuation.
Not anything he could name.
Just a feeling he couldn't shake:
If anything ever happened to her…
if anyone ever hurt her…
if she ever vanished from his sight—
he would burn the city down.
He shut his eyes finally, breath deepening.
But she lingered even in the darkness behind his eyelids.
A soft voice.
A nervous smile.
A trembling hand.
A presence he wasn't supposed to want.
A presence he already needed.
Sleep pulled him under slowly.
And the last thought that drifted through his mind was the one he refused to say out loud:
Khushi.
---
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