Page 114 of Cherish my Heart

Everything else—my tasks, the buzzing monitor, the faint sound of the copier running down the hall, the noise of keys tapping on nearby keyboards—it all fades into a thick, smothering silence.

A dull roar fills my ears, like the moment right before a storm breaks. “What do you mean hurt?” I rasp.

“Just come fast,” and just like that he cuts the call.

My heart clenches violently, like it’s trying to protect itself from a blow it can’t see yet. Then it drops, heavy and fast, straight to the pit of my stomach.

My hands go cold. Ice cold.

The phone nearly slips from my grasp. I clutch it tighter like it’s the only thing tethering me to this moment, to him.

Harsh didn’t say what happened. He didn’t tell me how bad it is. He didn’t tell me if he’s conscious, if he’s okay, if he’s... if he’s alive.

The thought hits me like a slap, and I instantly push it away.

No. No. He’s fine. He has to be fine.

I swallow, but my throat is dry. It scratches painfully as I try to take a breath, and even then, the air doesn’t seem to reach my lungs. It just sticks somewhere around my chest, too heavy, too tight.

He’s hurt.

That’s it. That’s the sentence.

Over and over, it echoes in my head like a broken record.

Abhimaanis hurt. Abhimaanishurt. Abhimaan ishurt.

Every version of it, every tone—urgent, panicked, whispered, terrified—it all runs through me like a current I can’t control.

My eyes sting, and I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall yet. Not now. Not without knowing.

I shouldn’t have let him go alone.

God, why did I let him go alone?

I told myself it was okay, that I had to prepare for a more important meeting, and that he could handle Sharma & Co. on his own. And when I’d asked him if he was sure, he’d smiled—smiled like he always does when I worry too much—and said, “I can handle myself. I’m not sure if my heart can handle your absence, though.”

I’d laughed. Giggled, actually. Like a lovesick idiot. Alone in the office, with him already gone.

Now that laugh rings hollow in my memory.

I press my palm to my chest, trying to feel his voice there, trying to remember the warmth of his arms this morning, the curve of his back as he reached for the coffee jar, and the way he nudged my forehead with his and muttered, “You deserve the best.”

He made breakfast.

He kissed me like we had all the time in the world.

And now he’s hurt.

A sob threatens to tear out of me, but I bite down on my lip, hard, until I taste blood. I can’t break down. Not yet. Not until I know.

I have to go. I have to see him. I need to see if he’s okay or not.

CHAPTER 55

ABHIMAAN

The man’s screams echo against the concrete walls, shrill and jagged, like metal scraping metal.