Page 17 of Cherish my Heart

I stare back. He’s right; he is a self-made millionaire, according to Google at least. “And?”

He blinks. His eyes soften. “I like watching you do the same.”

Then he walks off like he didn’t just lob a metaphorical grenade into my ribcage.

I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I’m too stunned to process it properly. So I file it away. Emotionally compartmentalize it next to “weirdly hot moments with terrifying boss” and focus on the day.

I spend the rest of the afternoon polishing up the presentation deck. Fixing slides. Adding client feedback. By 7:57 PM, the office is empty except for me and, of course, him. Of course Abhimaan is still here. Probably rearranging the alphabet or calculating his next move, he looks, talks, and actually behaves like a villain in romance books.

I grab the printed deck, all formatted, color-coded, and sticky-noted to hell and back, and march into his office without knocking. Again.

He glances up just as I toss the file on his desk. “Finished,” I say. “By deadline. Unlike some people’s personality development.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re still here?”

“You act like I don’t have a job. This is literally your fault.” And I was late, so maybe I am covering up for that? Which I don’t have to, considering I worked overtime almost every day, even if it was for five minutes, but they still count.

He flips through the pages. “You reorganized the data points.”

“They were chaotic.”Like your soul.I giggle, and he looks up as if he is disappointed in me, but what can I say? It was a funny thought.

“And this formatting?”

“Ugly fonts are a crime against humanity.”

He finally closes the file after years of inspection. “This looks fine.”

“Oh wow,” I deadpan, “is that a compliment? Should I get it engraved on a plaque?” I fake a gasp.

“Don’t be dramatic.” He rolls his eyes.

“Too late. I already cried twice today, and I’m buying cake on the way home.”

“You argue too much,” he mutters without looking up.

I raise an eyebrow. “And you give instructions like you’re trying to confuse me on purpose.”

He glances at me then, that same unreadable expression flickering in his eyes.

“You’re not exactly easy to work with.”

I shrug. “Neither are you. Guess we’re even.”

There’s a pause. Something shifts in the air—just slightly. He studies me, not like he’s annoyed, but like he’s trying to figure out what the hell to make of me.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, voice lower now.

I shrug, mouth tilting up. “You should really stop expecting people to fit into neat little boxes. Some of us come with claws.”

“You have no idea how to be quiet, do you?” He asks; his voice has a softer edge now.

“I wasn’t hired for silence. I was hired for efficiency and personality.”

“Personality was not part of the job description.” He cocks an eyebrow.

I tilt my head. “And yet, here I am. Thriving.”

He stares at me for a second. And chuckles. His lips curl up in a smile. My heart does a full-body double take.