Page 23 of Cherish my Heart

Then, without warning, he holds out his hand again.

“Steady ground’s still uneven,” he says. “Try not to prove my point again.”

I blink. “You want to hold my hand?”

“I want you not to fall on your face again. This is the compromise.”

I hesitate, then slide my fingers into his. His grip is firm. And as we walk out of the cabin, back into the glare of the sun and the chaos of the site, I’m suddenly aware of how quiet it feels.

Not around us—construction is still loud, and life is still happening.

But between us.

It’s not awkward. Not exactly. Not for me, at least. But it’s not nothing either.

He doesn’t let go. Even when we walk past the workers, the supervisors, and the engineers. He holds my hand like it’s normal. Like it’s necessary.

And maybe, in that moment, it is.

I glance sideways at him. His jaw is set. His gaze is forward. Like always. But his hand—his hand hasn’t moved.

And mine hasn’t let go either.

God help me. I think I’m starting to like the way this feels.

CHAPTER 14

ABHIMAAN

The city looks cleaner from twenty floors above. Quieter, too. Like it’s not the mess of horns and dust and traffic that it actually is. Just lights scattered like someone shook a jewelry box and let everything fall into place.

I stand by the glass, arms crossed, forehead vaguely aching from too many hours of numbers and decisions and signing papers I barely skimmed.

It’s late. Past ten. The office behind me is almost silent—just the buzz of a distant printer and the occasional whirr of the air conditioner. Everyone’s gone home. Security downstairs probably assumes I’ve locked myself in for the night, which, frankly, wouldn’t be the first time.

I don’t remember when working late stopped feeling optional. Somewhere between building this company and surviving it.

I blink, my reflection dull in the glass. Hair a little messier than usual. Sleeves rolled halfway up. Jaw tight.

I wonder who I look like? My father? My mother? Only—I don’t have an answer and never will have one.

I was raised in a goddamn orphanage that smelled like rust and sour milk, where you fought over cold bread and learned fast that if you cried, no one would care. I ran at fifteen and ended up with Anil—who gave me rules instead of love and bruises instead of comfort and still managed to feel more like family than anyone else before him.

I built this life with blood under my nails. Alone. No legacy. No trust fund. Just grit and strategy and a hell of a lot of walls.

And now—I hear footsteps behind me and stiffen, automatically.

“You look like you could use this.”

I turn around to see Aditi standing at the door, holding two cups of coffee, both steaming. She looks a little rumpled—hair loose, one sneaker untied, her bag slung carelessly over her shoulder—but her eyes are bright. Curious. Way too awake for this hour.

“I thought you left,” I say.

She walks in like it’s her office too. “I was going to. But then I passed the pantry and figured if you’ve been staring at spreadsheets as long as I think you have, you’re either running on fumes or vengeance.”

She holds out a cup. I take it slowly. Our fingers brush. Just for a second.

The warmth seeps into my palm.