Page 9 of Cherish my Heart

“You seem fun at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties.”

Obviously. There’s a pause. He studies me. “You don’t seem scared.”

“I’m not,” I reply. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

His jaw shifts slightly. “Such as?”

I chuckle. If only he knew who my brothers are. Same personality, different fonts.

“You don’t need to know,” I feign a smile. “All you need to know is I am very efficient and you will love working with me,” I say, emphasizing “love,” because I love making arrogant people’s lives hell; it’s my favorite hobby.

He smirks, “You may not love working with me.” He says, “You’ll report to me directly,” he adds. “Your desk will be moved closer. HR will handle the paperwork. If you need anything—”

“I won’t,” I cut in.

His eyes narrow. “You’re aware that stubbornness isn’t a skill set?”

I shrug. “Neither is being a control freak, but here we are.”

The tension in the air thickens, but it’s not hostile. It’s something else—something taut and electric and unspoken. He stands, straightens his sleeves, and looks down at me with the kind of calm authority that would make most people squirm. But I don’t. I meet his gaze head-on. “Good,” he says finally. “We’ll see how long that spine lasts.”

I smile sweetly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Abhimaan. I’ve survived worse than your brooding. You’re just a well-dressed speed bump on my way to greatness.” His expression gives nothing away. But something in the air shifts again—like a game has just begun and neither of us knows the rules yet.

“Join from tomorrow,” he commands.

I push my chair back and stand. “See you tomorrow, bossman.”

“Don’t be late,” he calls as I open the door.

“I’m never late,” I toss over my shoulder, not bothering to look back. But I can feel his eyes on me as I walk out. Good. Let him watch. Because this isn’t just about an internship anymore. This is the training ground. And if Abhimaan is the dragon at the gate, then I’m bringing fire of my own. Let’s play.

CHAPTER 6

ABHIMAAN

9:00 AM sharp.

The second hand on the minimalist wall clock clicks into position, and right on cue, the door to my office swings open. No knock. No pause. Just bold footsteps on the oakwood floor and the unmistakable scent of ambition wrapped in citrus and attitude.

Of course.

I look up from my planner, pen hovering mid-air.

She walks in like she owns time itself. Tan blazer sharp, heels clicking with the kind of confidence most interns don’t earn in six months, let alone on their second day. A thin gold nose pin catches the morning light. A strand of hair is loose behind her ear—not messy, not styled—just... deliberate, like everything about her.

I should be irritated. But instead, I find myself unsure—am I more impressed by her punctuality or by the fact that she just walked in without knocking?

No one does that. Not even department heads.

“You don’t knock?” I ask, setting the pen down with deliberate slowness.

She halts in front of the desk, unfazed. But I can see from how she inhales once that she forgot to say, “I will. From tomorrow,” she says, lips twitching into a smile. “Didn’t want to interrupt in case you were—oh, I don’t know—hiding something illegal.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Illegal?”

“Yeah, like embezzlement. Or smiling. Heard you don’t do either.”