The curtains danced restlessly in the breeze, the fabric furling and unfurling like waves, mocking the stillness of my morning. The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual—each second a little prick of irritation. 9:15 AM. My stomach grumbled in protest, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything. How could I? He had said he would come with breakfast.

I had been waiting for him for almost two hours.

Sleep had been a stranger last night. Tossing, turning, and overthinking don’t count as rest. The two hours I managed to doze off could hardly be called sleep. I woke up early—extra early—hoping I wouldn’t keep him waiting. I even set the table, carefully placing two plates across from each other, like some foolish scene out of a dream that wasn't mine to have.

And just when I was about to give up, just when I was about to accept that maybe he had forgotten—or worse, didn’t care—the doorbell rang.

My head snapped toward the door. My heart raced ahead of my steps. I smoothed my shoulder-length hair, cleared my throat, and straightened my kurta before turning the knob with a breath half-held in hope.

Only to be met with disappointment.

Not him.

His secretary.

I stared at him, my brows knitting together in confusion. “You?”

He offered a polite nod and held up a thermos and a paper bag. “I’m here with your breakfast, Miss. Sir told me to give it to you since he’s… busy with something important.”

My blood boiled at those words.

Busy with something important.

Oh, how lovely.

So important, in fact, that he couldn’t show up for the breakfast he promised. But not important enough to forget to send food, because of course, why bother with feelings when logistics are covered?

I crossed my arms, standing taller—though it did nothing to soothe the sting building in my chest. “Tell your sir I said thank you for the royal meal delivery but I have already eaten. ”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I shut the door, firmly but not loud enough to make a scene. Just enough to say—I got the message.

And it wasn’t the breakfast that hurt. It was the absence.

I huffed with annoyance and turned but before I could take another step, I heard the knock on my door again.

I yanked the door open, not bothering to hide my irritation. He was still there—poor guy—with that paper bag of betrayal in his hands. He actually gulped before speaking, like I was going to devour him instead of the breakfast.

“So… the… breakfast?”

I folded my arms, lifting a brow. “There are a lot of street dogs in this lane who are actually starving—for food and for some basic attention. Give it to them.”

He blinked.

“And while you’re at it,” I continued sweetly, “tell your sir that next time he wants to do charity, he can feed the dogs. Or better—feed his own ego, it's clearly malnourished.”

I offered him a sugar-sweet smile and began closing the door again.

Oh, the satisfaction.

After shutting the door, I walked into the kitchen, picked up the cup of tea I'd made hours ago, and poured it down the sink. The lukewarm liquid spiraled down the drain like the rest of my morning.

He did it again.

But maybe… maybe I shouldn’t blame him this time.

I was the one who expected him to come.

Why would he?

Why would Avyant Rathore come to share breakfast with me when he had more important things to attend to—like meetings, or his perfectly curated life that didn’t include me?

I should’ve known better. I do know better. And yet, all it took was one kind gesture, one flicker of warmth from him, and the wall I’d built around myself began to crack like it was made of sugar, not stone.

Pathetic.

Shaking my head, I promised myself—again—that I’d try not to repeat this mistake. Not to fall for crumbs when I knew the feast was never meant for me.

I grabbed my tote bag from the hook near the door and stepped out. His assistant was gone—good for him. If he had still been there, I might’ve used him as a stress ball and said things I’d later pretend I didn’t mean.

I locked the door behind me and turned, only to be betrayed by a loud growl from my stomach.

I placed a gentle hand over it and sighed. “Shhh... I know you’re hungry. But I just don’t want to eat, okay? Can you please cooperate today?”

My stomach grumbled again, sounding more offended than hungry.

I shook my head and started walking, hoping to reach the bus stop on time.

The bus arrived just as I did—one small win for the morning. I got on, slipped into a seat by the window, and put in my earphones. Lag jaa gale ke phir yeh haseen raat ho na ho began to play—a cruel choice by the shuffle, but I didn’t skip it.

Music filled the silence, soft and steady, as I tried to calm the storm swirling quietly inside me.

Fifteen minutes passed in a blur of noise and motion.

When the bus finally halted, I stepped down.

There it was.

His office.

Tall, cold, and far too familiar.

I saw the same old watchman from yesterday. This time, he didn’t stop me—just gave a slight nod and let me walk in. The receptionist offered me a small smile, one I returned with equal politeness.

I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the 8th floor. The ride up was quiet, save for the soft hum of the old Hindi song still playing in my ears.

When the doors slid open, I found my friends already waiting.

Which meant he hadn’t arrived yet.

I greeted my friends, and they greeted me back, their voices light and casual. But then, the air shifted—like the room inhaled all at once—and I knew he was here.

To confirm my suspicion, I heard him.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice deep and composed, carrying that effortless authority only he seemed to possess.

My friends responded with their own cheerful greetings, and I stayed quiet—until Chanchal slyly nudged my elbow, forcing my hand.

“Good morning,” I said, without looking at him.

Politeness—nothing more. At least that’s what I told myself.

“I got late because I had to run some errands. I hope you guys are okay with it, but I promise it won’t happen again,” I heard him say, his tone calm, almost too casual.

Before I could stop myself, a scoff escaped my lips.

The room fell silent.

And just like that, all eyes were on me—as if I’d committed some unforgivable sin. Well, maybe I had. How dare I disrespect The Avyant Rathore?

But when I looked at him, expecting annoyance or that sharp glare he usually gave, I found… something else.

His eyes held an emotion I couldn’t quite place.

I wasn’t sure even if it was there or not Because just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished—hidden behind the same composed mask he always wore.

And my friends, thankfully, shifted their attention back to him.

Great! Here's your

“So, guys, today we’ll be going to the site where we’ll be making the building,” he said, his voice steady and professional, as if the tension from a few seconds ago never existed.

Just like that, he flipped the switch—from the man who looked at me with something unspoken in his eyes, to the boss giving instructions.

Classic Avyant Rathore.

After reaching the parking area Avyant looked around at all of us, his voice calm but decisive. “Whoever has spent the most time with the slum children will come with me. The rest can take the other car.”

I felt an immediate sense of dread settle in my stomach. Of course, that meant Meera and I. We’d been the most involved with the children during the outreach, and everyone knew it.

Meera gave me a side glance and started moving without protest. I, on the other hand, was far from excited. I was annoyed—at him, at the situation, and at my luck. But buried beneath that annoyance was a tiny, irritating knot of nervousness I couldn’t shake off.

Without a word, Avyant turned and walked toward his car like it was already decided—which, of course, it was.

Great.

With a tight breath, I followed Meera, my steps slow and hesitant. The last thing I wanted was to be in a confined space with him, especially when I wasn’t sure what irritated me more—his presence or the effect it still had on me.

When I saw him approaching his car, I didn’t wait for anyone—I rushed ahead and slid into the back seat like it was some kind of escape hatch. Safe. Or so I thought.

Meera followed a moment later, reaching for the door handle on the other side, but before she could open it, I heard his voice—calm, polite, and utterly scheming.

“Ms. Meera, would you mind taking the passenger seat? I never quite like sitting in the front.”

I froze.

Excuse me?

To my utter horror, Meera smiled and nodded like it was the most reasonable request in the world. “Of course, that’s fine.”

Of course it is, Meera.

And just like that, he slipped into the back seat beside me, as if this had been his plan all along. I immediately scooted to the farthest corner, pressing myself against the door like the leather upholstery might swallow me whole if I wished hard enough.

I didn’t look at him, didn’t breathe too loudly—but I swear, I swear, I heard him make that obnoxious pst sound.

As if I were a cat to be summoned.

I resisted the overwhelming urge to throw my sandal at him.

He pulled out a file from his bag and opened it with a crisp, practiced flick. Then, in the same boss-like tone he used to ruin people’s peace, he ordered,

“Ms. Gaur, can you help me understand the educational conditions of the children?”

I blinked.

Why me? Why always me?

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this. Every time I try to run from something—or someone—I end up knee-deep in the quagmire, stuck and sinking fast.

Swallowing my sigh, I turned to face him. “Sure,” I said, as neutrally as possible.

But when I looked up, his eyes weren’t on the file.

They were on me.

Steady. Calm. Almost… curious.

I instantly forgot every statistic I had ever read. My brain, a minute ago overflowing with field notes, suddenly went blank like someone had switched off the lights.

I cleared my throat, trying to find my voice—and my dignity—somewhere between the leather seat and my rising panic.

“Why didn’t you accept the breakfast?” he whispered, his voice low and laced with concern. “I know you’re angry at me, but you should’ve at least eaten something.”

My head snapped toward Meera. She wasn’t far—just a few feet ahead in the passenger seat—and if his voice had been even a little louder, she would've definitely heard us.

I kept my eyes on the window and hissed under my breath, “We’ll talk about it later, Kuwarsa… not here, not now.”

But he didn’t seem convinced. His gaze lingered on me, unwavering.

I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling under my skin. “Please,” I whispered, barely able to meet his eyes. “Not right now.”

This time, he gave a small nod, finally backing off.

And as if the universe had impeccable timing, the car took a sudden turn. I lost my balance and was slammed right into his chest.

His hand twitched—like he wanted to steady me—but didn’t. I quickly straightened, cheeks burning, and shifted away to reclaim the little space I had left.

Neither of us said a word. But in that silence, everything hung heavier than before.