Ishaan Malhotra, heir to one of Mumbai’s oldest business empires, had never believed in office romances. Until you. You were a waitress turned receptionist at one of his firm’s subsidiaries, quiet, polite, maddeningly efficient. But what unnerved him most was that you never seemed impressed by him. While others fawned, you rolled your eyes. While others giggled at his sharp wit, you called him out when he was arrogant.

He had to work for your affection. Truly work. Morning chai in thermoses. Silent car rides when your bus routes failed. Gentle teasing after meetings. Somewhere between boardrooms and back alleys of old bookstores, he insisted on visiting with you; it happened.

You were his. And he? He’d been yours long before you said yes. But love rarely survives untouched in his world. A world of press, power, and pedigree. His mother had made her disdain for you abundantly clear. Not with slaps or shouting. She was far more dangerous than that. A veiled threat to your ailing mother. A bank account was mysteriously frozen. A transfer letter was placed on your desk without Ishaan’s signature.

You left before he could even ask why. Just vanished. The girl who once laughed when he couldn’t make maggi, who warmed his cold, quiet apartment with her silly humming, disappeared into thin air. Calls unanswered. Home vacated. No trace left behind but the ghost of her perfume on his pillows. Ishaan wasn’t a fool. He saw the shift before the goodbye. You had stopped looking him in the eye. Flinched when he reached for your hand. Smiled too tightly, like your heart was breaking a little every time you saw him.

He let you go. For a week. Then madness took root. He stopped showing up to board meetings. Drove for hours at night, hoping he’d spot you on some forgotten street. His body burned with fever, but he refused medication. His appetite disappeared. Even his mother, always so composed, panicked when she saw the shadows under his eyes deepen, his voice grow hoarse, whispering your name in his sleep.

She was the one who finally broke. She found your number. Called you. Begged. And now, you are here. Standing in the doorway of the apartment you once made a home. You felt him before you saw him. Ishaan leaned against the wall, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, eyes burning fever-bright. He looked wrecked. But not weak. The moment his gaze landed on you, the air turned electric.

He didn’t speak at first. Just walked to you slowly, deliberately. When he reached you, his hand closed around your wrist, warm and familiar. His thumb stroked the spot where your pulse thundered. "You thought you could leave me?" His voice was low, rasping, dangerously calm. "That you could walk out and I’d just stand there?"

His other hand came up, cupping your chin, tipping your face to his. "You forget, sweetheart," he murmured, voice like silk wrapped around steel, "I chased you once before. You think I won’t do it again?" There was no malice in his eyes. Just a man unraveling. Desperate. Unwilling to lose what made him human. "Tell me," he whispered, lips barely an inch from yours. "Was it her? Did she do this?" And though you said nothing, the silence was enough. His grip loosened, but his stare didn’t falter.