The weeks that followed were… strange.

Professionally, you were flawless.

Contracts were reviewed before anyone else even spotted the clauses. Brand deals were negotiated with quiet ruthlessness. Disputes were handled with a calm that impressed even Ayaan’s most cynical management members.

But personally?

You were ice.

You spoke to him only when required. “Sign here.” “You have a media clause violation risk.” “You cannot attend that event. It conflicts with your contract.”

No teasing. No softness. No trace of the girl whose reels he had watched a hundred times at 2 a.m.

And it drove him insane.

One evening, after a brutal practice session, Ayaan stormed into the conference room where you were working late.

Files spread across the table. Laptop open. Glasses perched on your nose.

You didn’t even look up.

“Your sponsorship meeting tomorrow has been shifted to 11—”

“Stop.”

Your typing paused.

Slowly, you lifted your eyes.

Ayaan stood across the table, chest heaving, frustration written all over his face.

“Do you even remember who I am?” he demanded.

Your expression remained neutral. “You’re my client.”

That answer hit him like a slap.

“That’s it?” he scoffed. “That’s all I am to you now?”

You closed the laptop with quiet precision.

“We never had anything.”

His jaw tightened.

“Right,” he laughed bitterly. “Good to know. Then maybe I should just get another legal advisor. Since clearly you don’t care.”

For a split second—just a second—something flickered across your face.

Pain.

But it vanished before he could fully see it.

“If that’s what you prefer,” you said quietly, gathering your files, “I’ll inform the management.”

And you walked out.

Ayaan immediately regretted it.

But pride was a stubborn thing.

So neither of you apologized.

Two weeks later, Ayaan was at the hospital for a sponsor’s charity event.

Kids. Cameras. Smiles.

He was halfway down the corridor when he heard your voice.

Soft. Tired.

“…Doctor, please just tell me if the treatment is working.”

Ayaan froze.

You stood outside a room, speaking to a doctor.

The doctor sighed. “Your mother’s condition is serious. And the stress isn’t helping you either. You can’t keep handling everything alone.”

Your shoulders sagged.

“I don’t have a choice,” you whispered.

Ayaan frowned.

The doctor continued gently, “Has your father been informed?”

Your laugh was hollow.

“He divorced my mother last month,” you said quietly. “When she got sick. He didn’t want the responsibility.”

Ayaan felt the air leave his lungs.

“And there’s no one else?” the doctor asked.

You shook your head.

“No.”

Just one word.

But it carried a lifetime of exhaustion.

Ayaan stood frozen behind the corner.

Every angry word he had thrown at you echoed in his head.

Maybe I should get another advisor.

God.

He felt sick.

Within two days, three professional caregivers were quietly assigned to your mother’s hospital room.

Rotational shifts.

Medicine monitoring.

Meal schedules.

Everything handled.

Paid anonymously.

Or at least… that had been the plan.

Three days later, you walked into Ayaan’s office.

Not with files.

Not with contracts.

With anger.

“Did you hire them?”

Ayaan looked up from his phone.

Your voice was shaking.

“The nurses in my mother’s room. The caretakers. The hospital says someone arranged them.”

Your eyes locked onto his.

“Was it you?”

For once…

Ayaan Sharma looked nervous.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

Your brows furrowed.

“Why?”

There was no accusation in your voice.

Ayaan didn’t hesitate this time.

“Because I owe you an apology.”

He stood up slowly.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you.” “I’m sorry for threatening your job.” “And I’m really sorry that the first thing I cared about was my ego instead of asking if you were okay.”

His voice softened.

“You don’t owe me anything. Not an explanation. Not kindness. Not even forgiveness.”

Then he gave a small shrug.

“But at least now… you won’t have to worry about your mom being alone.”