I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt her. The heat of her hand brushing mine. The slight tremble in her breath. The way she said, "This never happened." Like a lie she hoped I'd believe.
But the truth was there—in her eyes, in mine. Something had happened.
And it was far from over.
The next morning, I got to the office early. Earlier than usual. Like I was chasing something that had slipped away before I could hold it.
I told myself I wasn't hoping to see her.
I told myself I wasn't imagining what she might wear today, or how her voice might sound fresh from sleep, husky and low.
I lied.
I was still at my desk when she arrived.
She moved through the glass lobby like she owned the air around her. Hair swept into a loose knot, a soft beige blouse tucked into a high-waisted skirt that hugged her hips just enough to make me forget how to breathe. She didn't look at me.
But she knew I was watching.
Her office door closed behind her with a soft click.
An hour passed.
Then her voice came through the intercom, smooth and neutral.
"Aarav. In my office. Now."
I swallowed hard. My pulse drummed against my collar.
When I stepped inside, the lights were dimmer than usual. The blinds were drawn halfway, casting slow-moving shadows across her desk and the carpeted floor. She stood by the bookshelf, one heel pressed against the shelf, her arms folded.
She didn't greet me.
Just stared.
"You've been… distracted lately," she said, not looking at me.
"I've been focused," I replied, quietly.
She turned then. Slowly. Her eyes landed on mine and stayed there. "Don't lie to me."
My breath faltered. "I'm not."
"You think I didn't notice? How you look at me?"
The room shrank around us.
I said nothing.
She stepped closer. One deliberate stride.
I caught the faintest sound of her perfume before her voice softened. "You're young. Curious. I understand."
"I'm not a child."
"Then stop acting like one." Her voice cracked—barely—but it was there. Like her strength was starting to bend.
And then, without warning, she moved past me to her desk. Bent slightly to pick up a file. The blouse pulled tight across her back. My gaze slipped. I hated myself for it. Wanted more because of it.
She turned and caught me looking.
Again.
Her lips parted, like she was about to say something—something dangerous. But instead, she placed the file on the edge of the desk and tapped it. "This. Review it. You'll accompany me to the client dinner tonight."
"Dinner?" I asked, stepping closer.
She didn't step back.
"It's just business," she said. But her voice dropped lower. Slower. "Unless you want it to be something else."
The tension between us snapped taut.
I could see the tremble in her fingers. The war inside her—desire versus responsibility. Control versus surrender.
Her eyes flicked down to my mouth.
Again.
Just as I was about to move closer—just an inch—just enough to feel her breath on my skin—
There was a knock at the door.
Fast. Urgent.
We both froze.
Her face shifted instantly. Cold. Professional.
"Come in," she called.
The door opened, and her assistant stepped in. "Ma'am… someone's asking for you. Says it's urgent. He's refusing to leave."
"Who?" she asked, brow furrowed.
"He says…" The assistant hesitated, glancing at me. "He says he's your husband."
Time stopped.
My stomach dropped.
Her face drained of color for a split second—just enough for me to see it. She turned her back to me and walked toward the window. Hands clenched tight at her sides.
I didn't know she was married.
She never wore a ring.
Never mentioned him.
She didn't turn around. Didn't say a word.
I stepped forward, pulse racing. "Raina…"
She didn't respond.
But the air around her vibrated with something dangerous. Something breaking.
I saw her reflection in the window.
Tears.
But not weakness.
A storm was coming.
And I was right in the middle of it.