Silence enveloped the building the moment Abhimaan Singh Chauhan entered.

In a world of power and betrayal, fear wasn't loud; it wore a sharp grey three-piece suit, rimless glasses, and a Rolex ticking like a warning.

People held their breath; phones slipped from nervous hands. No one dared meet his gaze. No one except... her.

Inside his cabin, he sank into his chair, fingers tapping the table.

Late. Again.

She was always late. Yet... she still had this job. No one understood why.

Truth be told, sometimes even he didn't understand why he couldn't fire her.

Then the door burst open.

And there she was.

Saanvi Abhimaan Singh.

A name that once meant home. Now, it meant a headache.

She walked in like she owned the place, carrying a tray with his green tea and dark fantasy biscuits. An odd mix for anyone else... but she remembered he liked it. She always remembered the small things. Damn her for that.

He raised a brow, questioning without words. She didn't even blink.

But today, it wasn't her timing that pissed him off.

It was her.

That crumpled white blouse clinging to her like a second skin. The delicate gold chain of her mangal sutra peeking out. The matching bracelet on her wrist—the one that mirrored his.

Six months, and yet she hadn't taken it off. Neither had he.

Why?

Even he didn't have the courage to answer that.

He stood, slow and deliberate, walking toward her until the air between them practically vibrated.

"Apna haal dekha hai?" His voice dropped, rough and dangerous. "Office mein iss tareeke se ghoom rahi ho? Baaki logon ko aur kya masala chahiye gossip ke liye?"

She tilted her chin up, unbothered. "Aapko kya farak padta hai?"

God. That attitude. The same one that made him fall. The same one that now made him burn.

Before she could move, his hand wrapped around her wrist. Firm. Not rough. Just enough to remind her who he was... and who she still was to him, whether either of them liked it or not.

A sharp tug, and she collided into him. Breathless. Furious. Beautiful.

"Aapko kya farak padta hai?" she repeated, softer this time. Almost... curious.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because the real answer was buried under years of hurt, pride, and a contract neither of them had the guts to tear.

And for a second, they just stood there. Breathing the same air. Remembering the same pain.

It all came rushing back.

Their accidental reunion at the interview. The silent shock. The forced professionalism. The night he called her in and said words that should've meant nothing.

"Seedha sawaal. Shaadi karni hai."

"Mujhse? Kyun?"

He could've lied. Could've said it was for the company, the throne, the grandfather's condition. But instead, he baited her.

"Receptionist se kar loon? Tumhe farak nahi padega?"

She scoffed, eyes narrowing. "Please. Us bimbo se toh main better hoon."

And that was that.

No love. No emotions. Just signatures on paper and a time: 7 PM. A two-year contract. A lifetime of unfinished feelings.

She didn't even read the terms.

"Itna trust mat dikhaya karo, Aavi," he'd said. "Business mein yeh galti mehngi padti hai."

She smiled faintly, the kind that still punched him in the gut. "Aap par bharosa hai."

Stupid. Reckless. And yet... somehow, it made his chest ache in a way nothing else could.

And she still called him 'Aap.' Still gave him respect he no longer deserved.

If only she knew the truth.

Aavi... yeh shaadi sirf business nahi hai. Kabhi na kabhi samjhegi kyun tumhe hi chuna.

A knock on the door shattered the moment.

Without thinking, he yanked her wrist and pushed her into the private room behind his office.

"Chup raho. Hilna  mat," he ordered, his grip firm, his voice a quiet storm.

"Aur haan, mujhe farak padta hai."

The door shut with a finality that felt dangerously familiar.
Outside, the world saw a ruthless mafia boss. Inside, locked away with her, stood a man still bleeding from old wounds.

And the worst part? He didn’t know if he wanted to heal... or make her bleed the same way.

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|| Har Har Mahadev||