Morning came without permission.
Light slanted through Shreya's curtains, thin and guilty, as if even the sun had watched the previous night and didn't know what to say. The black dress lay where she'd dropped it—folded wrong, one strap twisted like a question.
Her phone blinked with unread messages. She didn't touch it. Somewhere between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m., her world had quietly unstitched itself, and she wasn't ready to sew it back.
She showered, dressed in the first outfit her fingers found—a pale-blue kurti and jeans—and tied her hair in a loose bun. The wing-shaped hairpin went in automatically, habit stronger than thought. When she looked in the mirror, she looked almost ordinary. That, she decided, was good camouflage.
✦
The city was still drying itself when she reached the design studio. The scent of printer ink and brewed coffee clung to the hallways. Shreya worked for Maison Verve, a boutique fashion house that paid just enough to keep dreams believable.
She slipped into her cubicle, booted the computer, and lost herself in sketches. Fabric lines obeyed even when life didn't. She was tracing the fall of a sari pallu when Rhea's laughter echoed from reception.
Her pulse stumbled. Not here. She kept her eyes on the sketchpad, but Rhea's perfume—a sugar-sharp floral—invaded the air before the voice did.
"Shre, I didn't know you'd come in today." Rhea's tone had that deliberate brightness that always meant she wanted an audience.
Shreya turned slowly. "Deadlines don't cheat on you."
Rhea flinched, color blooming under her makeup. "Look, about last night—"
"Not here." Shreya's voice was calm, steady, the kind of calm that made people nervous. She closed her sketchbook and rose. "Some wounds don't need a crowd."
Before Rhea could reply, a new voice threaded through the tension. Deep, unhurried, unmistakable.
"Is everything alright here?"
The studio fell quiet. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, chairs rolled back. The man who stepped into the room carried the kind of authority that didn't need an introduction.
Adrian Veer Khanna.
Dark suit, no tie, rain-gray eyes that seemed to notice every corner. He wasn't supposed to belong in her morning, but here he was—impossible and perfectly real.
Rhea recovered first, her tone switching to honey. "Mr. Khanna! We didn't expect you so early. The director said—"
"I prefer seeing things for myself," he said, eyes still on Shreya. "You must be Miss Mehra."
Her throat tightened. "We met… last night."
A flicker crossed his face, too quick for anyone but her to catch. "So we did." He extended a hand. "I believe we didn't properly introduce ourselves. I'm the new investor at Maison Verve."
Of course. Life loved irony.
Shreya shook his hand because there were witnesses. His palm was warm, his grip precise—just enough to steady, not enough to claim. Yet the contact sent a current through her nerves that felt alarmingly like remembering.
"Miss Mehra is one of our finest designers," Rhea inserted smoothly. "Her work is delicate—she's a bit shy, though."
Shreya smiled without smiling. "Shy people usually have reason to listen before speaking."
Adrian's mouth curved—a restrained acknowledgment, maybe even amusement. "Listening is an underrated art." He turned to the staff. "Carry on, everyone. Miss Mehra, if you're free, I'd like to review a few design concepts."
It wasn't a request.
✦
They ended up in the glass-walled conference room overlooking the city. Files waited on the table like obedient soldiers. Shreya spread sketches, explaining color themes, while Adrian leaned against the edge of the table, listening with an intensity that made her sentences unravel.
"So," she concluded, "this line aims to combine Indian silhouettes with modern minimalism."
"Like you," he said absently.
She blinked. "Pardon?"
He looked up, half-smile intact. "Traditional heart. Modern armor."
Heat climbed her neck. "You read people, Mr. Khanna?"
"Only the ones who hide beautifully."
Her pen slipped from her fingers. He bent to pick it up; their hands brushed. The touch was small, nothing cinematic—and yet her lungs forgot the order of breathing.
He handed it back. "You're cold."
"I'm fine."
He tilted his head, studying her face. "You slept two hours, maybe three."
"Do you make a habit of diagnosing strangers?"
He considered that. "Only the ones I worry about."
The words landed softly but carried a weight she couldn't name. She busied herself with aligning papers. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm here to work."
"Good," he said. "Work can be a kind of healing. For a while."
Their eyes met through the reflection on the glass table. Something unspoken passed—recognition shaped like ache.
The intercom buzzed; the spell broke. The director's voice filled the room. "Mr. Khanna, the finance team is ready for you."
Adrian straightened. "Duty calls." He paused by the door. "Miss Mehra—Shreya—" Her name left his mouth as if he were tasting it for precision. "You did well today."
She wanted to say thank you but the words caught behind the lump of everything she didn't understand. By the time she looked up, he was gone, leaving the faint scent of cedar and rain that would ruin her concentration for the rest of the day.
✦
That night, she found herself on her balcony, the city breathing lights below. Her phone buzzed with a new message from an unknown number:
Unknown: You forgot my handkerchief.
Unknown: Keep it. It suits you better.
Her fingers hovered. Adrian.
She typed, Thank you. Then deleted it. Then retyped it and added, For last night. And today.
A reply arrived almost instantly.
Adrian: We'll call it even when you smile again.
She stared at the message until the screen dimmed. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, a train hummed, and the city turned another page.
Inside her chest, something—small, frightened, persistent—stirred.
For the first time since last night, Shreya Mehra breathed without breaking.
And far away in a suite on the forty-third floor, Adrian Khanna looked at a photograph in his drawer—two children on a garden swing—and whispered,
"Soon, Aarohi."