Aayat's POV

The call ended with the soft click of finality, and I exhaled, staring at the silent phone for a moment longer than necessary.

The London project was moving faster than I expected. The investors were on board, the paperwork was lining up, and everything I'd dreamed of was right in front of me. I should've been thrilled. But when I turned around, my eyes landed on him.

Mihir sat on the couch, unmoving, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, too distant. He wasn't really in the room; his body was, but his thoughts... they were miles away.

For a second, I just watched him. The man who could command a room with a single glance looked small. just quiet. Too quiet.

I took a step closer. "Mihir?"

He didn't answer. His eyes didn't even flicker until I said his name again, softer this time.

He blinked, as if waking from something deep. "Yeah?"

"What happened?" I asked. "You look... somewhere else."

He exhaled, long and slow, then gave a small shake of his head. "Nothing."

I frowned. "You're a terrible liar."

That earned me the faintest ghost of a smirk, one of those half-hearted ones he used when he didn't want to explain. "It's just election stress," he said finally, his tone smooth, distant, perfectly practiced. "Nothing more."

"Hmm." I folded my arms. "You sure?"

"Yes," he said simply, already getting up. "I need to go to my study. There's work to finish."

He didn't look at me when he said it. Didn't have to. That was his way of ending a conversation, calm, polite, final.

I let out a breath, forcing a small smile. "Right. Work. Of course."

He nodded once, the professional kind of nod that made it easy to forget we lived under the same roof. Then he turned and walked down the hall, the soft sound of his footsteps fading into the silence.

The study door clicked shut, sealing him and whatever he was really thinking away.

I sank onto the arm of the couch, staring at the empty space he'd left.

It shouldn't bother me. It wasn't supposed to be. Just a contract. Seven months, an agreement, nothing more.

He had his world, his ghosts, his carefully measured control. I had mine, ambition, business, the next flight to London.

Still, the silence he left behind felt heavier than it should've.

I rubbed my arms, almost as if I could shake the thought away. "Get a grip, Aayat," I muttered to myself. "You knew what this was."

No promises. No expectations. No messy feelings.

And yet, every time he pulled away like that, every time he looked at me with that emptiness in his eyes, something inside me tightened.

It was something.

Something that made the house feel too big when he wasn't in the room.

Something that made me wonder what kind of storm still lived behind that calm, unreadable face.

I sighed and looked down the hallway toward the closed study door. He said it was election stress. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he'd never admit, at least not to me.

Either way, it wasn't my place to ask. Not when the clock was still ticking on our arrangement.

Seven months and one and half already passed. That was the deal. No hearts, no strings, no "what ifs."

So I picked up my phone again, pretending to read through work messages, pretending not to notice the silence pressing in around me.

Because whatever was happening inside Mihir Raghuvanshi's head, it wasn't supposed to matter to me.

And yet, somehow, it did.

The next two days blurred into routine or maybe avoidance. Mihir left early, came home late, always buried in meetings, calls, files. The few times we crossed paths, it was in passing, a polite nod in the kitchen, a quiet "goodnight" before he disappeared into his study again.

I told myself it didn't matter. That I was busy too, finalizing contracts, coordinating with the London team, checking last-minute logistics. But the truth was, every time I passed by his closed study door, I felt the silence like a wall between us.

And I hated how much I noticed it.

By the time the day of my flight arrived, the house felt like it was holding its breath. The rain had finally stopped, sunlight filtering weakly through the curtains.

I was standing by the dresser, double-checking my passport when his voice broke the quiet.

"I'll drop you to the airport," he said from the doorway.

I turned, startled. He stood there, crisp white shirt, dark trousers, tie still undone, hair slightly ruffled. He looked composed, but there was something in his tone that didn't match the calm expression. Something softer.

"You don't have to," I said. "I can go with the driver."

"I know," he replied, walking in, hands in his pockets. "But I'll drop you."

I hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Okay."

The drive started quietly, like always.

He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely near the gear shift. I sat beside him, watching the sunlight trace along the edge of his jaw.

For once, I didn't know what to say.

He was the one who spoke first. "will you be gone for that long?"

"Just Two weeks," I said. "Maybe less, depending on how quickly we close the deal."

He nodded slowly. "You'll do well."

That shouldn't have meant so much, but it did. The quiet conviction in his tone, just quiet belief, made something twist in my chest.

I smiled faintly. "You sound so sure."

"I am," he said simply.

The silence that followed wasn't cold like before. It was almost peaceful.

I glanced at him, the corner of my mouth curving. "You'll survive without me for two weeks, right?"

He gave a small huff of a laugh. "Barely."

I blinked, surprised, and for the first time in days, I saw it. The faint smile tugging at his lips, the warmth that softened the edges of his face.

"You do realize," I teased, "that you're not supposed to miss me. This is a contract marriage, remember?"

He glanced at me briefly, eyes unreadable. "Right," he said, his voice calm. "Just a contract."

But there was something in the way he said it, something that made my heart stumble for a beat too long.

I turned my gaze out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the skyline. "Good. Just making sure we're still on the same page."

He didn't answer, but I could feel him glance at me once, briefly, before focusing on the road again.

When we reached the airport, he parked near the drop-off point. I unbuckled my seatbelt, the click sounding louder than it should have.

"Thanks for the ride," I said quietly.

He nodded. "Text me when you land."

I smiled. "Sure, Mr. Chief Minister. Wouldn't want to give you a heart attack."

He gave a small, almost invisible smile. "It's not that easy to scare me, Aayat."

"Good," I said, stepping out of the car.

I turned back once, suitcase handle in hand. "Take care of yourself, okay? And don't forget to eat actual food."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're giving me instructions now?"

"Someone has to," I said with a shrug. "You'll probably forget otherwise."

For a second, it almost felt like we were something else. Something real.

I could see the faint flicker in his expression, like he wanted to say something but didn't. So I smiled, gave a small wave, and turned toward the terminal.

As I walked away, I could feel his gaze lingering, steady, quiet, unreadable.

Maybe he'd go back to his silence. Maybe I'd lose myself in London and the chaos of meetings and deals. But as the crowd swallowed me, one thought refused to leave my mind.

We might call it a contract. We might pretend it's temporary.

But somewhere between the silence and the small smiles, we'd both started forgetting how to keep it that way.

The automatic doors whooshed open, the airport air conditioning hitting my face like a rush of cold clarity. I was halfway through the check-in queue when I reached into my handbag for my passport.

My fingers brushed against my charger, phone, lip balm, everything except the one thing I actually needed.

My heart sank.

No. No way.

I rifled through again, slower this time. Still nothing.

And then I saw it, the faint corner of a familiar blue cover in my mind's eye, right where I'd placed it on Mihir's car dashboard when I was checking the flight details.

"Perfect," I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand down my face. "Absolutely perfect."

I turned on my heel, pulling my suitcase behind me, ignoring the stares as I half-jogged back toward the exit.

Of course. Of course I'd manage to leave my passport behind on the one day I was supposed to look like I had my life together.

When I stepped back outside, the car was still parked in the same spot, engine idling. Mihir was leaning against the driver's side door, phone in hand, as if he'd been expecting this.

The moment he saw me, one brow arched in that quiet, infuriating way.

"Forgot something?" he asked, calm as ever.

I huffed, coming to a stop in front of him. "Don't start."

He tilted his head slightly, a hint of a smile threatening the corner of his lips. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it," I shot back.

He crossed his arms, eyes glinting. "I might've been."

I glared. "Just give me my passport."

Without a word, he reached into the car and pulled it out, holding it between two fingers like it was a trophy.

"You really shouldn't be this forgetful, Mrs. Raghuvanshi," he said, his voice deliberately slow, teasing. "You might make people think our Chief Minister's wife is careless."

I snatched it from his hand. "We're not a real couple, remember? So your reputation is safe."

That made him smile, a real one this time. Subtle. Annoyingly charming. "Ah, right. The contract. I almost forgot."

I rolled my eyes. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," he said, leaning just slightly closer, "you came running back to me within ten minutes."

"Because you had my passport, not because I missed you," I shot back, though my voice came out a touch softer than I wanted.

His eyes flickered at that, amusement mixed with something warmer. "If you say so."

The air between us shifted then. Quiet, charged, like neither of us wanted to be the first to look away.

Finally, I broke it, shaking my head. "You really enjoy getting on my nerves, don't you?"

He smirked faintly. "It's the only time you actually talk to me."

That one hit deeper than I expected. The teasing tone was there, but underneath it, there was truth.

I swallowed, clutching the passport tighter. "You could try starting a normal conversation, you know. Without provoking me."

He looked at me for a long second before answering, voice lower now. "Maybe I just like seeing you react."

I blinked, caught off guard. "Mihir."

He cleared his throat, looking away, the moment snapping like a stretched rubber band. "You'll be late," he said, back to his composed tone. "You should go."

I nodded slowly, forcing a small smile. "Thanks. Again."

"Try not to forget anything else," he murmured, almost under his breath.

"I'll try," I said, stepping back toward the entrance.

But before I turned fully, I glanced back over my shoulder. "And, Mihir?"

He looked up.

"You like seeing me react?" I said, raising a brow. "Careful. Sounds dangerously close to emotional involvement."

His lips twitched. "Good thing it's just a contract, then."

I laughed softly, shaking my head as I walked away again.

This time, with my passport safely in hand and an annoyingly warm smile lingering on my lips.

By the time I reached the boarding gate, my heartbeat had finally steadied. Passport safely tucked into my hand, lesson learned.

The flight was boarding soon. I slipped my earbuds in but didn't play any music, just letting the background noise fill the air.

That's when I heard it.

Two women behind me, probably in their thirties, whispering. The kind of whisper that's meant to be quiet but never really is.

"Oh, that's the CM's wife, right? Aayat Raghuvanshi?" one said, her tone laced with excitement.

"Yeah," the other replied. "I saw their wedding photos online. God, she's stunning. They look like such a power couple."

For a second, I felt it, that tiny, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of my lips. Power couple. I didn't know why that phrase made something warm flicker inside me. Maybe because, for once, people saw us as something more than a headline or a deal.

But then, the tone shifted.

"You know," the first one continued, voice lowering conspiratorially, "it all happened so fast. One day he's single, next day he's married. Doesn't it feel... I don't know, rushed?"

"Exactly," the other replied. "Like one of those political marriages, for image, not love."

The warmth drained out of me in an instant. It shouldn't have stung. They weren't wrong. It was a deal, a contract, a carefully constructed arrangement. Still, hearing it from someone else hit differently.

I turned slightly, just enough to catch their curious glances flicking toward me.

And then I smiled.

Not the polite, politician's-wife kind of smile. The sharp kind, the one that said I'd heard every word.

"You're right," I said evenly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "It was fast."

Their eyes widened.

"But then again," I added, stepping forward just slightly, my tone calm but crisp, "some people find in weeks what others can't find in a lifetime. Guess we just got lucky."

The silence that followed was priceless.

One of them blinked, clearly not expecting me to respond. The other muttered something about needing coffee and turned away.

I gave a soft, satisfied smile, adjusting my blazer as the line moved forward.

Did I believe what I'd said? Maybe not entirely. But it felt good to say it, to own it. Because whatever this marriage was, real or not, love or deal, I wasn't going to let strangers define it for me.

As I handed my boarding pass to the attendant, I caught my reflection in the glass wall beside the gate, calm, poised, unbothered.

Maybe that's what Mihir and I were, a contradiction that somehow worked. A power couple built on paperwork and unspoken feelings.

And yet, somewhere between the lines of duty and denial, I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, it was starting to feel a little too real.

The flight to London was long, ten hours twenty minutes of pretending to sleep, scrolling through work emails, and telling myself that the small, quiet space next to me didn't feel too empty.

By the time the plane touched down, the city was washed in its usual grey, that moody London drizzle that somehow felt both comforting and lonely.

I stepped out into the arrivals hall, phone buzzing nonstop with messages from the team: meeting schedules, press briefings, driver details. Everything was on track. Everything was fine. Or at least, it should have been.

I climbed into the black car waiting outside, the driver greeting me politely. I nodded, giving him the address of the hotel, and settled back in my seat.

Outside the window, London moved like a movie, people rushing, umbrellas tilting, taxis honking. It should have felt exciting. It usually did. But today, it just did not.

I pulled out my phone without thinking. No message from Mihir. Not even a landed message.

For some reason, that stung more than I wanted to admit.

I locked my screen again, tossing the phone onto my lap with a quiet sigh. "Why would he text?" I muttered under my breath. "It's not like he actually cares."

Still, as the car weaved through the streets, my mind wandered back to that moment at the airport. The way he had said, "You'll be late." So calm. So careful. Like every word had been weighed before it left his mouth.

And the way his eyes had followed me when I had turned away. I could feel it, even now.

I shook the thought off, staring at the blurred skyline. This trip was supposed to be about business, not him. I had meetings to lead, deals to close.

But when the car pulled up at the hotel and the driver opened the door, I hesitated for a second longer than I meant to, half expecting to hear his voice again, teasing, scolding, grounding me in that quiet way he always did.

Of course, he was not there.

Inside my suite, everything was pristine, city lights spilling in through floor-to-ceiling windows, a bouquet of roses on the table courtesy of the hotel staff. It was perfect maybe.

I set my luggage aside, slipped off my heels, and sank into the couch.

For a moment, I just sat there, letting the quiet hum of the city fill the silence.

It hit me then, softly, almost annoyingly. Mihir had become a habit. Not in the dramatic, romantic sense, but in the small ways. The morning tea already made. The occasional sarcastic comment across the dining table. The silence that somehow did not feel lonely anymore.

And now, without it, the quiet felt different.

I reached for my phone again, fingers hovering over his name for a good thirty seconds before I finally typed:

Me: Landed safely.

I stared at the screen. No typing dots appeared. No reply came.

I let out a small laugh, one without humor, and set the phone down. "Figures," I murmured.

A few seconds later, the screen lit up.

Mihir: Good.

Then, after a pause,

Mihir: Take care of yourself, Aayat.

Just that. No emojis, no extra words. Plain, simple. And somehow, it was enough.

I smiled, small, involuntary, and real.

Maybe it was still just a contract. Maybe it would always be.

But sitting there, halfway across the world, reading that two-line message, I was not so sure anymore.

The city outside had gone darker, rain streaking the glass like soft silver threads. I was supposed to be revising tomorrow's pitch, but the words on my laptop screen had turned into a blur.

No matter how much I tried to drown myself in work, my mind kept circling back to the same place, him.

Mihir.

The man who somehow managed to occupy my thoughts even from a continent away.

I leaned back against the couch, phone still beside me, the last message from him glowing faintly on the screen: Take care of yourself, Aayat.

It was nothing extraordinary, but for Mihir, it was everything.

He was not the type to use big words or grand gestures. His care always came dressed in silence, in small, fleeting things no one else noticed.

Still, the ache in my chest would not go away.

I picked up my phone again, scrolling mindlessly, trying to distract myself, when suddenly, another notification popped up.

Mihir: Don't take stress. You're going to give your best.

For a second, I just stared at it, my heart doing that stupid, subtle flip it should not have done.

It was not poetic. It was not romantic. But it was him, steady, practical, quietly reassuring.

I could almost hear his voice saying it, calm, low, with that no-nonsense tone he used when he wanted me to believe in myself.

I smiled, shaking my head, typing back before I could stop myself.

Me: Look at you, suddenly turning motivational.

His reply came after a moment.

Mihir: Don't get used to it.

I laughed quietly to myself and sank deeper into the couch.

"Too late," I whispered.

Because somewhere between the teasing, the silence, and the distance, I had already gotten used to this version of him, the man who pretended he did not care, but always showed up in the ways that mattered most.

I locked my phone, placing it on the side table, a small smile still tugging at my lips.

Tomorrow, I would face the investors, the press, the deal, the world. But tonight, I let myself enjoy the warmth of one simple truth.

Maybe Mihir Raghuvanshi would never say the words out loud. But for now, his message was enough.

Morning came too quickly, as it always does in new cities where the time zones do not forgive jet lag.

I woke to the muted hum of London outside my window, rain tapering off into a light drizzle. My phone was already on the nightstand, screen glowing faintly with his message still lingering in my mind:

Don't take stress. You're going to give your best.

I could not help the small, almost imperceptible smile that tugged at my lips.

Coffee in hand, I moved to the floor-to-ceiling window, letting the city stretch before me. The skyline was gray and quiet, but it had its own kind of energy, the kind that made me feel like anything was possible.

I took a deep breath, sipping the bitter warmth, reminding myself that Mihir would not really understand what I did. Not entirely. He cared, yes, but he would never sit through a presentation of hotel designs or investor contracts. He would just send a few words and leave the rest to me, and somehow, that was exactly enough.

I dressed quickly, carefully, the heels clicking softly against the marble floor as I walked to the bathroom. Hair done, makeup subtle but sharp, I looked at my reflection and whispered, "You've got this."

I finally typed.

Me: I will try to make you proud.

It was slightly cheeky, slightly honest. I hit send. No response yet, of course, not that I expected one. That was Mihir.

The elevator ride down to the lobby felt slower than it should. My phone buzzed with reminders: meeting time, investor details, hotel walkthroughs, press schedules. But somehow, none of it seemed heavy. Not today.

I walked through the lobby, my heels clicking against the polished floor, staff greeting me politely. The driver was waiting, ready to take me to the venue.

Before stepping into the car, I glanced out at the city again. "Alright," I murmured to myself. "Do not mess this up."

I slid into the seat, phone tucked in my bag, and closed my eyes for a brief moment.

Do not take stress. You are going to give your best.

I let his words anchor me, like a quiet hand on my shoulder, steadying me against the nerves that always flared before a big meeting.

As the car pulled away, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and calm. Mihir was not there beside me, but in a way only he could manage, he already was.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to make me unstoppable today.

The venue was sleek, modern, and buzzing with a quiet tension, investors, designers, and press personnel moving through the glass-walled space like currents in a river.

I stepped in, heels clicking deliberately against the polished floor. Every eye flicked toward me, but I did not flinch. This was my element. My world. My stage.

"Good morning, everyone," I began, voice steady, warm, yet commanding enough to demand attention.

I laid out the plans, one slide at a time, designs, financial projections, expansion strategies, everything mapped with precision. I felt the energy shift. Skepticism softened. Curiosity sharpened. Eyes leaned in.

Questions came fast. Detailed. Critical. Some probing, some challenging, others bordering on confrontation. I answered each without hesitation, with clarity and poise, showing not just knowledge, but vision.

At one point, a senior investor raised an eyebrow. "Ms. Raghuvanshi, your approach is ambitious, but risky. How do you plan to mitigate operational challenges in a new market?"

I paused just long enough to make the room hold its breath. Then, calmly:

"By not leaving anything to chance. Every operational risk is mapped, every contingency accounted for, and every decision will be data-driven. Ambition without preparation is reckless. I do not do reckless."

A ripple of approval ran through the room. Heads nodded. Phones tapped notes.

As the hours passed, I moved seamlessly between slides, blueprints, and questions. I could feel the adrenaline in my veins, the kind that came from being exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was meant to do.

Lunch came and went unnoticed. Drinks were offered. I politely declined, focusing instead on the next round of questions, the next investor, the next strategic point.

By mid-afternoon, the atmosphere had shifted. What started as wary caution had morphed into respect, not forced respect, but earned. They were listening. They believed in the vision. They believed in me.

When the meeting finally drew to a close, a few of the investors lingered, shaking hands, offering quiet compliments.

"You have clarity, direction, and confidence," one said, smiling. "Not many people walk in here and leave the room inspired. Well done."

I smiled, nodding, letting the words sink in. Pride, quiet and steady, filled me.

Alone later, back in my suite, I finally allowed myself to breathe, shoulders relaxing, chest lighter than it had been all morning.

But for the first time today, I did not feel rushed, pressured, or doubting.

I had given my best. And it had been enough.

I poured myself a glass of water, staring out at the London skyline. Somewhere in the distance, the city moved on, indifferent.

And yet, I felt proud.

Proud of myself.

Of what I had accomplished.

Of the way I had handled every challenge thrown at me, every skeptical glance, every testing question.

Because today, in this foreign city, on a stage far from home, I had shown them, and more importantly, myself, exactly who I was.

The meeting was finally over. My head still buzzed from hours of questions, projections, and decisions, but a quiet satisfaction settled over me. I sank into the chair by the window, London's drizzle painting soft patterns on the glass.

The next morning came in a blink.

Just as I exhaled, my phone buzzed on the table. I picked it up without thinking, the name flashing on the screen making my chest tighten in a way I did not quite expect.

Terrible human👺

I hesitated. But I swiped to answer.

"Hello," I said, keeping my voice neutral, steady.

"Morning," his low, calm voice came through, just a little rough, like he had woken up too early to think clearly. "You landed okay?"

I lifted an eyebrow, forcing myself to sound casual. "I landed. Hotel's fine. Meetings fine. London fine. Thanks for asking."

A quiet pause. Then:

"I saw your message," he said carefully. "You said you would try to give your best."

I could not help the small laugh, almost a sigh. "I did. Best, as promised."

Another pause. He cleared his throat. "Good. I just do not want you stressing yourself too much. You have prepared for this. You are going to give your best. That is all that matters."

I smiled softly, hiding the warmth that threatened to creep into my chest. "Noted, Chief Minister."

He did not laugh, just said quietly:

"Do not take stress, Aayat. You are going to give your best. That is all I expect."

Simple. Practical. Him.

"Okay," I said softly, letting the words linger between us. "I will keep that in mind."

"Good," he said. Calm. Measured. Pause. Then: "Call me if you need anything. And eat something. Do not forget to eat."

I rolled my eyes, though he could not see it. "Noted again, sir. You are relentless."

"Not relentless," he corrected, tone dry. "Just practical."

I laughed quietly, the tension of the day softening. "Practical, huh? You always were."

"Always," he said, and that was the end of it. Short, to the point. And yet, somehow, enough.

I ended the call, sitting back in my chair. The city moved on outside, indifferent, busy, alive. But in that small, measured conversation, I felt a quiet anchor, a tether back to a world that was otherwise overwhelming.

I shook my head, smiling faintly. "That man," I murmured to myself, "never changes."

Day five.

The site buzzed with energy, cranes swinging, workers moving with purpose, blueprints clutched in hands, helmets glinting under the weak London sun. The skeletal frame of the hotel was beginning to take shape, and for the first time, I allowed myself to pause and truly take it in.

Everything was on track. Every timeline adhered to, every structural checkpoint cleared, every concern addressed. My team moved like a well-oiled machine, and I moved with them, sharp, precise, and completely in control.

Investors hovered nearby, taking notes, exchanging glances. Some whispered quietly, clearly impressed by the progress, by the pace, by how the vision was being executed with accuracy and discipline.

One of them, a tall gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard, caught my attention. "Mrs. Raghuvanshi," he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "you have managed to get everyone moving in perfect sync. It is rare. I have seen projects like this falter multiple times. This? It is remarkable."

I smiled politely, adjusting the strap of my helmet. "Thank you. I believe that clear communication, proper planning, and accountability at every level make the difference. Execution matters more than ideas."

They nodded, impressed but silent, as if absorbing that rare combination of confidence and control.

I walked the site, checking measurements, reviewing reports, and ensuring that every worker knew exactly what was expected. It was not enough for things to simply move forward; they had to move forward efficiently, safely, and exactly as planned.

By late afternoon, the investors gathered at the site office, sipping coffee and quietly discussing the progress.

"I must say," one of them said, leaning back in his chair, "your leadership is rare. You not only plan but also inspire everyone involved. This kind of precision, this kind of dedication, is hard to find."

I allowed myself a small, private smile, the satisfaction settling deep in my chest. "It is not just me," I said evenly. "The team executes brilliantly. I just make sure the vision does not get lost along the way."

They nodded again, silent, clearly approving, impressed. I let the pause stretch, letting them feel the confidence I carried without needing to prove anything.

Later, walking back toward my car, I checked my phone briefly. Mihir's earlier message floated in my mind:

Do not take stress. You are going to give your best.

It had been days since he sent it, but the memory of his calm, practical tone was grounding. I smiled faintly, shaking my head. It is just words, I told myself. Yet somehow, those words had become my quiet anchor, keeping me steady, keeping me sharp, keeping me unstoppable.

As I stepped into the car, helmet tucked under my arm, blueprint rolled neatly in my other hand, I felt it: the rare satisfaction of a plan executed flawlessly, of control maintained, of people believing in the vision I was shaping.

And for the first time that week, I allowed myself a small thought I usually suppressed: Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can do it all.

I had just finished inspecting the latest floor plans when my phone buzzed again.

Terrible Human👺

Again.

I rolled my eyes, smirking despite myself. The man could give the busiest CEOs a run for their money in persistence. I answered before it could ring more than once.

"Hello," I said, tone perfectly neutral, hiding the faint grin tugging at my lips.

"Are you alive?" His low, calm voice came through, slightly clipped, though I could hear the faint edge of worry beneath it.

I laughed softly, shaking my head. "Alive. Not missing me yet, though."

There was a pause on the other side. Then, quietly, he said, "I do not take that lightly."

I snorted. "Oh, is that so? The mighty Mihir Raghuvanshi, worried about whether I am missing him?" I teased, letting the playfulness drip from my words.

He cleared his throat. "I just want to make sure you are okay. That is all."

I tilted my head, pretending to be offended. "All? Really? All? Someone said they would not miss me, and here you are... ten calls every day. Seems excessive, do you not think?"

Another pause. Then, a quiet, almost grudging chuckle. "Ten? Maybe. I lose count."

"Exactly." I grinned, enjoying the rare moment of seeing him flustered, even slightly. "You are mean, you know that? Constantly checking in, making sure I do not fall apart in London while acting all calm and collected."

"I call it responsible," he replied dryly. Even through the phone, I could hear the faint smirk hiding in his voice.

"Right... responsible," I echoed, rolling my eyes but laughing softly. "Next, you will tell me it is only for my safety, not because you secretly enjoy nagging me."

"I..." he hesitated, which made me laugh outright. "Maybe. Possibly. Do not make it sound worse than it is."

"Too late," I teased. "I am already telling the world Mihir Raghuvanshi calls me ten times a day, worried I will survive without him."

Silence. Then: "Maybe I like knowing you survive."

I froze for a fraction of a second, smirk tugging at my lips again. "Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, Chief Minister."

He cleared his throat. "Anyway. Rest tonight. Sleep well. Do not overthink."

"Always the motivational speaker," I teased. "You really cannot stop, can you?"

"Never," he said simply, calm and final.

I ended the call with a smile, shaking my head. Ten calls a day, relentless texts, quiet care tucked beneath every word. Somehow, I did not mind. Not even a little.

The hotel room was quiet, the hum of the city far below just a soft background. I kicked off my heels, finally letting myself sink into the chair by the window, stretching my tired legs.

My phone still lingered in my hand, Mihir's messages looping in my head. Ten calls a day, endless reminders, his calm voice threading through my thoughts. I shook my head, smiling faintly. That man... relentless.

I set my phone aside and turned toward the small balcony to grab some fresh air. That is when I saw someone.

A man, standing near the railing, back to me. His posture was relaxed but deliberate, the way someone who knew they were being watched might carry themselves. I frowned, heart rate spiking just slightly. Who...?

"Excuse me," I called, stepping closer, trying to hide the sudden edge in my voice. "Who are you?"

The man did not move. Did not turn. Then, slowly, a laugh — low, soft, almost musical — floated into the room.

I froze. The sound sent a strange shiver down my spine. It was confident, teasing... unsettling.

"I asked you a question," I said, voice firmer this time, a mix of irritation and curiosity.

He just laughed again. Light, deliberate, almost like he was enjoying my confusion.

My brows furrowed. "Seriously... who are you?"

No answer. Just another soft, echoing laugh that made the air in the room feel suddenly heavier.

I took a cautious step closer, my instincts on alert. "This is not funny. Turn around!"

Another laugh, this time a little darker, more knowing. My pulse quickened. Something about the way he carried himself, the sound of that laugh, made my instincts scream: Not safe. Not normal.

"Look, I do not know what game you are

playing," I said, voice steadying despite the nervous flutter in my chest, "but you better—"

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AND YES TELL ME HOW WAS THE CHAPTER??????

To be continued

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