Ananya’s POV

My palms were clammy, and I must have checked my reflection in the mirror for the hundredth time. The crisp white shirt and navy-blue trousers looked perfect on the outside, but inside, I was a bundle of nerves.

Today wasn’t just another day.

It was my first job interview in India… and not just in any company, but at Singhania Industries—one of the most reputed firms in the country.

The very name was enough to make my stomach twist.

I clutched the file in my hands tighter, willing my heart to slow down. What if I mess up? What if they think I’m not good enough? The doubts circled in my head like vultures, feeding on my anxiety.

“Ananya…” my mother’s gentle voice broke my thoughts.

I turned, finding her standing by the door, her eyes soft with concern. Arohi Mehra—my mother, my anchor, the one who always knew what to say when I was falling apart.

“You’ll do just fine, beta,” she said, walking toward me. She placed her hands on my shoulders, grounding me instantly. “I know you’re nervous, but you’re prepared. You’ve worked hard. And if this is meant to be yours, no one can take it away.”

Her words made my chest feel a little lighter. I smiled faintly, though my heart still raced. “But Maa, it’s Singhania Industries. People dream of working there. What if I—”

“Shh.” She touched my cheek softly, her lips curving into the kind of smile that could heal everything. “Stop doubting yourself. They’ll be lucky to have you, Ananya. Just go and be yourself. That’s enough.”

I nodded, drawing in a shaky breath. Be myself… just be myself.

Easier said than done. Especially when the name Singhania held memories I wasn’t ready to face. Memories I thought I had buried years ago.

◇

The cab halted in front of the glass building, towering like a giant that scraped the clouds. Singhania Industries gleamed in bold silver letters at the top, as if reminding me just how big a deal this was.

I stepped out, clutching my file so tightly my knuckles turned white. The cool morning breeze brushed against my face, but it did little to calm the storm raging inside me.

It’s just another interview. Another Singhania. Don’t overthink.

Repeating that to myself, I walked through the revolving glass doors. The lobby was buzzing with people in suits, heels clicking against the marble floor, voices blending in a soft hum of professionalism. Everyone looked so confident, so sure of themselves… unlike me.

I adjusted my shirt nervously, forcing myself to the reception where a polite lady directed me toward the conference room on the 15th floor. My heart pounded louder with every step I took inside the elevator, the numbers flashing one after another until the doors opened with a soft ding.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the heavy door open.

And froze.

The world seemed to stop in that single heartbeat. My breath hitched, the ground beneath me shifting.

Because sitting at the head of the table, in a charcoal grey suit with that same sharp gaze I could never forget… was Rehan Singhania.

My Rehan.

No. Not mine anymore.

A thousand memories came crashing back—the laughter, the stolen glances, the promises whispered under London skies… and the betrayal that had torn it all apart. My chest ached as if the wounds had never healed, only hidden.

I gripped the file tighter, my nails digging into the cover as my eyes blurred for a second. Why him? Why here? Out of all the companies in India…

“Ms. Mehra?” His voice, smooth and steady, pulled me back. No warmth, no trace of the boy I once knew—only the cold professionalism of a man who now sat across the table, a stranger wearing Rehan’s face.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to take a step forward, even though every part of me wanted to run.

This was my interview. My future. And the ghost of my past was sitting right across from me.

◇

The room felt suffocatingly quiet, the hum of the air-conditioner suddenly too loud in my ears. I forced myself to walk toward the chair opposite him, every step echoing like a drumbeat inside me. My legs felt heavy, as if the weight of the past was shackled around my ankles.

“Please, have a seat,” Rehan said, his tone polite, formal—completely detached.

I sat down slowly, clutching the file in my lap, my fingers refusing to loosen. I wanted to look anywhere but at him, but my eyes betrayed me. They kept drifting back to his face, searching for some trace of the boy I once knew.

But there was none.

His gaze was sharp, unreadable, the kind that could strip someone bare in seconds. The warmth, the softness I remembered—it was gone. In its place stood a man who had built walls so high, I doubted anyone could climb them.

“So,” he began, flipping through my résumé without once looking at me, “you completed your degree in London. Marketing major. Worked with a consultancy firm for a year before moving back to India.”

His voice was smooth, steady, each word carefully measured. But to me, it was like needles pricking an old wound.

“Yes,” I managed, though my throat felt painfully dry.

“And why Singhania Industries?” His eyes finally lifted, locking onto mine. There it was—the question, but not just about the job. There was a silent accusation beneath it, one only I could hear. Why here, Ananya? Why me?

I opened my mouth, but the words caught. I had rehearsed this answer countless times last night, but under his gaze, everything scattered like sand slipping through my fingers.

“I… I believe your company values innovation and growth,” I said, forcing my voice steady, though it wavered at the edges. “And I wanted to be a part of that journey.”

His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More like a shadow of it. “Interestishadow

He leaned back slightly, studying me with that same piercing intensity. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until I could feel my pulse in my temples.

The Rehan I once knew would have filled the silence with teasing, with laughter. This Rehan let it drag on, making me squirm.

“Do you think you can handle pressure, Ms. Mehra?” he asked at last, his tone deliberately impersonal.

I swallowed hard. Pressure? I’ve been living with it ever since you left me with nothing but broken promises.

“Yes,” I said firmly this time, meeting his gaze.

For the briefest second, something flickered in his eyes—something raw, familiar, almost vulnerable. But it vanished as quickly as it came, hidden behind that impenetrable mask.

He nodded once, and the interview continued, question after question, all professional, all careful. But beneath every exchange, my heart ached with the weight of unspoken words, with memories clawing their way back to the surface.

And through it all, I couldn’t stop wondering—

Did he feel it too?

◇

The questions went on—marketing strategies, project management, leadership challenges—each one sharp, precise, like him. I forced myself to answer steadily, to keep my voice even, though inside I was breaking apart with every glance he threw at me.

Just when I thought the interview was almost over, his tone shifted. Subtle… but enough for me to notice.

He set the file down, lacing his fingers together on the table. His eyes lingered on me, not as an interviewer anymore, but as him.

“you know…” his voice dropped a fraction, quieter, almost personal, “in the past… we broke up because of this name. So now—”

“Stop.”

The word slipped out before I could stop myself, sharper than I intended. My pulse raced, but I didn’t back down. I straightened, lifting my chin to meet his gaze head-on.

“I thought you were professional, Mr. Singhania,” I said, emphasizing the title like a wall between us. “That was the past. And this—” I gestured at the room, at my résumé lying on the table, “—this is my present.”

For a moment, silence fell again, thicker than before. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. Maybe anger. Maybe hurt. Maybe both.

But I refused to look away. I wouldn’t let him see me as the girl still haunted by yesterday. Not anymore.

“Of course,” he said finally, his tone slipping back into that cold professionalism. “Then let’s stick to the present.”

And just like that, the walls between us grew even higher.

◇

The silence stretched for a few heartbeats before he leaned back in his chair again, mask firmly in place. Whatever had slipped out a moment ago, he buried it neatly under layers of cold professionalism.

He picked up a different file from the stack beside him and slid it across the table toward me.

“For you to be considered for this role,” he said evenly, his voice devoid of any warmth, “you’ll need to prepare a marketing strategy for our new project.”

I blinked, startled. “Now?”

“Yes.” His gaze held mine, calm but sharp, like he was waiting for me to falter. “You’ll have access to the basic project details in this file. The rest will depend on how you think, how you create.”

My fingers brushed the edge of the file, my chest tightening. I had expected questions, maybe a short case study… not this.

Still, I forced myself to nod. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

He didn’t look impressed. In fact, there was the faintest curve to his lips—something between amusement and challenge.

“Good,” he said, his voice dipping lower, almost deliberate. “But there’s a condition.”

I frowned. “Condition?”

“You’ll have to complete it within…” he glanced at his sleek watch before looking back at me, his eyes hardening, “three hours.”

My breath hitched. “Three hours?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “If you really belong here, Ms. Mehra, then time shouldn’t scare you. Let’s see if your present is as strong as you claim it to be.”

His words landed heavy, cutting through me. But I refused to show him the panic gnawing inside. I gripped the file firmly, met his gaze, and gave the smallest nod.

“Fine,” I said, steadying my voice. “I’ll show you.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes again—a spark of recognition, maybe respect, maybe just memory. Whatever it was, he looked away quickly, hiding it behind the mask once more.

And I sat there, file in hand, heart racing. Three hours.

Three hours to prove myself.

Three hours to face not just the job… but him.

To be continue....

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Author Note

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