Ananya’s POV

The file felt heavier than it should as I clutched it to my chest and stepped into the smaller workspace they had assigned me. A neat desk, a laptop already waiting, a glass wall separating me from the corridor.

Three hours.

I placed the file down and opened it, scanning the project details. It was a fashion project—a new clothing line aimed at young professionals, sleek designs meant to blend style with everyday comfort. Bold, urban, aspirational.

Exactly the kind of project that needed fresh energy.

I ran my finger over the pages, reading the brief again and again. My mind felt stuck at first, blank. The ticking clock was louder than my thoughts, taunting me with every second that slipped away.

Focus, Ananya. You’ve done this before. Think. Imagine.

I began scribbling ideas onto the notepad. Keywords. “Affordable luxury.” “Everyday elegance.” “Confidence you can wear.” My pen scratched furiously across the page. I jotted down marketing channels—social media teasers, influencer tie-ups, fashion pop-ups in metro malls, collaborations with lifestyle magazines.

to one point, I drew arrows in circles, scratched out half of them, rewrote the others. My lip curled between my teeth in frustration, but I kept going. And slowly, an outline began to form.

Not perfect. Not complete. But something alive.

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From the corridor, Rehan stood silently, his hands tucked into his pockets, eyes fixed through the glass.

She was hunched over the desk, scribbling furiously, strands of hair falling loose, her brow creased in thought. Every few minutes, she’d pause, close her eyes, and then start again—stubborn, relentless.

The determination in her movements stirred something in him. Memories of late-night library sessions in London, where she would stay awake sketching fashion ads for her college project, her excitement lighting up her face.

He had to look away.

This wasn’t London.

This wasn’t them.

This was a test. And he wouldn’t let himself forget it.

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Ananya’s POV

Two hours left. My pulse quickened, but fear had started to fade. The pressure wasn’t breaking me anymore—it was pushing me harder.

By the last thirty minutes, I had a rough campaign mapped out:

A tagline—“Wear Your Power.”

Social media teasers featuring professionals turning their office wear into evening fashion.

A launch event styled not like a regular fashion show, but a live, immersive experience where the audience became part of the runway.

My hand ached, but a strange calm spread through me. For the first time since walking into this building, I felt… capable.

When I lifted my head, I thought I saw a shadow just outside the glass wall. A tall figure, watching.

My chest tightened instantly. Him.

But when I blinked, the corridor was empty.

My pen slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the desk. For a second, I just sat there, staring at the empty space where I was certain I’d seen him.

I wasn’t imagining it. I couldn’t have been. That presence—it was too sharp, too familiar.

I stood and walked toward the corridor, every step echoing louder than it should have in the silence. My reflection followed me in the glass panels, but the shadows ahead gave nothing away. No tall figure. No trace.

My throat went dry. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe the pressure, maybe both. Still, the unease lingered, curling tight around my ribs.

I forced myself back into the chair, pressing my palms against the cool surface of the desk, grounding myself.

Work. Focus on work. That’s all that mattered right now.

But even as I tried to push forward, one thought looped in my mind, over and over again—

He was here.

My breath hitched. Of course it had to be him.

Even when he wasn’t standing there, his presence lingered—like gravity, pulling me in, tightening around me.

I pressed a hand against my chest, trying to steady the wild rhythm of my heart. Why did he always have this effect on me? Why, after everything, did one glimpse—or even the thought of a glimpse—undo me so completely?

“Focus,” I whispered to myself, gathering the scattered notes of my campaign. But the words blurred. All I could see was his tall frame, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his eyes always looked like they knew far too much.

And then—

“Still working?”

The voice came from the doorway, low, steady, and devastatingly familiar.

I froze. Slowly, I lifted my gaze.

There he was. Not a shadow. Not a figment of my imagination.

Rehan.

straightened in my chair, forcing my tone to remain clipped. “Yes. The strategy you asked for.”

He stepped closer, his presence filling the room the way it always did. Too close. Too overwhelming. “That fast?”

“I don’t waste time, Mr. Singhania,” I replied, emphasizing his surname like a shield between us.

Something flashed across his face—something sharp, something almost amused—but it vanished before I could name it. He leaned against the edge of the desk, glancing down at the notes I’d scrawled. “Wear Your Power,” he read aloud, his voice wrapping around the words. “Bold. Confident. Very… you.”

Heat pricked at the back of my neck. “It’s not about me. It’s about the brand.”

His gaze lifted, pinning me in place. “Is it?”

I swallowed, gripping the pen so tightly it threatened to snap. “You wanted professionalism, Rehan. That’s what you’re getting.”

“Professionalism,” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. His eyes softened, just slightly. “Funny. You and I were never good at keeping things professional.”

My chest tightened. “That was a long time ago.”

He leaned in just enough for his cologne—sharp, clean, achingly familiar—to curl around me. “Some things don’t stay in the past, Ananya.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes, even though it felt like standing on the edge of something dangerous. “Then maybe they should.”

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The silence stretched, thick and electric.

And then his phone buzzed in his pocket, shattering the moment. He straightened, slipping the mask of composure back into place. “We’ll discuss the details tomorrow,” he said smoothly.

But as he turned to leave, I swore I saw the faintest trace of a smile tug at his lips—like he knew he’d already gotten under my skin.

Suddenly...

Something in me snapped. “What about my project?” I called after him, sharper than I intended.

He paused, his back still to me. “As I said—tomorrow.” His voice was calm, final.

I exhaled hard, sinking back into my chair, the pen twirling restlessly between my fingers. “Idiot,” I murmured under my breath.

But even as the word left my lips, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of my mouth—because I knew he’d heard me.

To be continue...

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Author Note

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