Raghav had returned from his meeting.
He stopped mid-step as another burst of shouting forced her to pull the receiver away from her ear. The sharp and unrestrained voice sliced through the executive floor.
Raghav heard it.
Something in his expression shifted instantly. The composed calm he wore like armor fractured, revealing something colder underneath. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping at his temple. The calculating restraint in his eyes gave way to something unmistakably dangerous — the kind that made even board members reconsider their tone.
He changed direction.
“Mr. Westbrook, if you could please lower your voice—” Ishani began, forcing the receiver back to her ear.
Raghav reached her desk.
He held out his hand.
Ishani hesitated—half a breath—caught between protocol and the unspoken command in his gaze.
She placed the phone in his palm.
Their fingers brushed as it passed between them—warm skin against her cooler touch. The contact lasted a moment too long, in a gesture that felt more possessive than professional.
Ishani pulled her hand back, pulse skittering despite herself.
The floor went silent.
Raghav raised the phone to his ear, his expression thunderous.
“Mr. Westbrook.” His voice was cool, controlled, and laced with quiet danger. “This is Raghav Khanna.”
A pause.
Ishani noticed the shift in the client’s voice—his bravado faded, replaced by a wary tone.
“Khanna Consolidated values its partnerships,” Raghav continued, voice precise, measured. “But no one speaks to my employees that way.”
Another pause.
“Call back when you’re capable of basic professional courtesy.”
He ended the call without waiting for a response. The quiet that followed was absolute.
Raghav set the receiver back into its cradle.
He didn’t step away.
Instead, he leaned in—slow, deliberate—until the space between them vanished. His hands came down on the arms of her chair, close enough to box her in without touching her. The authority in his posture was absolute.
Ishani felt it immediately. The heat of him. The weight of his presence pressing into her awareness. She could have pushed back. Could have stood.
She didn’t.
“When someone speaks to you like that,” he said, voice low, edged with something raw he hadn’t bothered to smooth out, “you don’t stay polite.”
His gaze locked onto hers, dark and unyielding.
“You tell them that disrespect ends the conversation.” His jaw tightened. “And if they push, you bring it to me.”
He leaned closer, just enough that his breath brushed her cheek, that she caught the scent of sandalwood and something darker beneath it.