Raghav loosened his tie as he cut through Mumbai’s evening traffic, the low purr of the Audi beneath him doing little to calm the tension coiled in his chest. The client meeting had ended over an hour ago, yet his thoughts kept circling back to the office, to Ishani at her desk.
The way her voice had steadied after Westbrook crossed the line.
How easily Raghav himself had crossed one he’d never even approached with any other employee.
At a red light, he reached for his phone and opened the company security app. He rarely used the employee tracker. Had no reason to. Still, his eyes went straight to her name.
Ishani Rao. Logged out ten minutes ago.
The screen went blank as the app auto-closed, but Raghav kept staring at it, mind filling in the gaps. Her leaving the building. The car he’d insisted on arranging waiting for her. The door opening. Closing.
Was she home already? Had she eaten?
The questions surfaced uninvited. He frowned and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
This wasn’t him.
He didn’t track employees. Didn’t wonder about their evenings. Didn’t care what happened once they left his office—as long as they showed up the next morning sharp, prepared, efficient.
Yet here he was, thinking about Ishani’s night. Wondering, absurdly, whether she thought about him once work ended.
Khanna Sadan came into view, the family estate rising behind high walls and iron gates. As he slowed to turn in, movement caught his eye.
A small crowd stood near the entrance. Young women, phones raised, a few holding handmade signs.
“Vikram! Vikram!”
Their faces fell when they realised it wasn’t his brother behind the wheel.
Raghav’s jaw tightened. Fangirls. Another complication he had no patience for.
Security rushed forward, clearing a path as the gates swung open. As he passed, he glanced up and caught sight of Vikram stepping out on the balcony—hair deliberately tousled, grin effortless, already waving.
His younger brother thrived on this attention. Needed it like oxygen. The contrast between them had never been more apparent—Vikram drawing crowds wherever he went, Raghav preferring solitude and order.
They were twins. And yet there was nothing alike about them. Not their temperaments. Not their instincts. Not even their faces.
The car rolled to a stop in the circular driveway. Raghav stepped out, already plotting a direct path to his rooms without family interaction. He nodded at the household staff who opened the massive front door, stepping into the cool marble foyer.
From the living room came the familiar murmur of the television—a news debate his parents pretended to watch every evening while actually judging the world.
If he moved quietly enough, he might make it upstairs before—
“Raghav?”
His father’s voice cut cleanly through the house.
Raghav stopped, eyes closing for a brief second. Of course. Harshit Khanna missed nothing. Not balance sheets. Not footsteps.
“Yes Dad,” he called back, already turning toward the living room.
His parents were exactly where he expected them to be. His father sat in the leather armchair, glasses low on his nose, remote in hand. His mother was curled into the cream sofa with her teacup, watching him over the rim like she’d been waiting for this moment all evening.
“You’re late,” Kavita Khanna said mildly.
“Work,” Raghav replied, stopping near the doorway. “I’m going to my room.”
“Sit,” his father said, calm but firm. Not a request.