Navya Kulkarni learned three things within the first ten minutes of her second day at Malhotra Global Holdings.
One — the elevators to the forty-first floor were terrifyingly silent.
Two — the employees here did not smile unless instructed to.
Three — Aarav Malhotra did not believe in “good mornings.”
She stepped out of the elevator at exactly 8:27 a.m.
Three minutes early.
She adjusted the files in her arms, took a steadying breath, and walked toward the glass corridor that led to his office.
The entire floor was all chrome edges and muted tones. Black marble flooring. Frosted glass partitions. Minimal décor. Everything looked expensive and intimidating — including the people.
Navya wore a soft ivory kurta with structured trousers today. Professional. Clean. Not flashy.
Her flats squeaked slightly against the polished marble.
She pretended not to notice.
By the time she reached her desk outside Aarav’s office, she had already arranged:
His 9:00 investor call briefing
A summary of yesterday’s internal audit
A revised draft of the legal notice he had rejected
And a black coffee — no sugar
She knocked once.
“Come in.”
His voice was controlled. Low. Efficient.
She stepped inside.
Aarav Malhotra stood near the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Mumbai’s skyline. The city looked small from up here.
He did not turn around immediately.
“You're early,” he said.
“It’s 8:30, sir.”
A pause.
He checked his watch.
“You’re three minutes early.”
“Yes.”
He finally turned.
Black suit. No tie. Sleeves perfectly aligned. Expression unreadable.
His eyes scanned her — not inappropriately — but clinically. Assessing.
“Do you always arrive before time?”
“I try to.”
“Trying isn’t a standard here.”
Navya blinked once. Nodded.
“Understood.”
He walked past her toward his desk. She followed, placing the files down carefully.
“Investor briefing is summarized. Legal draft revised. Audit anomalies flagged on page four.”
His brows shifted almost imperceptibly.
“You reviewed the audit?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t assigned.”
“I noticed discrepancies in the procurement column.”
Silence.
The kind that weighed.
Aarav opened the file.
Flipped to page four.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“You corrected this?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you to?”
“No one.”
The air shifted.
She felt it — that invisible line she might have crossed.
He looked up at her slowly.
“Navya.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are not hired to think beyond instruction.”
Her hands tightened slightly behind her back, but her voice remained steady.
“With respect, sir, if I hadn’t thought beyond instruction, the numbers would have gone to the investors as they were.”
Another silence.
But this one was different.
Sharper.
He closed the file.
“Do not correct my documents without informing me first.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But…” he added quietly, “good catch.”
Her eyes flickered for half a second.
That was the first time he had acknowledged her competence.
She smiled slightly.
“Thank you.”
He noticed the smile.
And for reasons he didn’t immediately understand, it irritated him.
“Don’t look pleased,” he said coolly. “It encourages complacency.”
Her smile faded into something calmer.
“I don’t get complacent, sir.”
He held her gaze for a fraction longer than necessary.
Then —
“Investor call in thirty minutes. Sit in.”
Her heartbeat skipped.
“Yes?”
“I want to see how you observe.”
9:00 a.m. — Conference Room
The boardroom was intimidating by design.
Long obsidian table. Twelve leather chairs. Screen projections already active.
Navya sat two seats away from him, laptop open, fingers ready.
The investors dialed in.
The discussion began.
Numbers. Expansion projections. Regulatory approvals.
Aarav was controlled brilliance. Precise. Sharp. Strategic.
He dismantled concerns without raising his voice. Redirected criticism without losing composure.
Navya watched carefully.
Halfway through the call, one investor said —
“The Southeast acquisition seems risky. We’re concerned about internal leakages.”
Aarav’s expression didn’t change.
But Navya saw it — the micro-pause.
He was calculating.
She quickly typed a note and slid her tablet slightly toward him.
Projected savings from revised logistics model — 18% reduction.
He glanced down briefly.
His fingers paused.
Then he spoke.
“If you review the revised logistics restructuring implemented last quarter, you’ll see an 18% cost efficiency already achieved.”
The investor went quiet.
Navya exhaled slowly.
The call ended fifteen minutes later.
The room emptied.
She began packing her things.
“Stay.”
She froze slightly.
“Yes, sir.”
The door shut behind the last board member.
Aarav leaned back in his chair.
“Did you anticipate that question?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I studied the last three quarterly reports. The same investor asked similar concerns before approving the North acquisition.”
He watched her carefully.
“You studied past patterns.”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t told to.”
“No.”
A pause.
Then —
“Why?”
She hesitated for the first time.
“Because if I’m assisting you, I should know what you might face.”
Something unreadable flickered across his face.
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“It becomes mine if it affects your decisions.”
The room went quiet.
For a moment, the power dynamic shifted.
Not loudly.
But undeniably.
He stood.
Walked toward her.
Stopped at a professional distance.
“You’re either overstepping,” he said calmly, “or overqualified.”
Her throat tightened slightly.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“That depends on who defines it.”
Their eyes held.
Too long.
She looked away first.
He noticed.
“Don’t mistake approval for attachment,” he said coolly. “You’re here to assist. Nothing more.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“I understand my position, sir.”
Something about that answer unsettled him.
Because she didn’t sound small.
She sounded grounded.
2:15 p.m. — Crisis
By afternoon, everything went wrong.
An internal email leak surfaced. A confidential proposal had reached a competitor.
The legal team panicked.
The finance head blamed IT.
Voices escalated.
Aarav’s office door shut.
Navya sat outside, watching the storm unfold through glass walls.
She noticed something.
The email timestamp.
She opened the internal server logs quickly.
Cross-referenced with meeting schedules.
Then she stood.
Knocked once.
He was mid-conversation with the legal head.
“Sir.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“I know. It will take thirty seconds.”
The legal head looked irritated.
Aarav gestured sharply.
“Speak.”
She stepped inside.
“The leak wasn’t from finance or IT.”
Both men looked at her.
“The timestamp aligns with a remote login from the corporate retreat location last week.”
The legal head frowned.
“That’s impossible.”
Navya turned her laptop slightly.
“Only three executives had remote access during that time.”
Silence.
Aarav’s eyes darkened slightly.
“Names?”
She hesitated.
“You.”
The room stilled.
“And two board members.”
The legal head went pale.
Aarav didn’t react outwardly.
But something shifted in the air.
“You’re suggesting internal betrayal.”
“I’m suggesting the breach didn’t originate from where we’re looking.”
Another silence.
He dismissed the legal head quietly.
When the door shut, he looked at her.
“You checked server logs without clearance.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a violation.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She swallowed once.
“Because you were being blamed.”
The words slipped out before she could measure them.
The room went completely silent.
His gaze sharpened.
“I don’t need protection.”
“I wasn’t protecting you,” she replied quickly. “I was protecting the company.”
Their eyes locked.
But something in her tone had already exposed the truth.
He stepped closer — controlled, not threatening — just intense.
“You are dangerously close to blurring professional lines.”
Her heart thudded.
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
She didn’t step back.
“No.”
That answer was honest.
Too honest.
He exhaled slowly.
“This company runs on hierarchy, Navya. You do not investigate executives.”
“I won’t again.”
A pause.
“But was I wrong?”
He didn’t answer.
Because she wasn’t.
He turned away.
“Leave the logs on my desk.”
She placed the laptop down.
As she reached the door, his voice stopped her.
“You won’t last here if you keep interfering.”
She turned slightly.
“I didn’t come here to last,” she said softly. “I came here to grow.”
That was the first time something in his expression faltered.
Just for a second.
And she walked out.
8:40 p.m.
The floor had emptied.
Navya was still at her desk, organizing revised schedules.
The elevator dinged.
She looked up.
Aarav stepped out of his office.
Suit jacket off. Tie loosened slightly now.
He paused when he saw her.
“You’re still here.”
“You are too.”
“That’s expected of me.”
“Then it should be expected of me.”
He studied her again.
“Why are you trying this hard?”
She closed her laptop slowly.
“I’m not trying hard.”
“Then what are you doing?”
She hesitated.
“Showing up.”
The simplicity of it unsettled him more than ambition would have.
He stepped closer to her desk.
“Be careful, Navya.”
“Of what?”
“Of investing more than this place will give back.”
Her expression softened slightly.
“That’s a risk I’ll take.”
He held her gaze.
Longer this time.
Then —
“Go home.”
“Yes, sir.”
She gathered her bag.
As she stepped into the elevator, she didn’t see him still standing there.
Watching.
For the first time in years, Aarav Malhotra felt something inconvenient.
Not attraction.
Not yet.
But awareness.
And that was far more dangerous.
End of Chapter 2
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