Page 4 of Cherish my Heart
“I don’t care if your COO is in Bali on a spiritual detox,” I say flatly, my voice clipped. “You were supposed to deliver the backend API three days ago. The delay isn’t just affecting my timeline—it’s affecting my patience.”
The line goes quiet for a beat. Then some garbled excuse about vendor miscommunication.
Of course. “Do you think I give a damn about vendor miscommunication?” I ask, my tone deceptively even. “Let me be very clear, Nikhil. You have twenty-four hours. I want visible progress, or I will buy out your company and fire you during your next board meeting. Are we clear?”
A dry swallow on the other end. “Yes, Sir. Crystal.”
I hang up. Not because I’m done. Because I’m bored.
I lean back in the chair—leather, high-backed, German-engineered—and drag a hand down my jaw. Silence floods in. The kind that’s rare in this building. I allow myself five seconds of it.
The office is floor-to-ceiling glass. Not for the view. For the control. I like to see who walks in, who lingers too long near my door, and who pretends to work harder when they know I’m watching. People change when they know they’re being seen. And in my world, perception is power.
My eyes flick back to the screen. Sales projections. Market shifts. The AI campaign dashboard is populating with metrics and early chatter around our rebranding push.
Good. Momentum. I tap a rhythm on the edge of the glass desk—sharp, impatient beats.
Everything needs to move. People. Projects. Decisions. I didn’t claw my way up from the gutter so someone else’s incompetence could cost me what I built from ashes.
My story isn’t a headline. It’s a scar. They say I’m cutthroat. Arrogant. Stuck-up. They’re not wrong. But they’re also not entirely right. No one sees what it costs to be this controlled.
I don’t trust easily. I don’t forgive quickly. And I don’t repeat mistakes. Especially people-shaped ones.
The intercom buzzes.
“Sir,” my Keta’s voice crackles, “The Kedia account has been finalized for 2:00 p.m. Marketing will send in the revised strategy deck shortly. Do you want to review it beforehand?”
“Send Hetal,” I say, eyes still fixed on the numbers. Keta is a temporary assistant; she actually worked as a receptionist, but it seems no one is efficient enough for me. I need to find apermanent assistant too. I sigh as I rub my hands through my hair.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock. "Come in," I command, and Hetal enters. Crisp saree, understated jewelry, and that rare kind of composure I respect. She slides the folder across the desk.
“Final version,” she says. “We’ll be in the conference room by 1:50.”
I nod and flip it open.
Immediately, something feels different. The layout is… cleaner. Concise. No fluff. It flows.
Slide 3—reframed perfectly. Slide 5—actual segmentation logic, not jargon. Slide 7—streamlined. Slide 10—my own note from yesterday was reflected exactly.
Who the hell— “Who worked on this?” I ask, not looking up.
"Everyone did, Sir," she replies, "but one of the interns who joined today reviewed and restructured the whole thing before I gave it a final check. Sharp, right?” She asks.
An intern. I pause, just long enough for the room to catch its breath.
Interns don’t edit strategy decks. Interns get coffee. Interns observe. Interns don’t touch core client material unless they’re told to—and even then, barely.
But I don’t say any of that. I usually let the managers work the way they want to. I believe controlling too much can cause a lack of motivation. Hetal seems to believe in the same, apparently.
I just close the folder and set it down. “Not bad,” I murmur.
Hetal’s brows lift faintly, like she’s surprised I’m not being dismissive of the report, and she smiles slightly.
She leaves, and I return to my desk. My screensaver has kicked in—cold blue fractals swirling like broken glass. Fitting. I clasp my hands together, elbows resting on the glass, fingers steepled.
Competence is dangerous. Especially when it comes from where you least expect it.
I don’t know what this intern looks like. Probably eager-eyed, overconfident, and wearing Zara like armor. But this isn’t about how they look. It’s about what she did.
