Page 53 of Cherish my Heart
Kajal breaks it first. “Babe, people who matter? They know how much work you’ve put in. They know how many nights you stayed back and how many times you went toe-to-toe with Abhimaan without backing down. You’ve earned everything you have. Screw what people think.”
I bite my lip. “But if I… if I tell him and it backfires—”
“Then you go back to Jaipur,” she says, shrugging. “You forget his stupidly attractive face, block his number, and start your own thing like you always planned to. You’ve already learned so much.”
“I’m not even halfway done learning,” I admit quietly.
“But you’ll still rock it.”
I glance at the screen. Kajal’s watching me like she’s seeing all the things I won’t say aloud.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I will.”
She smiles. It’s small and proud and entirely Kajal.
Then—“Also, babe, not to distract from the emotional growth moment, but can we just circle back real quick to the fact that your boss is an actual hunk?”
I burst out laughing, loud and a little manic, because goddammit—she’s right.
“He is, isn’t he?”
She grins like the devil. “Am I right, or am I right?”
“Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re right.”
“Now go climb that hunk.”
“Kajal!” I shriek, lobbing a pillow at my phone as she cackles.
Somehow, the laughter feels like clarity. Like maybe I’m a little less screwed than I thought.
CHAPTER 29
ADITI
I stare at the black screen like it might magically fix itself. The cursor blinks, mocking me, on a completely blank desktop. No folders. No files. No bookmarks. No applications. Nothing.
My heart lurches painfully against my ribs.
“This cannot be happening,” I whisper, my voice strangled. I tap the keyboard again and click on File Explorer, desperate. Nothing. I try the C drive, search every damn corner I can think of, and run a few basic recovery steps I’d learned from a YouTube video. Still nothing. My pulse climbs higher with every passing second.
Formatted. My entire work laptop has been wiped clean.
And I didn’t even touch it. I sit back on my chair, clutching the edge of the laptop like it’s suddenly become heavier. I close my eyes and inhale. Exhale. Once. Twice. It does nothing to stop the rising wave of panic pushing up my throat.
Everything was fine last night. I was working past midnight—forwarding the HR documents to Abhimaan, checking the gala schedule, and replying to pending emails. There’s no way I’d miss something as massive as this. Unless… unless someone else did this. But how? And why?
There’s a sharp knock of anxiety somewhere behind my ribs. Because this isn’t just a technical issue.
This is my work laptop.
Abhimaan's laptop, technically.
And now it’s a glorified paperweight.
I glance at the clock. Ten past ten. The office is buzzing by now. The weight in my stomach grows heavier. There’s no way I can explain this over an intercom call. "Good morning, Sir, the laptop you signed off on for me—the one with confidential files and months of work—yeah, that one? It decided to die. No idea how."
Great.
