Page 78 of Cherish my Heart
It’s perfect. Just the way I like it. He’s even added a piece of the fried aloo on the side.
I chew slowly, eyes on him.
“You made this?” I ask. He nods. I blink. “You cooked.”
“I can cook better than you, darling.” He smirks, “I’m capable of more than yelling and intimidating interns.”
“Of course,” I roll my eyes, but my lips curve up at his arrogance.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches me eat for a second. And then, softly, like it’s not even meant to be said aloud: “Your dreams are my dreams.”
I look up.
He’s serious.
“You’ll never achieve those if I become soft on you,” he continues, meeting my gaze. “When you start your company—when you’re running the show—there’ll be no one holding your hand. There’ll be pressure, deadlines, and people doubting you every step of the way.”
I blink mid-chew.
His words hang in the air, suspended like dust motes in sunlight.Your dreams are my dreams.He says it so casually. Like it’s a simple truth. Like it’s not the kind of thing that cracks something open inside me.
I forgot.
For a moment, I genuinely forgot.
Forgot the long nights. The blurry vision in front of spreadsheets. The way my stomach knots every time someonetalks about how I am lucky enough to have my family to back me, how I will get everything on a silver platter. I forgot the way I’ve always had to speak twice as loud to be taken half as seriously, to put in double efforts and still be seen as privileged.
He didn’t forget.
He didn’t let me forget.
I swallow slowly, carefully, like I’m afraid the warmth of the rajma chawal might slide too quickly down my throat and make me cry.
He leans back against the edge of the table, arms crossed, not smug but steady. Always steady. “When you start your company—when you’re running the show—there’ll be no one holding your hand,” he says again, firmer this time, as if he knows I need to hear it twice.
“There’ll be pressure, deadlines, and people doubting you every step of the way.”
The way he says it, like it’s a given that I’ll be in charge, like it’s already written into my future—I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before. Spoke of my dreams as if they were certainties. Real things. Not daydreams to be politely nodded at during dinners and forgotten by morning.
I stare down at the bite I just took. The perfectly cooked rice, the rajma that’s soft and creamy just the way I like it, and the hint of ghee he somehow got exactly right. The aloo on the side is still a little crispy.
Of all the things I imagined him doing—being gentle with me in private, yes; understanding my ambition, maybe—this? This quiet, domestic act of care?
It’s disarming. It undoes me. I try to change the topic, because I would cry if he told me how much he believes in ME, not my family name, not the status or the fame, but just me. “You cooked this before work?” I ask, voice quieter now.
He shrugs, and there’s that arrogant little tilt to his lips again. “Woke up at five. Had time.”
“You woke up at five to cook me lunch?”
His brow lifts. “Didn’t know I needed permission.”
I don’t know what to say to that. There’s no playbook for moments like this.
“You’re insane,” I murmur.
“I’ve been called worse,” he smirks. Then gestures toward the tiffin. “Finish it.”
I do. Silently. Slowly. He doesn’t speak either, but he watches. Not like a hawk or a boss or someone keeping tabs, but like someone who wants to make sure I’m taken care of. Noticed. Seen.
