Page 25 of Yes Boss
At seven twenty-nine, he stood.
He adjusted his tie with one smooth motion, unnecessary but instinctive.
At seven-thirty on the dot, the elevator doors slid open.
Ishani stepped onto the floor.
Her black suit was crisp, immaculate, her bag resting against her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back, exposing the clean line of her neck. She walked straight to her desk, unaware—or pretending to be unaware—of the eyes following her through the glass.
Raghav didn’t interrupt her.
He watched.
She logged in. Straightened a file. Adjusted her chair by a fraction. Settled into her space.
Only when she was done, only when she looked entirely composed, did he press the intercom.
She startled slightly and turned toward the glass. He was already inside. That was early. She picked up the receiver.
“Ishani.”
Her gaze met his through the glass wall. “Yes, Boss?”
Raghav held her gaze a fraction longer than necessary before speaking again. “Bring the quarterly reports. We need to review them.”
His voice was even. Controlled. It gave nothing away of the tension coiled tight beneath his skin, of the awareness that sharpened the moment her eyes locked onto his.
“Now?” A faint crease appeared between her brows. She knew those reports weren’t urgent.
“Now.”
The line went dead.
Ishani gathered the files and entered his office within forty seconds.
“Good morning,” she said, professional as always. No lingering aftershock of seeing her boss this early.
“Sit.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
She placed the folders down and took the seat.
“Page seventeen,” he said, reaching for the report at the exact moment she did.
Their fingers brushed. Less than a second. Long enough.
Raghav didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did she. The air tightened, stretched thin between them, before Ishani withdrew her hand.
“Which projections specifically?” she asked, voice steady, eyes already scanning the page.
Raghav leaned back, then stood in one smooth motion. He moved around the desk with unhurried purpose, each step measured, intentional. He stopped behind her chair.
Too close.
The warmth of him pressed in. The quiet authority. The faint scent of sandalwood, edged with something sharper, darker.
“These.” His voice dropped, low enough that it belonged only to her.
He braced one hand on the desk beside her, the silver of his watch catching the light. With the other, he pointed to a row of figures on the page. As he leaned in, his breath stirred a loose strand of hair near her ear.
