The sun had barely spilled over the ridge when Nandini blinked awake, her body sore in all the right places. That long trek still echoed in her calves and shoulders, but for once, the exhaustion felt... earned. Not the kind that dragged her down—but the kind that tucked her in. 

She lay there for a moment, staring at the wooden ceiling of her little cottage, breathing in the quiet. A gentle, unhurried kind of morning. She smiled lazily and then tried to inhale the peace as deep as she could.  

Then came the chaos. 

A wet nose shoved into her face—Pongo. Followed by Rogue barreling into the room like a tiny, furry storm, dragging what looked like a sock, possibly stolen from her laundry bag. Again. 

“Of course,” she muttered, tossing the blanket aside, her legs moving before her head caught up. 

The kettle clicked on. She poured water into a mug, no sugar, no drama. Outside, the hills were still wearing that post-dawn blush, soft and slow. She undid the curtains of her room and looked at the white-capped mountains. She literally climbed those. Inside, her world was a mess of fur, warmth, and the oddly comforting smell of last night’s bonfire still clinging to her hair. 

She looked at the folded jacket on the chair—his. Still smelled like cedar, smoke, and everything Manik tried to hide behind those straight shoulders. 

He hadn’t said much when they’d parted at the gate of his academy. Just a soft press of his hand against her back, a look that spoke volume, and then he’d walked off with that cadet gait—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes forward. But she’d caught that tiny pause before he left. The kind that says more than any bye.  

She sipped her tea, legs tucked under her on the bench, watching her pups tear through the lawn with zero respect for peace. 

This wasn’t home in the traditional sense. 

But it was hers. And after everything, that felt enough. 

----------------------------------------------------------------- 

Manik sat at the far end of the long table, elbows sharp, sleeves rolled, shoveling paratha into his mouth like the food had personally wronged him. The tray was meticulously arranged—two eggs, a banana, that weird green chutney he always hated but still took anyway. Routine. 

Across from him, Harshad slumped with all the elegance of a sack of bricks. 

“You’re glowing,” Harshad said, narrowing his eyes. “Like—annoyingly glowing.” 

Manik didn’t look up. “It’s the grease. Chill.” 

“No, bro. This is post-hike, post-sunset, post-something glow. Spill.” 

Manik chewed. Swallowed.  

Harshad kept staring him with a knowing creepy smile. 

“Trek went fine. Weather was manageable. Route was tougher than predicted.” 

Harshad blinked. “Right. And?” 

“And Rogue almost fell into the creek, I caught him, Pongo tried to eat the tent rope, fire started late, slept after midnight.” 

Harshad leaned in. “And? The real part? The actual content? You and Nandini, under a billion stars, with your face like that—” 

“What face?” 

“The I-got-zipped-into-my-own-jacket-by-a-wild-girl-I-love face,” Harshad said, mimicking the most ridiculous lovestruck expression imaginable. 

Manik gave him the flattest stare in his arsenal. “You done?” 

“No. Because you didn’t give me anything. I need details, bro. Give the people what they want.” 

“She... uh...” Manik hesitated just half a second too long, then resumed eating. “She looked at me like I invented gravity. That’s all you’re getting.” 

Harshad dropped his spoon in theatrical defeat. “That’s not a detail! That’s a poem.” 

Manik smirked. “Exactly.” 

Harshad groaned. “I’m going to go interview the pups. At least they won’t gatekeep joy.” 

------------------------------------- 

Rishi was pacing on the lawn, phone glued to his ear, bare feet enjoying the coolness of the grass. He wasn’t smiling wide or anything—just that rare half-smile, the one that crept up without permission. The one that softened his usually guarded face. 

“You always say that” he murmured into the phone, voice low, teasing. “Yeah? Prove it.” 

From his usual seat on the verandah, Daadu watched with narrowed eyes over the top of his newspaper. He hadn’t flipped a page in five minutes. The tea beside him had gone lukewarm. The real entertainment was playing out on the grass—his grandson acting like a man in love, trying very hard to look like he wasn’t. 

Daadu cleared his throat—loudly. Rishi didn’t notice. 

“Mmhmm... no, that’s not how—wait, I didn’t hang up on you that time.” 

There it was again. That hidden grin. That look in his eyes like he’d found someone who saw him—not as Madhav Murthy’s heir or the family fixer, but just... him. 

Daadu gave up pretending and stood up. 

He ambled down toward the garden, slow and casual, like he was just out for a stroll. 

Rishi hung up a minute later and turned to head back—only to find Daadu standing exactly where he hadn’t been a second ago. 

“Nice weather today,” Daadu said, hands behind his back, all innocence. 

“Hmm?” Rishi blinked, slightly flushed. “Yeah… guess so.” 

“You were on the phone?” 

Rishi nodded. 

“A work call?” 

Pause. 

“Not exactly.” 

Daadu hummed. “Friend?” 

Another pause. Longer this time. 

“Something like that,” Rishi said, shrugging. 

Daadu’s eyes twinkled. “From here?” 

Rishi raised an eyebrow. “You planning a background check, Daadu?” 

“Just curious,” Daadu grinned. “You were smiling. Like a man in trouble.” 

Rishi laughed, shaking his head. “Aren’t you too old to gossip?” 

“Old age gives me the right to,” Daadu said, patting Rishi’s shoulder. “Also gives me time to observe.” 

He started to walk off and then turned back, mischief on his face. “You know, if she’s from far... maybe invite her here. That’ll really shake up this mansion.” 

And with that, Daadu strolled away, already thrilled. A new story was brewing in his home—and for once, it didn’t reek of control or expectations. Just a boy, a girl, and maybe—if luck allowed—a soft rebellion. 

________________________________ 

The dining room had that golden hush of a well-set dinner. The warm clinking of cutlery, soft-spoken conversation, and the distant sound of Sahiba’s wind chimes through the open window. The table was modestly full—grilled chicken, a simmering dal, rotis wrapped in cloth, and a bowl of lightly tossed greens. 

Manik sat upright, fork and discipline in hand. Harshad beside him was far less restrained—already reaching for seconds before Sahiba had even taken her seat. 

“I tell you, Ma’am, this kadhi,” Harshad beamed dramatically, “has the soul of a hill goddess. I can taste sincerity.” 

Sahiba chuckled, settling down with her plate. “And what does sincerity taste like?” 

“Exactly like this—with a hint of love and a lot of ghee.” 

Col. Singh, sipping his soup, finally looked up. His voice was calm but carried that unmistakable weight of authority. “Manik,” he said, setting down his spoon, “I saw your preferences. Good choices. Strategic. Balanced.” 

Manik nodded. “Yes, sir. I prioritized terrain familiarity and opportunity for early deployment. Armoured first, Infantry second.” 

Col. Singh’s face held a rare softness. “You’ll do well. You’ve built something solid here. I just hope your seniors at the regiment understand what they’re getting.” 

Harshad grinned. “They’re getting a walking, saluting version of an Excel sheet—only more intense.” 

Manik shot him a look, biting back a smile. 

Sahiba stepped in, resting her elbow on the table. “Speaking of intensity—how was the trek? That forest route looked dense. Must’ve been something.” 

Manik's hand paused midair with a piece of roti. 

He glanced at Harshad—warning, pleading, resigned—all at once. 

Harshad, however, was already on a roll. “Oh, it was something alright.” 

“Harshad…” Manik muttered. 

“Dense woods, rushing creek, two huskies with more stamina than Manik,” he continued. “Oh and tents. Let’s not forget the tent stories, shall we?” 

Sahiba raised an eyebrow, suddenly far more interested. 

Col. Singh leaned back in his chair, sipping slowly. 

Manik cleared his throat. “It was a good route. High endurance, strong altitude shifts. Rogue and Pongo kept the pace up.” 

“Of course,” Harshad grinned, “especially when someone was trying very hard to not fall into a creek while carrying emotional baggage and a woman who talks more with her eyes than her mouth.” 

Manik dropped his fork. 

Sahiba burst into a small, surprised laugh, covering her mouth. 

Col. Singh tried not to grin. “Sounds... emotionally rigorous.” 

Harshad nodded solemnly. “Very, sir. The kind of mission no army prepares you for.” 

Manik sighed, utterly betrayed and entirely unable to hide the blush rising to his ears. 

Sahiba reached over and topped up his water like it was the most casual thing in the world. 

“Well,” she smiled warmly, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad the mountains did their thing. You look… lighter.” 

Manik glanced at her, a silent thanks in his eyes. 

---------------------------------- 

The scent of hay and the soft snorts of horses filled the air as Nandini stepped through the narrow wooden door of Mr. Sachdeva's stable. It had been a long while since she'd been here—long enough for the place to feel foreign and familiar all at once. The soft clinking of the stable's iron gates, the creak of the wooden beams, even the smell of leather and the horse track that once seemed comforting now felt like an unwelcome weight on her shoulders. 

Mr. Sachdeva was standing by the counter, his hands clenched tightly around a ledger, his face flushed with anger. His graying hair, always neatly combed, was now rumpled, and his usual crisp suit was creased from the effort of dealing with paperwork. His eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto Nandini as she stepped inside. The silence between them stretched thin. 

"Late," he snapped, his voice low and dangerous. "You’ve been late, absent, and now, you stroll in as if nothing matters. Do you realize how much work is pending?" 

Nandini didn’t respond immediately, her throat tight. She could feel her heart thudding against her chest, an uncomfortable reminder of her tangled emotions. The weight of the truth lingered, but she couldn't bring herself to speak it yet. Her eyes scanned the stable, the familiar horses staring back at her, none of them offering comfort. 

"You have no idea, do you? This business runs on precision, on timing, on someone who actually cares about what’s happening. Not someone who shows up because they have to." 

The words stung more than she'd expected. She could feel her pulse quickening, her jaw tightening. But she stayed silent, folding her arms across her chest. This was the moment. She could say what was on her mind, but she knew the consequences would be severe. So, she stayed quiet. 

Mr. Sachdeva huffed, turning away in frustration, flipping through the pages of the ledger. "You're not even good at the accounts. The numbers are a mess! I’ve been cleaning up after your mistakes for weeks." 

Nandini felt her cheeks flush, a mix of embarrassment and anger rising within her. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the job—she just didn’t care about this part of the job. The endless figures and meticulous details, it all felt like an endless cycle that drained her. But she knew what she had to do. If she spoke the truth, the fragile job she had would slip away from her grasp. 

Mr. Sachdeva’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Are you even listening?” 

Nandini bit her lip, her gaze shifting from the floor to the space around her. Her thoughts swirled, and before she knew it, the words escaped her, raw and unfiltered. "I don’t care about the accounts," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I never did. I... I can’t keep doing this." 

Mr. Sachdeva’s head snapped back around, disbelief written all over his face. "What?" 

Her throat tightened again, but this time, there was a glimmer of something she hadn't expected: relief. She wasn’t holding it in anymore. "I know accounts. But that's not where my interest lies. I don’t belong here, just counting numbers and tracking things. I could help you... help the business. I could do far better with strategy, with the bigger picture, the horses, their training, their future. You need someone who thinks beyond just the sheets of paper." 

The words were out before she could stop them, hanging in the air like a challenge. Mr. Sachdeva stared at her, his brow furrowing deeper with every passing second. The tension was palpable, the thick silence broken only by the low whinny of a horse in the distance. 

"You think you can do better?" His tone was mocking, but there was a hint of uncertainty underneath. 

Nandini straightened up, meeting his gaze. "I do. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. You’ve got the horses, you’ve got the resources, but you're not seeing the whole picture. You need someone who gets more than just numbers. You need someone who can take this business to the next level, someone who sees potential where others see just routine." 

Mr. Sachdeva took a step toward her, the anger still there but laced with curiosity. "And you think you’re that someone?" 

Nandini didn’t hesitate. "Yes. I know I am. This is all I know." 

There was a long pause. The tension between them felt like a wire stretched too tight, ready to snap at any moment. Mr. Sachdeva’s eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment, Nandini thought she saw a flicker of recognition in his gaze—something beyond the frustration, something that saw the truth in her words. 

"You’re lucky I’m not firing you right now," he finally muttered, his voice softened by a mix of exasperation and begrudging respect. "But... fine. Prove it. Show me what you’ve got. I’ll give you one chance." 

Nandini held his gaze, her heart still racing, but a small spark of hope igniting within her. "Thank you." 

She knew she was on the edge. This could be her one shot to change everything, to make him see that she could do more than he ever expected. 

But for now, she had won a small victory. And that was enough. 

-------------------------------- 

It was a regular Tuesday morning in the 9th floor boardroom of Murthy Group Holdings, sun slicing through the blinds, glinting off polished wood and stainless-steel fixtures. The usual shuffle of quarterly decks and sterile coffee cups filled the air—until a single line changed the room's temperature. 

“She’s joined Sachdeva’s stables, sir. Strategy division.” 

The words came from Raghu, a junior analyst barely halfway through his market update. But it was enough. Mr. Murthy’s pen paused mid-signature. A fractional lift of his brows. For most in the room, it might’ve passed unnoticed. But for the core team, it was a storm warning. 

“Nandini?” Mr. Murthy asked, eyes still fixed on the document in front of him. 

“Yes, sir,” Raghu confirmed, glancing nervously at Rajan, the VP of Business Development, who immediately stepped in. 

“Mostly legacy-driven, no real movement for the last few years. But there’s talk of restructuring and—” 

“And you’re telling me,” Mr. Murthy cut in, finally lifting his gaze, “my daughter—who walked out of this house with nothing—is now shaping strategy for one of the most undervalued yet potentially high-yield verticals in Sachdeva’s portfolio?” 

The silence that followed was taut. 

“I had no idea you were tracking the syndicate arm, sir,” Rajan offered carefully. 

“I wasn’t,” Mr. Murthy said, standing up and buttoning his coat. “Because it wasn’t worth my time.” 

He walked toward the window, hands behind his back, voice quiet but clipped. “But if she’s in, I want in.” 

“But... you always said the racehorse division was vanity business, too unstable for institutional capital,” Rajan tried again. 

“I said that before Nandini started poking around in it.” 

He turned back to the table, eyes sharp now, the weight of legacy in his tone. “Call a cross-functional meeting. Legal, finance, media—everyone. I want a full report on Sachdeva’s private stables—assets, partners, liabilities. I want to know what she's doing, why she’s doing it, and what it’ll look like when I take that division from under Sachdeva’s nose.” 

A beat passed. Then— 

“And if there’s an acquisition opportunity—formally or otherwise—I want us in position.” 

Everyone nodded. Scrambling to action. Pens hit paper. Calls began under the table. 

As the room emptied, Mr. Murthy lingered by the window. His expression was unreadable. But somewhere beneath that iron-cast restraint was something dangerously close to curiosity. Or pride. Or perhaps the thrill of an old game reignited—this time, because of her. 

“She wants to play with fire,” he murmured under his breath. 
“So be it. Let’s see if she remembers who built the furnace.” 

-------------------------------------- 

 A/N: Thanks for reads, comments, and likes. Keep them coming generously.

Much love
Aditi