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Pratiksha's POV

“Uhh… Are we supposed to pretend this isn’t weird, or—”

“Mitali…” Rivaan muttered, kicking her under the table.

“Ow! I was just asking!”

Meanwhile, I was still recuperating as I stared at him exuding his signature aura of a powerful CEO with his mouth set in a thin line, yet here he was uninvited, unexpected, and absolutely ruining what was supposed to be a stress-free day.

“What are you doing here, sir?”

Sahil’s lips parted slightly, about to say something, but before a single word could escape, another voice cut in.

“Oh, I sent him the invite.” Came the all-too-cheerful voice of our HR head, Mr. Khanna.

Wait. What?

I, along with the rest, snapped heads toward him so fast I was surprised I didn’t get whiplash.

“After all,” he continued, flashing us a look like this was all perfectly normal, “he’s the one you worked for, Pratiksha. It only made sense.”

Sahil, for his part, simply exhaled through his nose, and I wasn’t sure if it was frustration or something else entirely, but whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t thrilled about being put on the spot like this among his employees.

“If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.” He spoke calmly, like he had already braced himself for my answer to his presence.

And that… that made me pause because I knew this man and his arrogance, his impossible standards, the way he carried himself like the world bowed at his feet. Sahil didn’t ask for things. He didn’t offer to leave. He just took control, dictated the course of action, and expected everyone else to follow suit. So for him to stand here, at my farewell party, in my space, and actually leave the decision up to me?

Yeah. That threw me off like every other thing he’s been doing lately.

I could feel the others watching me closely, probably waiting for me to tell our boss to take his expensive presence and get lost so that they could breathe without a statutory warning hanging overhead.

And honestly? A part of me wanted to, but the daft side of me won.

“Don’t.”

The word left my lips before I could even think about it, and Sahil’s gaze snapped to mine, assessing my mood.

“You should stay.” I wasn’t sure what possessed me to say it. Maybe it was some twisted sense of professionalism. Maybe it was the part of me that hated the idea of having so much unfinished business between us. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the simple fact that despite everything, a tiny, Irrational part of me wasn’t ready to watch him walk away just yet.

The tension In Sahil’s posture seemed to loosen just a fraction as he studied me for a beat longer, then he gave a small nod, and as if some invisible switch had been flipped, the party slowly resumed around us. Conversations picked up, the music hummed back to life, and people started moving again. But me? I was still very much stuck in the what the hell just happened phase.

And Sahil? He just…mingled.

Yeah. You heard that right.

The same man who usually limited conversations to curt emails and straight-to-the-point meetings was now casually talking to my co-workers and actually putting efforts into engaging with them.

I watched, utterly dumbfounded, as he did the unthinkable by not just hovering at the periphery of the room exuding his usual untouchable bossy aura that acknowledged people with nothing more than the bare minimum required to pass as socially functional but actually engaging.

His stance wasn’t rigid with impatience or the unsaid rule that people should get to the point and leave him alone, but he was listening instead. Nodding along to whatever the IT guy was saying, his brows lifting—not in irritation, but in what looked suspiciously like genuine curiosity. As if that wasn’t shocking enough, he turned to our talking and not barking orders like he used to do before in his usual clipped tone but holding an actual conversation with the guy.

He wasn’t checking his watch or shifting like he had a million better things to do. He was just… standing there out of formality, in the middle of his employees but really blending in like he was one of them, like he wasn’t the one who had walls so high no one dared to peek over, including me, who practically was glued to him in and out of the house but only at a calculated distance.

Anyways, the real kicker? The thing that sent my pulse skittering and made my fingers tighten around my drink until I nearly crushed the cup?

He smiled, and not the tight-lipped courtesy he reserved for board members and clients but the soft, subtle, real, and dear god, it suited him like nothing ever would to someone else.

“Is this real life?” Meera breathed beside me, her voice laced with the same astonishment I felt.

I didn’t know, but it was surreal, like watching a lone wolf, one that had spent years prowling on its own, suddenly decide to step into the companionship of the pack.

And even in the middle of those conversations, in the presence of so many others, his attention flickered—subtle to the world, instinctive—to me as if he felt my gaze.

His head turned, his brooding green irises seeking, finding, holding my stare, dulling everything else, and leaving just the two of us in a noise full of people.

In place of his usual unreadable stare that kept me guessing and exhausting for years, his gentle, swift, steady, and open expressions were something else entirely, as if he had been searching for me all along.

And that? That did something to me.

Because suddenly, I didn’t know how to process this version of Sahil—the one who smiled at his employees, the one who wasn’t afraid to let people in, the one who stood across the room and made me feel like I was the only thing worth noticing.

Luckily, I didn’t have to dwell on it for long because, soon enough, Mr. Khanna—the same HR head who had sneakily invited Sahil in the first place—clapped his hands together, signaling for everyone’s attention.

“Alright, alright!” He began, grinning. “Now that we’ve all had our fill of cake and gossiping—don’t think I don’t hear you all whispering over there—it’s time for the part we’ve been waiting for. The farewell eulogies!”

Oh. Right. That.

I forced a smile, trying to ignore the way my stomach twisted. I hated this part. Not because I wasn’t grateful, but because saying goodbyes was still an absolute torture for an adult me.

One by one, people got up to speak. The girls, of course, went first, shedding fake tears as Meera declared, “I don’t know how I’ll survive without my daily dose of you, Pratiksha. And if you don’t keep in touch, I will hunt you down with the boss’s permission, I swear.” The room chuckled. I rolled my eyes. Typical Meera.

Then, just when I thought we were wrapping up, Mr. Khanna—who had way too much fun watching me suffer—cleared his throat again. “And last but not least, a few words from the man himself, Mr. Shrivastava.”

Oh, hell no.

I turned sharply, leveling a glare at him, but the old man only grinned at me, utterly unapologetic, the glint in his eyes betraying just how much he was enjoying my predicament. Meanwhile, Sahil stepped forward, his fingers adjusting the cuff of his sleeve in a slow, deliberate motion that had women swooning before his luminous gaze settled directly on me.

“I’ll keep this brief,” he began smoothly.

Of course, he would. Sahil Shrivastava had never been a man of wasted words. He was the kind of person who believed that efficiency was the foundation of success. And yet, as he stood there, his shoulders squared, his expression betraying nothing, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was different. That if he didn’t force himself to stop, he might just keep going.

“When Pratiksha first started working at Shrivastava Industries, I’ll admit—I had my doubts.”

I blinked, my breath hitching. Excuse me?

A few scattered chuckles echoed through the room, but I barely heard them. My entire focus had narrowed down to the man standing before me, his dark eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

Better fix that sentence, Mister. I silently dared him, crossing my arms as I stared him down pointedly.

“She was stubborn,” he continued, his voice dipping slightly, the words lingering in the air between us. “Opinionated. And had a very particular way of… expressing her righteous thoughts.”

That glint in his eyes—subtle, almost imperceptible—wasn’t just amusement but also merry fondness that threw me completely off balance.

“But she was also hardworking. Unbelievably efficient. Someone who never backed down from a challenge, no matter how impossible it seemed. Even when I was one of those challenges.”

I wasn’t sure anyone else in the room grasped the full meaning of those words, but I definitely did because, as a boss, he was not an easy man to work with.

He was demanding, ruthless in his expectations, and had the emotional openness of a locked vault. And yet, he was standing here, before all these people, admitting—no, accepting—that I had faced him like a storm that refused to be weathered.

“She wasn’t just my secretary.” His tone had changed now, softened into something heavier, something severely close to sentimental. “She was the person who kept this place running, even when I was too caught up in work to notice. The one who knew my schedule better than I did. The one who—whether I admitted it or not—made my life significantly easier.”

His gaze burned Into me unflinching, filled with something unspoken, something deeper than mere appreciation.

This wasn’t just about my work ethic anymore.

This was about us and our marriage.

“And something tells me,” Sahil added, his voice quiet now, as if he were speaking to me and only me, “she will continue being this incredible, unstoppable force wherever she goes.”

There was an ache in my chest, a slow, twisting pressure that I couldn’t name.

“She may not realize it,” he continued, and now his voice carried something else—something raw, unguarded. “But she made an impact. On this company. On the people here. On me. And while I don’t often say things like this…”

Gone was the mask he had spent years perfecting, the armor of cold precision that he wore like a second skin. In its place was something raw, something almost fragile in its sincerity.

Loss and hesitation.

A plea he wasn’t sure he was allowed to make.

“I’ll miss you, Pratiksha.”

It wasn’t just a farewell. It wasn’t just a simple parting phrase.

It was an admission. A quiet, aching confession from a man who never wasted words, who had spent years speaking in measured tones and guarded silences. And now, standing before me, in front of an entire room, he was saying the one thing I had never expected to hear from him.

He would miss me.

Not my efficiency. Not my ability to organize his world down to the last detail. Me. Just me.

It wasn’t enough. Not yet. Not after everything. But it was something, and coming from Sahil Shrivastava, who had my heart all along, it meant more than he probably even realized.

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Lots of Love,

ANKITA