The firm's annual client networking evening was exactly the kind of event Mahi disliked — loud laughter disguised as strategy, polished smiles hiding negotiations, and conversations that carried more performance than truth.
Yet she stood near the bar counter with effortless authority, dressed in a charcoal grey saree that carried both elegance and distance. Junior associates hovered around her, discussing case updates, while she listened with composed attention.
Across the hall, Nikhil had been pretending to listen to a corporate client for the past seven minutes. His responses were automatic, his gaze drifting every few seconds toward the far end of the room.
Toward her.
He told himself it was habit. Not curiosity. Definitely not anything more.
"Mr. Ahuja?" the client asked, snapping him back.
"Yes, absolutely, we'll review the merger clauses by Monday," Nikhil replied smoothly, though he had no recollection of what question had been asked.
When the client finally excused himself, Nikhil exhaled and turned slightly — just in time to see a new senior partner from their Delhi branch step closer to Mahi.
Arjun Malhotra. Confident. Well-spoken. Too observant for Nikhil's comfort.
Arjun leaned closer to Mahi as he spoke, showing her something on his phone. Mahi tilted her head slightly, listening with genuine interest. Then she laughed — a soft, rare laugh Nikhil had not heard directed at him in years.
Something tightened in his chest before he could stop it.
He grabbed a glass of water from a passing tray, taking a longer sip than necessary, eyes still fixed on them.
Across the hall, Mahi was aware of his gaze. She hated that she was aware of it. She hated even more that it affected her.
"Your cross-examination style is impressive," Arjun was saying. "You dismantle witnesses without raising your voice. That's… difficult."
"It's practice," Mahi replied, professional but polite.
"And instinct," Arjun added. "You can't teach instinct."
Mahi smiled faintly.
Behind Arjun's shoulder, she caught sight of Nikhil leaning against a pillar, expression carefully neutral, jaw slightly clenched. He looked away the moment their eyes almost met.
She turned her attention back to Arjun.
"And how long are you in Mumbai?" she asked.
"Depends," Arjun said casually. "If the firm assigns me here permanently, I wouldn't complain."
Mahi nodded, though her attention flickered again toward Nikhil — who was now speaking to a junior associate, but his responses looked distracted, delayed.
The conversation with Arjun continued, but it felt oddly performative now. She asked questions she didn't fully care about. She laughed a little louder than necessary. She didn't know who she was trying to convince — Arjun or herself.
Meanwhile, Nikhil watched Arjun place a hand lightly against the table beside Mahi, leaning closer as he spoke.
Professional proximity, he told himself.
Normal.
Completely normal.
He turned abruptly toward the exit balcony, needing air he refused to admit he needed.
Five minutes later, Mahi stepped onto the same balcony, the night breeze carrying the distant sound of traffic and muffled music from inside.
Nikhil stood near the railing, sleeves rolled up, staring at the city lights as if they held answers he couldn't find.
"You left early," she said calmly.
He didn't turn immediately. "Needed quiet."
She walked closer, maintaining a careful distance beside him. "You usually enjoy networking. You call it 'strategic relationship building.'"
He let out a dry huff of laughter. "You remember that?"
"I remember unnecessary details," she replied automatically.
The familiarity of the exchange hung between them like fragile glass.
After a pause, Nikhil spoke, voice neutral. "Mr. Malhotra seems… interesting."
Mahi crossed her arms lightly. "He's competent."
"Only competent?" Nikhil asked, finally turning toward her.
Her gaze held his, steady but guarded. "Is there a professional evaluation you'd like me to expand on?"
He looked away again, shaking his head slightly. "No. Just observation."
Silence followed, thicker this time.
Mahi inhaled slowly, then said, "You don't have to pretend you're unaffected by things, Nikhil. You never used to."
His expression hardened just slightly. "And you don't have to pretend everything is purely professional, Mahi. You never used to either."
The words landed heavier than intended.
She stepped closer unconsciously. "At least I'm honest about my boundaries."
"And what about that conversation last week?" he asked quietly.
Her shoulders stiffened. They both knew which conversation.
The one where she had admitted — almost accidentally — that she still measured her decisions against memories of him.
Mahi's voice cooled instantly. "That was… misinterpreted."
Nikhil stared at her, disbelief flickering across his face. "You said you never stopped—"
"I said I never stopped respecting what we had," she cut in quickly, tone sharp but slightly unsteady. "That's different."
He studied her for a long moment, searching for the truth beneath the carefully constructed defense.
"Is it?" he asked softly.
"Yes," she replied, though the word lacked conviction.
The wind picked up slightly, brushing loose strands of her hair across her face. She tucked them back with controlled precision, a gesture he remembered from nights she used to argue case theories with him until sunrise.
"You seemed comfortable with Malhotra," he said, voice quieter now.
Mahi let out a small, humorless laugh. "And you seemed very invested in observing that."
"I wasn't—"
"You were," she said.
They stood there, both breathing slightly faster, neither willing to step back emotionally or physically.
"You're allowed to move on, Mahi," Nikhil said finally, though the sentence sounded like it cost him something.
Her eyes flashed. "I know that."
"Then why does it feel like you're proving it to me?" he asked.
The question lingered, raw and exposed.
Mahi's composure cracked just enough for vulnerability to slip through. "Maybe because you look at me like I'm still… unfinished business."
He stepped closer before he could stop himself. "Maybe because you are."
The distance between them now felt charged, dangerous in a way neither courtroom battle ever had.
For a second, it seemed like she might say something honest — something irreversible.
Instead, she stepped back.
"We work together now," she said, voice regaining its professional edge. "That's all that matters."
Nikhil's expression fell into controlled neutrality again, the same mask he had perfected over years.
"Of course," he said.
They stood in silence, the city lights reflecting in the glass doors behind them — two people close enough to touch, yet carefully holding themselves apart.
Inside the hall, laughter erupted as someone made a toast.
Outside, neither of them moved.
The tension remained, unspoken, undeniable — like a verdict both of them already knew but refused to announce.