CHAAYA'S POV
I turned away from him after that brief exchange and tried my best to act normal, but my heartbeat refused to cooperate. It pounded loud enough to drown the sound of my own footsteps. His stare lingered on my back longer than it should have, and my palms grew damp with nervousness.
The flowers were delivered, the drapes stitched, the crockery lined—now only the curtains remained. Silken, heavy, and twice my size... just like her ego.
I continued the decorations until the sharp rhythm of pointed heels echoed behind me. I didn't have to turn. I already knew who it was—Sara madam.
She never paused in one place. She moved from arrangement to arrangement, lifting a vase here, adjusting a ribbon there, finding faults in everything. Instructions spilled out of her—too much, too specific, as if perfection could be forced into existence.
"Everything must scream grandeur," she said, her tone dipped in gold and poison.
"People should know who I am before even seeing me."
I nodded, spine straight even as hers bent with pride. I took notes—velvets, crystals, ivory laces—and swallowed the urge to correct her.
This wasn't about taste. It was about performance. A spectacle for her and her precious status.
By late afternoon, I was on a ladder struggling with the silk curtains she had chosen—dark, loud, nothing remotely homely—while exhaustion pulled at my limbs. My fingers fumbled over fabric, my arms shook, and my eyes stung from lack of sleep. Even the weather outside had turned gloomy, as if annoyed with her too.
Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, it did.
The ladder beneath my feet wobbled,
gravity pulled,
my heart lurched—
and I braced for impact.
But the fall never came.
Instead, I landed in arms.
Not just arms—
strong, veined arms that held me like I weighed nothing and everything at once.
A breath—warm and unsteady—brushed my ear.
A voice followed, rough as a night without sleep.
"Can you get off now?"
I turned, slowly, unwilling to rush the moment.
Eyes met mine. No, devoured mine.
Dark. Deep. Dangerous.
The kind of eyes people write poems about but shouldn't meet in real life.
I blinked, steadied myself, and stepped back onto the floor. Only then did I see who it was — Aftaab Ali Khan.
I opened my mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to explain—but I didn't get that far.
I didn't get the chance to apologize — heels struck the floor hard and fast.
Sara madam.
Her eyes went straight to me, sharp and accusing.
"How dare you handle things so carelessly?" she said, voice cold but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "If you don't know how to work, then say it. Don't create accidents in this house."
It wasn't screaming — it was worse.
It was the tone of someone who thought discipline was a performance.
Before anyone else could react, Aftaab shifted his gaze toward her. Not dramatic, not angry — just a slow turn that carried enough weight to quiet the air.
Sara recalibrated instantly, her chin lifting as she tried to justify her outburst.
"I'm only concerned about safety," she added quickly. "These workers need to be taught proper conduct—"
Aftaab cut through her sentence without raising his voice.
"It was unintentional."
Sara's jaw tightened, but she nodded as if she'd planned to back down anyway.
He added, tone flat and final:
"And unnecessary severity doesn't suit the position you hold."
There was no warmth in his words, no protection for me — just a reminder of image and status, delivered like a fact.
Sara showed a tight smile, the kind that hides humiliation under etiquette.
"Of course," she murmured. "I only meant to maintain order."
He was already moving on, phone to his ear, the matter closed in his mind.
Sara exhaled slowly, smoothing her dress as though that could smooth the moment. Then she glanced at me, not with anger now, but with a silent warning:
Know your place.
She didn't have to say it. The silence carried enough.