SHATTERED HER HEART

CHAPTER 03

Samira’s POV

I walked into his cabin with the kind of punctuality that should be carved into marble — on time, as promised, as required, as weapon. For me, punctuality is not habit; it is declaration. It is how I remind the world that my time is currency, and I spend it wisely.

And today, it is the sharpest weapon I have against Vivaan Malhotra.

From the moment I arrived at this resort, I haven’t seen him. He didn’t greet me, didn’t bother to appear, and instead I was told to wait until four. A time chosen by him, not me. A demand disguised as courtesy.

And if my instincts are to be trusted, Vivaan isn’t here at all. He hasn’t reached yet, and his employees are scrambling to hide that fact from me.

Every polite smile, every carefully rehearsed assurance feels like a cover-up. Especially from that woman who welcomed me — the one trying her best to mask his absence with charm and composure.

But I see through it. I always do.

That same woman greeted me with a bright, trained smile as I entered. It should have soothed me, but instead it reminded me of the one fact that mattered most: the person I needed to see was not here.

I returned her smile in the polite, noncommittal way CEOs smile when their schedules are already dancing dangerously close to disrespect. She led me toward the meeting room with light steps, murmuring that Mr. Malhotra would join us shortly, and asked me to have a seat.

I sat, posture perfect, bag positioned on the table like a silent threat. My eyes scanned the room for the man I had come to reject.

Nothing.

No trace of him, no shadow, no presence. Just carefully placed water bottles, neat files, and an air of curated calm that felt less like professionalism and more like theater.

I had already guessed this meeting was more than a mere collaboration. My father’s excitement had been impossible to ignore, my mother’s laughter far too warm for business.

Deep down, beneath the sarcasm I wore like armor, beneath the steel spine I polished daily, I was nervous. Nervous not about the deal itself, but about the charade surrounding it.

Nervous about the cleanest, politest ways to say no.

The sharpest, kindest deflections to make him lose interest without making him lose face. Because I could not offend him — not the man in my father’s good book, not the son of the childhood friend my father had rediscovered through a spreadsheet.

I am more than a CEO. I am my father’s daughter. And I do not bruise what my father respects.

The door opened.

A man in his mid-twenties walked in — older than me, maybe even Irene’s age — dressed in a neat grey shirt tucked crisply into black trousers. His steps were confident but not showy. He was followed by a young woman carrying a tray heavy with Indian snacks and sweets.

The smell hit me like a memory: warm oil, spice, heat, tang.

Childhood.

Gulgula, arsa, momos, pakora, kebab roll, kachori, samosa, papdi chaat — North Indian street poetry assembled into edible temptation.

The famous food of Nainital.

The kind I used to crave and devour when I was young, forcing my parents to hire an Indian chef. Back then, I claimed I had seen it on TV, but honestly, I didn’t know how I even knew about this food until the nightmares began to haunt me. Later, I trained myself to love clean salads and neat London dinners.

For one split second, I felt seen. Known. Hunted. And then I told myself to stop being dramatic. These were local favorites. Any competent host would serve them.

I looked at the man who had accompanied the tray. He smiled — pleasant, practiced. I knew instantly he wasn’t Vivaan. Arrogance and charm leave traces, and he had neither. A man with that level of public worship doesn’t enter like a middle manager delivering snacks.

He wasn’t a waiter either. Not with that walk, that ease, that unobtrusive authority. He looked like senior staff, someone who made things happen without announcing it. For a heartbeat, I wanted to ask him where Vivaan was. But I didn’t.

Asking where a man is when he ought to be somewhere is how you hand him power over your expectations.

I didn’t touch the food at first, though the aroma tugged at my restraint until restraint trembled. I was sure this was a distraction, a softening tactic. Feed the impatient guest until she forgets how late the host is. I had no desire to be softened.

Irene, however, was staring at the tray like a starving cat at a fish market. Her eyes flicked to me with bashful hope.

Please, can I?

Will you allow it?

Because I am stern only when necessary and kind when it costs me nothing, I took a small piece of pakora, tasted it, and gestured to her with a flick of my hand to dive in. The food melted on my tongue, a hot, nostalgic symphony that made me close my eyes. I had to summon every ounce of self-control not to empty the tray.

My mother is an extraordinary chef; we had the best chefs in our kitchen, and yet even the best London Indian restaurants can’t match the brutal, effortless perfection of a fresh mountain snack eaten at four in the afternoon when your pride is barely holding and your past is pressing its palms against the glass.

I am particular about time in a way that makes eternity flinch. I had watched interviews where Vivaan spoke about the value of time — praise, schedules, discipline. I expected punctuality as a natural consequence of his carefully curated image.

But now, watching the woman from earlier, maybe his secretary make call after call, sweating in silence as the minutes turned into small betrayals, I realized we were entertaining the possibility that he valued performance over presence.

She kept glancing at me, trying to smile, as though my face could be softened by a polite curve. But my expression was granite. She knew it. It terrified her. I did not adjust it. Fear of consequences is a lesson. I am not here to teach comfort.

Fifteen minutes turned to thirty. His secretary asked the man who had come earlier. He checked his phone, adjusted the projector.

Still, Vivaan did not appear.

Almost an hour passed. My anger sharpened me to a clean blade.

“Where the hell is Mr. Malhotra?” I asked, my voice precise as a scalpel.

The secretary gulped so hard I could hear it across the room. She stammered that he hadn’t reached yet, that he wasn’t answering her calls. Her words stumbled like frightened horses. I felt a flicker of pity. Incompetence is cruel when borrowed from someone else.

“Okay,” I said, cold, arrogant.

“Then let’s call off this deal. I’m going back to London. I have pre-scheduled plans and meetings. I’m not interested in dealing with a man who doesn’t value my time.”

She straightened, wiping away the stammer as if it had been a mask.

“Sorry, ma’am. He isn’t like this. I’m sure he must have been caught up with something,” she said, defending him with a steadiness that told me we had finally hit the boundary between fear and loyalty.

“What’s your name?” I asked. If I am going to be disappointed, I will at least be accurate about who disappointed me.

“Sejal, ma’am,” she replied.

“Sejal, you are a very nice secretary, and I can see you adore your boss, which is charming. But don’t expect me to do the same,” I said. And yes, I shouted, because the room had gotten too gentle and my patience too thin.

She didn’t flinch.

“Ma’am, I’m not his secretary I am Vivaan's cousin — Sejal Malhotra. He specifically asked me to be with you and provide everything you need. That’s why I’m here.”