SHATTERED HER HEART

CHAPTER 03

I walked into his cabin with the kind of punctuality that should be carved into marble — on time, as promised, as required, as weapon — and his secretary greeted me with a bright, trained smile that should have soothed me but only reminded me that the person I needed to see was not here; I smiled back in the polite, noncommittal way CEO's smile when their schedules are already dancing dangerously close to disrespect, and 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, and I did, my posture perfect, my bag positioned on the table like a silent threat, my eyes scanning the room for the man I had come to reject, and finding nothing, no trace of him, no shadow, no presence, just carefully placed water bottles and neat files and an air of curated calm that could have been either professionalism or theater; it felt like theater.

I had already guessed that this meeting was more than a mere formal collaboration, more than a set of numbers and timelines arranged on slides to be negotiated and signed, because my father’s excitement had been impossible to ignore and my mother’s laughter far too warm for business, and deep down, under the layers of sarcasm I wore like invincible armor, under the steel spine I nurtured and polished, I was a little nervous, a little breathless, running through 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.

When the door opened, a man in his mid-twenties walked in, definitely older than me, maybe around Sameera’s age, dressed in a neat grey shirt tucked crisply into black trousers, his steps confident but not showy, and he was followed by a young woman carrying a tray heavy with Indian snacks and sweets, and the smell hit me like a memory, warm oil and spice and heat and tang and childhood; gulgula, arsa, momos, pakora, kebab roll, kachori, samosa, papdi chaat—North Indian street poetry assembled into edible temptation, the most famous food of Nainital, the precise kind I used to crave and devour here when I was young, before I left this shithole of a town and trained myself to love clean salads and neat London dinners, and for one split second I felt seen, known, hunted, and then I told myself to stop being dramatic because these were local favorites and any competent host would serve them to any guest with a palate; I looked at the man, and he smiled — pleasant, practiced — and I knew he wasn’t Vihaan, not a chance; arrogance and charm leave traces, and he had neither, and also, forgive me, 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 a senior staff member, someone who made things happen without announcing it, and for a heartbeat I wanted to ask him where Vihaan was, but I didn’t, because 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, because I was sure this was a distraction, a softening tactic, feeding the impatient guest until she forgets how late the host is, and I had no desire to be softened; Sameera, however, was staring at the tray like a starving cat at a fish market, and her eyes flicked to me with that bashful, adoring hope that said please, can I, will you allow it, and 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 simple, generous flick of my hand to dive in, enjoy, take what you love without apology. The food melted on my tongue, a hot, nostalgic symphony that made me close my eyes and inhale, and I had to summon every ounce of self-control not to empty the tray and then the building; my mother is an extraordinary chef, and yet even the best London Indian restaurants can’t quite 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, and I had watched many interviews where he spoke about the value of time — praise, schedules, discipline — and I had expected punctuality as a natural consequence of a carefully curated image, but now, watching his secretary make call after call and 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 and she knew it and it terrified her, and I did not adjust it because fear of consequences is a lesson, and I am not here to teach comfort.

Fifteen minutes turned to thirty, and I saw his secretary ask the man who had come earlier, and he checked his phone and adjusted the projector; still Vihaan did not appear.

It had been almost an hour now, and my anger sharpened me to a clean blade.

“Where the hell is Mr. Malhotra?” I asked, my voice precise as a scalpel, and the secretary gulped so hard I could hear it across the room and stammered that he hadn’t reached yet, that he wasn’t answering her calls, her words stumbling over themselves like frightened horses, and I actually felt a flicker of pity because incompetence is cruel when it’s borrowed from someone else. “Okay,” I said, cold and arrogant because I earned my arrogance the hard way and it pays its own bills, “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 like 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, because 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 had gotten too thin.

She didn’t flinch, bless her steel. “Ma’am, I’m his cousin — Sejal Malhotra. He asked me to be with you and provide everything you need. That’s why I’m here.”