Morning light crept through their apartment windows like a cat burglar, all stealth and golden warmth. Aarohi had been awake for the past fifteen minutes, listening to the city wake up below—the familiar symphony of motorbike engines, street vendors calling out their wares, and the distant hum of traffic that never quite stopped. The smell of frying garlic and chilies drifted up from the food stalls, making her stomach growl despite her nerves.
"Aarohi!" Rhea's voice cut through the morning calm with all the subtlety of a fire alarm. "Get up! We can't be late on day two. That's like showing up to your own funeral wearing flip-flops."
The bedroom door creaked as Rhea appeared, already half-dressed in a wrinkled t-shirt and pajama shorts, her hair doing something that defied both gravity and logic.
Aarohi groaned and pulled the pillow over her head. "I was having the most amazing dream. I was floating on a cloud made entirely of mango sticky rice."
"Your subconscious is apparently as food-obsessed as you are," Rhea said, yanking the curtains open with more force than necessary. Sunlight flooded the room, making Aarohi wince. "But dreams don't pay rent. Work does. So move."
Twenty minutes later, they were both presentable—or at least trying to be. Aarohi had chosen a soft lavender blouse that she hoped made her look professional without trying too hard, paired with cream-colored trousers that were comfortable enough to survive another day of sitting at a new desk. Her hair was behaving for once, pulled back in a ponytail that actually looked intentional.
Rhea had gone for a blue shirt dress that somehow managed to look both casual and put-together, paired with white sneakers that were still miraculously clean despite Bangkok's best efforts.
They shared toast and instant coffee in comfortable silence, both lost in their own thoughts about what the day might bring.
But the moment they stepped into the office building, something felt off.
The usual morning energy—the chatter, the laughter, the general buzz of people caffeinated and ready to tackle the day—was conspicuously absent. Instead, there was a tension in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. Conversations happened in whispers. People moved more carefully, as if the floor might give way beneath their feet.
"Is it just me, or does everyone look like they're at a funeral?" Aarohi murmured.
Mint, the receptionist, leaned forward conspiratorially, her usual bright smile replaced by wide, almost frightened eyes. "He's here," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might summon some ancient curse.
"He?" Rhea asked, though something in her expression suggested she already knew.
"The CEO. Mr. Rithvik Veerayut. He came back from his trip last night."
Before either of them could respond, Pim materialized beside them with the efficiency of someone who'd perfected the art of appearing exactly when needed. Her usual warm demeanor had been replaced by something much more businesslike, bordering on military.
"Girls," she said briskly, adjusting her glasses in a way that suggested nerves. "Remember what we discussed about office protocol. Keep your heads down, focus on your work, and do not—under any circumstances—draw attention to yourselves. Clear?"
Rhea tilted her head. "Is he really that intimidating?"
Pim's laugh was sharp and entirely humorless. "Intimidating? Honey, intimidating is your college professor when you haven't done the reading. This man could freeze hell with a look. He doesn't suffer fools, he doesn't tolerate mistakes, and he definitely doesn't have patience for chatty interns."
As they were shepherded toward their desks, Aarohi caught fragments of whispered conversations:
"...fired three people last month for being two minutes late..."
"...doesn't believe in small talk..."
"...never seen him smile, not once..."
"...they say he doesn't even talk to women unless it's absolutely necessary for business..."
Rhea leaned close to Aarohi's ear. "Wow. This guy sounds like a real charmer. Bet he's great at parties."
"Probably doesn't go to parties," Aarohi whispered back. "Parties involve fun, and fun is clearly against his religion."
Mali, the girl at the desk next to theirs, overheard and nodded emphatically. "My cousin worked here two years ago. She said he once made someone redo an entire presentation because they used the wrong shade of blue in the charts."
"What's wrong with blue?" Aarohi asked.
"It wasn't the *right* blue."
And then the elevator chimed.
The sound cut through the office noise like a blade, and suddenly every conversation stopped mid-sentence. Every keyboard went silent. Even the air conditioning seemed to hush itself.
The elevator doors slid open with mechanical precision.
And he stepped out.
Aarohi's first thought was that he was taller than she'd expected—not just tall, but commanding in a way that made the spacious office suddenly feel smaller. His suit was charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, not a thread out of place. Everything about him was precise, from the way his dark hair was styled to the exact positioning of his tie. He looked like he'd been assembled rather than dressed, every detail calculated for maximum impact.
But it was his face that made her breath catch. Sharp angles and strong lines, the kind of bone structure that belonged in magazines or marble sculptures. His skin was sun-touched golden brown, and his features were almost severe in their perfection. There was something almost intimidating about how handsome he was, as if beauty itself was just another weapon in his arsenal.
And then there were his eyes.
Dark, intense, and completely unreadable. They swept across the office with the methodical precision of a security scanner, taking in everything, revealing nothing. When they passed over her desk, Aarohi felt a strange little flutter in her chest—not quite fear, not quite excitement, but something in between that made her pulse quicken.
He didn't walk so much as glide, each step deliberate and economical. His assistants trailed behind him like planets orbiting a particularly dangerous sun, careful to maintain exactly the right distance—close enough to be useful, far enough away to avoid annihilation.
The silence stretched until it became almost painful. Phones didn't ring. Papers didn't rustle. Even the building's ventilation system seemed to hold its breath.
And then he was past them, disappearing into his glass-walled office at the far end of the floor, and suddenly everyone could breathe again.
The collective exhale was audible.
"Jesus," Rhea muttered under her breath. "That man is like a walking ice age. We should definitely avoid him. Like, different-continent levels of avoidance."
But Aarohi found herself staring at the hallway where he'd disappeared, her heart still beating faster than it should. Because for just a moment—a fraction of a second when his gaze had swept past her desk—she could have sworn their eyes had met.
And in that tiny instant, she'd seen something that didn't match the stories. Not ice, not indifference, but something that looked almost like...
Recognition? Curiosity? Pain?
It had been too brief to be sure, gone before she could even process it properly. But the feeling lingered, like the afterimage of lightning against closed eyelids.
"Earth to Aarohi," Rhea said, waving a hand in front of her face. "Please tell me you're not developing a crush on Bangkok's answer to Mr. Freeze."
Aarohi blinked, pulling herself back to reality. "What? No. I was just... observing. Professionally."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of Thailand."
---
The rest of the day crawled by with the peculiar weight that comes from trying to work normally when you're hyperaware of someone's presence in the building. Aarohi threw herself into her tasks—market research, competitive analysis, drafting social media strategies—but found her attention drifting every time someone mentioned the CEO.
And people mentioned him a lot.
"He built this company from nothing, you know," she overheard Piya telling someone during lunch. "Started with just a small advertising firm and turned it into one of the biggest media groups in Southeast Asia."
"I heard he was engaged once," Mali added, lowering her voice. "To some socialite who left him for his biggest competitor. That's why he's so cold now."
"Makes sense," another voice chimed in. "Betrayal like that would turn anyone into an iceberg."
"They say he doesn't believe in love anymore. Thinks emotions are weaknesses that compromise business judgment."
Aarohi found herself listening despite her better judgment, building a mental picture of a man who'd armored himself in success and solitude. But something about the story felt incomplete, like trying to understand a painting by looking at only one corner of the canvas.
The whispers followed her through the afternoon: He never smiles. He works sixteen-hour days. He's never taken a vacation. He once fired someone for wearing cologne because he found the scent "distracting."
Each story added another layer to the mythology, but Aarohi couldn't shake the feeling that the man she'd glimpsed in that elevator was more complex than the office legends suggested.
---
By six o'clock, the office had mostly emptied. Aarohi had volunteered to stay late to finish organizing some files, partly because she wanted to make a good impression and partly because she enjoyed the quiet. There was something peaceful about the empty office, with its soft lighting and the distant hum of the city below.
She was deep in concentration, cross-referencing client data with campaign results, when she heard footsteps in the hallway.
Slow, measured, deliberate.
She looked up from her computer screen and felt her heart stutter.
Rithvik Veerayut was walking directly toward her desk.
Alone.
No assistants, no entourage, no barrier between them except empty air and her suddenly racing pulse. His expression was unreadable, those dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to simultaneously look away and lean closer.
He stopped in front of her desk and stood there for a moment, studying her with the kind of focus usually reserved for complex equations or fine art. The silence stretched between them, loaded with a tension she couldn't name.
When he finally spoke, his voice was exactly what she'd expected—low, controlled, with just a hint of an accent that made her think of expensive whiskey and midnight conversations.
"You. Come with me."
It wasn't a request.
Aarohi's mouth went dry. Her hands, which had been steady on the keyboard moments before, began to tremble slightly.
Was this the moment her Bangkok adventure ended before it had really begun?
Or was it about to become something she'd never expected?