The race was nothing short of legendary! As usual, I absolutely crushed it. Mental high-five for the victory I was about to bask in tonight—because who doesn't love a little self-congratulation? After parking my bike, I pranced toward my apartment, humming a catchy country tune that I couldn't name if you offered me a million bucks.
By the time I got home, Khushi was already deep in dreamland. Thank the universe for small mercies! I dashed into my room, swapped my racing gear for my trusty PJs, and dove onto my cozy bed. The impending doom of tomorrow's interview was the last thought to flit through my mind before I fell into a blissful slumber, hoping I wouldn't wake up as a nervous wreck. Because who wouldn't want to wake up to the fresh horrors of self-doubt?
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I woke up around 9:00 AM, thanks to my "amazing" alarm that sounds like a cat being stepped on. After a quick shower that felt like a polar plunge, I rummaged through my closet for something interview-worthy. I finally settled on black slacks and a navy blue button-up shirt, sleeves stylishly rolled up to my elbows—because who says you can't be professional and comfortable? A fitted blazer completed the look, and I pulled my hair into a high ponytail that said, "I mean business." Flat black shoes? Check. Black is basically my superhero color.
Glancing in the mirror, I admired my effortlessly chic look. No makeup today; I was going for the "I woke up like this" vibe—minus the actual waking up part. A quick dusting of powder was all I needed. I headed to the kitchen for breakfast, where I found Khushi already eating. She shot me a smile, which quickly morphed into a glare that could melt steel.
Uh-oh. I was about to enter the doghouse.
"Diya… don't tell me that bruise on your forehead is from last night's race," she said, her voice dripping with concern—or was it exasperation?
"Uh, no, Khushi. It's from a car driver who just got his license yesterday—what a gem," I replied, trying to keep my annoyance in check. Not only had he hit me, but he also had the audacity to call me a newbie driver. IDIOT!
"He hit me! It wasn't my fault," I insisted, defensive as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Khushi wasn't convinced, but somehow I managed to talk her down, and she wished me good luck as I bolted out the door.
Hopping on my bike, affectionately known as my "baby," I made my way to the company—my trusty steed for this corporate joust.
Upon entering the building, the guard at the entrance greeted me with a friendly smile. I returned the gesture, feeling slightly less nervous. I approached the receptionist, who looked like she walked straight off a magazine cover.
"Sweetheart, just head straight to the elevator on your right and press the button for the 30th floor. That's where your interview will be. Good luck, dear!" she chirped.
Isn't she adorable? I thought. If only landing this job was as easy as charming the receptionist. I sighed and stepped into the elevator, my heart doing a little dance of panic.
When I reached the 30th floor, my stomach twisted at the sight of the other candidates. Seriously, were they here for a job interview or a casting call for a reality show? The outfits they wore left little to the imagination. I felt a wave of disgust wash over me as they shot me judgmental looks, as if I were the one dressed like I just walked off a fashion disaster. I glanced down at my attire—perfectly professional. What was their problem? Well, the feeling is mutual, ladies. I thought with a mental eye roll.
As the interview process began, I couldn't help but watch the others fuss over their appearances. Seriously, what was the point? They must have primped a million times before this moment. I stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Being the last person interviewed, I noticed the women emerging from the CEO's office. Their faces were a delightful shade of crimson, and they looked like they were ready to start World War III. I caught snippets of their muttered curses aimed at the CEO, and a few were even in tears.
Oh great, this is going to end well. The CEO must have been a real charmer. How was I going to survive this? Would I be the next casualty? I really wanted this job. Resigning myself to fate, I waited for my turn.
Then, I watched the last candidate stomp out of the room, and my heart raced. Time to enter the lion's den. God save me—and may the odds be ever in my favor.
I approached the door, knocking three times with an awkward blend of dread and determination, half-expecting to be cast in a role for the world's worst sitcom.
"Come in," a voice replied, calm and unmistakably familiar. I brushed off the unsettling recognition with a nervous smile. This had better not turn into a comedy of errors.
Taking a steadying breath, I twisted the knob and stepped inside. There he was, looking like he'd been pulled straight from the glossy pages of *GQ*—Armani suit, impeccably styled hair, and an air that practically screamed, *I own the world.* His gaze lifted to meet mine, and in that charged second, time seemed to freeze, delivering a hefty slap of realization.
Oh, fantastic. Could this day get any worse?
It was him—Rahul Singh Ranawat. The very man who had made my life miserable for five agonizing minutes at the mall yesterday. And, of course, he was now my potential boss. I mentally slapped myself for walking right into this twisted joke. So much for first impressions; he probably still thought of me as the lunatic with the shopping cart.
As if fate hadn't punished me enough, here I was, at the mercy of Mr. Universe's Almighty Jerk. I could almost feel my dignity slipping out the door behind me.
But maybe, just maybe, he didn't recognize me? I was willing to risk it. After all, who remembers a temporary PA applicant as the girl who sent him stumbling into the perfume aisle?
Suppressing every urge to launch a glitter-covered punch, I forced a professional smile. "Good morning, Mr. Ranawat."
"Take a seat," he replied coolly, gesturing to the chair opposite him without a hint of acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Classy.
I took my seat, handing him my file as if surrendering it to a dragon that might roast it for fun. He thumbed through the papers with all the interest of someone reading an instruction manual.
"Miss Diya Sharma," he began, as if reciting facts about a random stranger. "Twenty-three years old. Graduated from St. Victoria with... reasonable results."
Reasonable? I nearly bit my tongue. That diploma was hard-earned blood, sweat, and caffeine.
"Well, it seems you're enthusiastic about working for *our* company." His voice dripped with sarcasm, and I realized he was smirking—a slow, infuriating smirk that made me want to glue his lips shut.
"Yes, Mr. Ranawat, I'm aware it's a temporary position," I replied, trying to mask my irritation with a tone of professional calm. My inner monologue, on the other hand, was practically screaming for a boxing ring.
He arched an eyebrow, looking down at me like a casting director sizing up a contestant. "So, Ms. Sharma, why should I hire you?"
I opened my mouth before fully thinking it through. "Perhaps you have a vacant spot that needs filling?"
His jaw twitched, and I mentally berated my mouth for throwing sass at the CEO.
Quick, backtrack. "I mean, you have my qualifications. It's entirely up to you."
His gaze sharpened, as if assessing a particularly audacious modern art piece. Maybe he was plotting revenge for my mall antics or dreaming up creative insults. Either way, I mentally sighed. Here was a guy who didn't just hold grudges—he curated them.
But then, he deserved every bruise from our first encounter for mistaking me for one of his flings. Yes, I remembered, and judging by that glint in his eyes, he might too.
His focus returned with a suddenness that made me blink. "Ms. Sharma, what salary are you expecting?"
My smile wavered. Did he have to ask with that smirk? I fought the urge to throw something. "Mr. Ranawat, you can decide my pay based on my work. I have no complaints about the salary—*if* I get the position," I replied, striving to sound nonchalant.
"Fine. You're hired, Ms. Sharma."
Wait—what? I stammered, "Uh… thank you, Mr. Ranawat." My words stumbled out as I processed the shock, disbelief, and something suspiciously close to joy. The sheer irony of being hired by *Mr. Jerk* himself was surreal.
He rose, looking every inch the smug CEO who enjoyed other people's discomfort. "Be here sharply at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. It was… enlightening to meet you, Ms. Sharma."
I bolted up and made for the door, grasping the knob with a near-desperation to escape. Just as I twisted it, his voice halted me.
"Oh, and Ms. Sharma?" His tone was light, mocking. "You looked good in that beanie yesterday."
Heat crept up my neck. Busted. So he did remember. I kept my expression calm, though a thousand butterflies rioted in my stomach. Well played, Mr. Ranawat. Well played.
Nodding curtly, I managed a shaky "thank you" before practically fleeing his office. How was I supposed to survive four months with him as my boss?
Outside, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, muttering to myself, "Damn. That was one hell of an interview."
As the door clicked shut behind Diya, Rahul leaned back in his chair, a faint smile pulling at his lips. She had no idea what she'd just walked into. Hiring her had been impulsive, sure, but not without intention. He hadn't forgotten their first encounter—that brief yet unforgettable moment in the crowded mall when she'd brushed him aside without a second glance, her eyes flashing with defiance. Unapologetic, unfazed, and utterly oblivious to who he was. For someone unaccustomed to being ignored, it had been a rare and humbling experience.
And now, somehow, she was here, unwittingly stepping into his world. The irony wasn't lost on him, and neither was the opportunity it presented. She'd come in as though she owned the place, carrying the same confidence that had left an impression on him months ago. He wondered just how long that spirit would last in his orbit, under his scrutiny.
During the interview, he'd felt a flicker of surprise—partly from seeing her again, but mostly because she didn't seem to recognize him at all. She'd moved through it with poise, not a single hint of hesitation or awareness. That same spark, clear as day. Her confidence had almost made him second-guess himself, but that only made the situation more interesting.
Bringing her onto his team felt like a twist of fate. A chance to set the stage his way, to return the favor subtly, on his own terms. He'd keep her on her toes, raise the bar just high enough to see how she adapted. Maybe even assign a few ambitious tasks that would test that confidence of hers. Would her defiance hold up under pressure? Or would it fade?
Rahul was in no rush. He had four months—a perfect stretch of time to watch her navigate the challenges he'd set, to see what she was really made of. Not out of spite, exactly, but out of curiosity. After all, few people intrigued him quite like she did. And he planned to enjoy every second of it.