The next morning, I dragged my suitcase into the office, mostly out of disbelief that I was actually doing this.
A part of me hoped it was a prank.
It wasn't.
He met me near the private entrance — black shirt, coat over his arm, phone glued to his ear.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"It's 7:58. You said 8 sharp."
"I like people who aim for 7:45."
I rolled my eyes and followed him into a black car.
The next thing I knew, we were at the airport. Not even the normal one — the private terminal.
Private jets were supposed to be cool. Luxe. Instagram-worthy. But this one? It felt like an ice chamber. Because Ethan Agarwal had a PhD in silent treatment and a minor in glacial vibes.
I sat across from him, sipping fancy orange juice I couldn't pronounce, pretending not to notice the way he scrolled through his tablet with the focus of a surgeon.
"Do billionaires get extra grumpy above sea level?" I muttered.
He looked up. "Do interns always forget they're replaceable?"
Touché.
The hotel in Chennai looked like something out of a royal movie set. Marble floors, chandeliers, gold-trimmed everything. And yet, somehow, it couldn't distract from the fact that I was about to attend my first high-stakes business meeting with a man who'd rather die than let me forget that he owns six companies and a soul made of steel.
The meeting went well—well, aside from Ethan's god-tier ability to speak like he's reading out a death sentence. I nodded when required, took notes, and only mildly zoned out when the PowerPoint went into revenue waterfalls.
Afterwards, in the car, the tension boiled.
"You kept interrupting me," Ethan muttered, scrolling through his phone.
"I was contributing. It's called a conversation."
"It's called derailing."
I crossed my arms. "Sorry I didn't wear a barcode and just beep on cue."
He looked at me. "You don't need a barcode. You come with a warning label."
"God, you are insufferable."
"And you're unprepared. You want praise for showing up? This isn't kindergarten."
I rolled my eyes so hard I might've pulled a muscle.
"Ugly robot," I muttered under my breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
Back in the hallway, as we got ready for the corporate mixer party, I grabbed a coffee. Mistake.
Ethan turned sharply just as I was walking, and I nearly crashed into him. He sidestepped like some Matrix ninja. The entire drink spilled... on me.
"Seriously?!"
He looked me up and down. "Your coordination skills continue to impress."
"Could've warned me," I snapped.
"I dodged."
"You could've caught it."
"I'm not a magician."
I growled. "I swear, if I didn't need this job—"
"You'd still be clumsy. Clean up and join if you want. Or don't."
He walked away, not even a backward glance.
Ugh. Jerk.
Back in my room, I opened my suitcase to find a mysterious box with a note in Dia's handwriting:
"You'll need this when Ethan ruins your night. Which he will. xo, Dia"
Inside: a midnight blue satin dress. Fitted. Side slit. Open back.
I stared at it like it owed me money.
Then I put it on.
Dia, you evil genius.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I was definitely going to regret this.
The party was at a rooftop bar. Fairy lights. Jazz. Whiskey-smoke-rich men and Prada-drenched women.
I was late.
But the moment I entered—everything paused.
Eyes turned. Heads tilted.
But Ethan?
He was across the room, holding a drink, talking to executives like he wasn't the villain of my life story. His gaze flicked to me. Briefly. Then back to his conversation.
Fine.
I didn't go to him. I mingled. Smiled. Even laughed at a dad joke about startup funding. Politely avoided Ethan's gaze.
Until he came to me.
He interrupted a conversation with a tall, artistic-looking guy from some creative agency. "Sana. A quick word."
"Now?"
"Yes."
He walked off, expecting me to follow.
I did. In heels.
"What?" I snapped.
He didn't answer. Just handed me a paper. "This is the revised schedule. I want you to confirm the logistics with the branch team."
"Now?"
"Why not?"
"Because I'm standing in a slinky dress, at a rooftop bar, holding champagne."
"You're also my assistant."
"You're unbelievable."
"And yet, you followed."
Fuming, I stomped back inside. My ankle throbbed. Leg twinged.
But I couldn't quit.
A guy from a rival firm walked up. Tall. Cocky. Hair gel situation questionable. the pain shot up again. I clutched the table edge. Held my smile. Pretended it was fine.
"You with Ethan?" he asked casually.
Before I could respond, Ethan appeared.
"She's not my girlfriend. She's my secretary," he said coolly.
My jaw tensed. The guy grinned wider. "Good to know she's available."
Ethan left. Just like that. I wanted to throw my wine at his back.
The guy kept chatting, but I could see Ethan watching from a distance. Pretending not to care. Engaged in animated discussions with CEOs. But his eyes kept flicking over.
Eventually, he walked up.
"Excuse me, Sana," he said smoothly. "Don't you have to finish the data models for tomorrow's presentation?"
I blinked. Then smirked. "Oh right. How could I forget?"
To the guy: "Excuse me. Duty calls."
On the way to the car, I leaned over. "Wow. Budget reports. Very romantic rescue."
"I wasn't rescuing you." and continues "You should thank me. He looked like he wore more hair gel than common sense."
"I think you were jealous."
"Of what? My secretary being bad at time management?"
"Nope. Of him almost stealing your only unpaid intern."
Ethan glares. "You're not that irreplaceable."
"You miss me when I'm not your emotional punching bag, don't you?"
He said nothing.
By the time we reached the hotel, my leg was throbbing.
"Get out," Ethan ordered.
"I can't. My leg..."
Come on, it's just a leg," he mutters, but then sees me wince. He sighs and
walked around, and scooped me up.
"Put me down,This is unnecessary."
"So is your whining."
"This is because of you," I hissed. "All that walking and running around."
"If you're not fit to handle the job—"
"Maybe you like carrying women around."
He looked at me, eyes blazing. "Don't push it."
"I'm already over the edge."
We reached my door just as the bell rang. Hotel staff entered—tray after tray of wine, dinner, snacks.
"Complimentary for our VIPs," the waiter smiled.
Ethan was about to leave when I blocked the door. "Wait. You made my day hell. You can't leave like this."
He raised a brow. "Oh?"
"I think we should… drink some juice."
I poured his glass, sneakily swapping the labeled bottle of wine with soda for mine.
He sipped. Paused. "Tastes different."
"New grapes."
He shrugged.
My phone buzzed.
Noah:Did you eat? Send me a selfie. I wanna see your Chennai look (winking emoji)
Ethan, mildly curious, asked, "Selfie?"
"For… my boyfriend."
His eyes narrowed. "You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"Recently."
He scoffed. "Right."
"What? You don't believe me?"
"I don't care enough to."
The audacity.
I handed him my phone. "Take a picture of me."
He blinked. "You want your boss to take your thirst trap?"
"Exactly."
I stood in front of the glass wall, city lights behind me.
He lifted the phone. Snapped one. Then whispered, "Beautiful."
I turned. "What?"
He cleared his throat. "The city. Behind you."
"Right."
"Didn't you delete your socials?"
"It's for my boyfriend."
He rolled his eyes and downed the rest of the glass.
A minute later, he blinked. "Why is the room spinning?"
I stifled a laugh. "Are you okay?"
"Call… call the doctor."
Now I was laughing uncontrollably. "Oh my god. You're behaving like a teenager at his first party."
He looked dazed. "Did you… make me drink alcohol?"
"Just a sip. I didn't know you'd go full Bambi."
He stood abruptly, stumbled, and shook off my hand. "I don't drink."
"I didn't know that!"
"You should've asked."
"You should've warned me before going all dramatic!"
But before I could finish, He shrugged my hand off his arm and stormed out of the room.
I ran after him, calling his name.
He slammed the door to his suite in my face.
I stood there, stunned. "Was it that big deal? Okay… maybe I overdid it."
So yeah.
Chennai: one.
Sana: zero.