Match Made in Scandal

Yuvaan Grewal

The dark blue Rolls-Royce screeched to a halt with all the elegance of a rhinoceros on roller skates. I waited precisely half a second before Mr. Shan, my ever-efficient, perpetually anxious and loyal secretary, flung open the car door like we were reenacting the final scene of a rom-com. I slid out as if I owned the entire goddamn universe—which, for the record, I practically did—and exhaled sharply, savoring the crisp, smug-scented air.

The air felt different today. Crisper, charged.

I took in the the scene ahead and there it was: Sauvé, my kingdom disguised as a company. The name shimmered in obnoxious gold letters at the top of the sleek, glass-clad building, catching the morning sun as if it was actively trying to blind every pedestrian within a five-block radius. Two bodyguards flanked the entrance, their expressions a cross between impending ulcer and hired muscle in ill-fitting suits, guarding the place like it housed the Ark of the Covenant rather than egos and overpriced office furniture. Their eyes scanning the horizon for God knows what — paparazzi? Wild wolves? A rogue Uber Eats guy? Either way, their job was apparently to stand there and look terrifying. Which, to be fair, they nailed.

God, it felt good to be back.

I'd been MIA for a week, battling a spectacularly unglamorous combination of headaches, a cold, a near-death encounter with lemon ginger tea and a cough that made me sound like a chain-smoking banshee.

And now here I was, gloriously gracing the company with my presence. The world, it seemed, would simply have to cope.

Mr. Shan cleared his throat in that not-so-subtle get-your-head-out-of-the-clouds-boss kind of way. It worked. My attention snapped away from the building, the guards, and my reflection in the tinted glass doors. Time to get inside.

I straightened my jacket and marched into the building, exuding the neutrality of a man who didn't give a damn but absolutely did. The guards bowed. As I moved past the access control system, somewhere in my periphery, a pen-stand did indeed hit the floor with a clatter. The receptionist, poor woman, scrambled for her papers, her bow so awkwardly timed it appeared like a half-hearted attempt at modern dance. I was almost certain someone, somewhere, had just launched a mouthful of coffee directly onto a colleague's shirt. Or their face. Could go either way, really.

People were either terrified of me, or allergic to mornings. Possibly both.

Well, Observation was my toxic trait. I noticed tiny, insignificant things that most people wouldn't waste a second on. The exact shade of terror in a junior executive's eyes. The number of sugar cubes in someone's coffee. The faint tremble in a hand trying to pretend it's not trembling. 

It was both my superpower and the reason I'd probably die of an aneurysm by forty.

As we waited in front of the elevator, Mr. Shan decided this was the prime moment to fill me in.

"Sir, the board meeting starts in ten minutes," he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of a man who knew better than to expect punctuality but asked for it anyway. "Negotiations with the foreign brand about the new product launch."

I gave him the look—the one that said, Obviously, Shan. I run this place, remember?—before shifting my gaze back to the glass doors of the elevator, watching the numbers crawl their way down.

"And after the meeting, you'll need to stop by HR," Mr. Shan continued, "They have a new employee engagement strategy. It might improve the quarterly stats."

I arched an eyebrow but said nothing, focusing on the floor numbers blinking slowly above the doors.

Ding.

The elevator arrived, and out stepped two women in what could only be described as business-formal torture devices masquerading as outfits. One gave me a grin so wide it bordered on intimate. I was ninety percent sure I'd never seen her before in my life. The other kept her head down, darting past like I might vaporize her on sight.

Mr. Shan held his hand out to block the censor, and I walked in.

"Then you'll need to review the sales progress on the new handbags and luggage line," Shan continued, still narrating my to-do list as if he was auditioning for Mastermind: Corporate Edition.

I fished out my phone, already tuning him out as I opened Instagram. I didn't need to listen—I already knew what today, tomorrow, and the next six months had in store for me. Being five steps ahead was my brand. It was why half the company admired me, and the other half wanted to drown me in a decorative fountain.

I scrolled through a feed filled with nature shots under the username @IntoTheWilderness. The account was swaddled with natural beauties: Polar bears, Misty forests, Close-ups of suspiciously photogenic foxes, and so on. My eyes darted at the name beneath the profile: Aryan Malhotra.

My best friend.

Also known as wildlife photographer extraordinaire, accidental internet heartthrob, heir to a textile empire he didn't give a single damn about, and the only person on earth who could spend a week in the Amazon and still upload daily Instagram stories with flawless Wi-Fi.

God, I missed him.

It was high time to plan a reunion.

"And then there's lunch," Shan droned. "Followed by a team-building activity."

I nodded vaguely, still staring at a baby elephant photo so aggressively adorable it might have triggered my dormant emotions.

"Polo with Mr. Williams. He requested to meet you."

I smiled, half because of the elephant, half because I knew exactly what Mr. Williams wanted. It was always about acquisitions, or cigars, or complaining about his third wife's spending habits. Or, occasionally, all three.

"And finally… you need to stand outside Sauvé for two minutes," Shan declared, his voice hitching halfway through like even he wasn't buying what he was selling.

I squinted at him. Not a casual squint. This was a squint heavy with judgment and a solid teaspoon of are-you-freaking-kidding-me.

Was he high? Had someone slipped something special into his overpriced oat milk espresso this morning? Because that suggestion reeked of either recreational drugs or a lost bet.

"I'm sorry," I deadpanned, sliding my phone into my pocket and giving him my patented I-don't-have-time-for-your-weirdness look. "Stand outside for two minutes? That's not productive. That's not even… logical. And it's definitely not on my list, Shan."

Before he could defend his nonsense, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal the polished expanse of the 100th floor. I didn't wait. I strode out like a man with a meeting to conquer and a world to mildly intimidate, while Shan shuffled behind me, probably adjusting his glasses and clutching his tablet as if it might protect him from my wrath.

"I know," he babbled, words chasing after me in a panicked tumble, "but this activity is, um, ordered by your mother. She said you had to—"

I stopped dead in my tracks. Which, by the way, was very dangerous because Shan nearly crashed into me and only narrowly avoided it by pulling a ninja sidestep worthy of a slow clap.

I turned to him, one brow arching, my expression pure, undiluted disbelief. "I know my mom is eccentric. Possibly insane. Definitely a little too invested in my love life. But this?" I gestured dramatically at the idea itself, as if plucking it from the air and holding it between my fingers like a bug. "This doesn't even sound like her. And if this turns out to be some dumbass prank, Shan…" I leaned in, lowering my voice, "I will personally set your house—and your life—on fire."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes darting around like the floor might open up and swallow him whole. "Wh-why would I ever prank you, sir?"

I didn't dignify that with an answer. The doors to the big conference room were in sight now, and through the glass walls, I could see the PR team, our foreign collaborators, and one very impatient-looking schedule waiting for me like a time bomb.

I kept walking, tossing a glance over my shoulder. "I don't know. Maybe you're dissatisfied with your salary. Maybe this is a cry for help."

"I—"

"Shut up, Shan," I snapped, not slowing down. I reached the doors, pushed them open, and stepped into the organized chaos of corporate warfare.

The room fell silent as I entered.