Match Made in Scandal

Yuvaan Grewal

The delegates — a colorful mix of PR flunkies, the HR dragon lady, and a squad of foreign affairs agents who appeared as if they'd rather be anywhere else — stood in their designated spots, their expressions a well-practiced cocktail of reverence and boredom. I plastered on my best diplomatic smile and made a beeline for my ridiculously ostentatious, royal high-back chair.

I gave a little hand flourish to signal they could sit. 

And then the silence of room started suffocating my nerves. The only sound in the vast room was the relentless, passive-aggressive ticking of the clock behind me. 

Why wasn't anyone speaking? Were they expecting me to sacrifice a goat to break the ice? Crack a dad joke? Recite a haiku about quarterly targets?

The weirdness was thickening by the second.

I cleared my throat, because someone had to be the adult here. "So, Britney," I started, my tone the professional kind of firm that said I mean business, but I also might stab someone with a letter opener before lunch, "what's the latest on our revenue and product progress?"

Britney—red hair like a defiant flame, dark brown eyes that could probably pierce through steel, a wardrobe that could headline its own fashion week, and enough sass to fuel a Netflix rom-com saga—shifted in her chair as if it had suddenly developed spikes. She coughed, adjusted her round spectacles in a way that definitely wasn't required, and then… said absolutely nothing.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Exhaled, long and slow.

Fantastic. My Chief Financial Officer had apparently decided now was a great time to take a vow of silence.

Maybe she needed a moment. Sure. People choke under pressure all the time. Or maybe she'd misplaced her voice along with the budget forecast. Either way, I wasn't about to push it.

Not yet.

I turned my gaze toward Mr. Jones, our long-time collaborator, resident office sage, and unofficial emotional support human. Honestly, the man had been around so long he practically had his own designated chair in every meeting room—and a permanent parking spot in the chaos of our corporate lives. He was less of a colleague and more of an immortal being who'd quietly witnessed the fall of the business, strategic disasters, and skyrocketing success.

"Mr. Jones," I drawled, dragging his name out just long enough to make it clear he was on deck, "what are your thoughts on the collaboration with Creces Company? Since you've survived more business drama with me than anyone here, I figure your opinion might actually keep us out of a tabloid headline this time."

Jones blinked at me. That was it. One solitary, tortoise-slow blink. The kind people do when they're rebooting their brain or pretending to process a question they have no intention of answering. His mouth opened slightly — a hopeful little preamble — and then, like a glitching robot, he shut it again.

What the actual—

I felt the muscle in my jaw twitch as I swiveled my gaze to Marsha from PR — a woman who never, never passed up a chance to give a long-winded, jargon-infested report about public perception metrics and social engagement impact frameworks. Normally, I had to mentally disassociate halfway through her updates just to survive them.

"Marsha," I said, the syllables sharp and direct. "Any insights on how the new product line is being received publicly? Anything? A meme? An angry tweet? A skywritten insult over the city? Throw me a bone here."

She straightened in her seat, fiddled with the chunky bracelet on her wrist that probably doubled as a self-defense weapon, opened her heavily glossed mouth—and then, miraculously, tragically, horrifyingly… said nothing. Not a word. Not even one of her trademark throat-clearing hums.

The room was now so quiet it felt like the air itself was holding its breath. I could practically hear my own pulse pounding in my ears. The godforsaken clock behind me kept ticking, each second punctuating my rising irritation like an insult.

I pivoted to Derek from Foreign Affairs — a man with the people skills of a potted plant and an uncanny resemblance to a confused meerkat. Surely, surely Derek would have something to say. The man once gave a ten-minute monologue about the company's travel policy updates, complete with visual aids and an impassioned closing argument.

"Derek," I snapped, my voice cracking like a whip. "Tell me what's happening with the Creces contract approvals. Is it signed? Are we courting legal Armageddon? What's the status?"

He blinked, shifted in his chair, looked down at his notes, and then — the final insult — pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and stared at me as if I'd asked him to recite Shakespeare backwards in Mandarin.

Nothing.

I felt my blood pressure spike to what I could only assume was an award-winning number. My face must've done something alarming because a couple of people visibly flinched.

"What the hell is wrong with all of you?" I demanded. "Is this a mime convention? A group vow of silence? Did I miss the company-wide email titled 'Operation Ghost The Boss'?"

No one answered. Not a head nodded. Not a cough. Not a throat clear. It was like directing a room full of wax statues. Very disconcerting, and I was half a breath away from grabbing the fire alarm just to see if they'd flinch.

I threw my hands up in pure exasperation. "I swear, if one of you doesn't start speaking in the next ten seconds, I'm confiscating everyone's snack privileges for a month."

Still. Bloody. Silence.

Just then, Mr. Jones — ever the embodiment of unsettling calm — opened his ancient laptop, and the massive projector screen at the front of the room flickered to life. Well, sort of. It blinked once. Twice. Then it went blank. Followed, it made a heroic attempt to boot up again, only to fail harder than last attempt.

A random notification pinged. The screen blinked back on.

What in the name of all things holy was this man doing?

I sent a death stare at him as if his very existence offended my senses. Which, at this point, it kind of did.

And then screen blinked to life again, this time with zoom call.

A Zoom call. Live. Projected. On. The. Damn. Screen.

And who should appear, looming like a benevolent, herbal-tea-sipping apparition from the other side of the internet? My mother. My actual, biological, beautiful, silver-fox-aged mother. Adjusting her laptop with the grace of a woman who'd spent her youth fighting off suitors and now fought off poor Wi-Fi.

"What the eff," I muttered under my breath, a phrase which, in hindsight, should have been my life's tagline.

"Mom, what the hell is this? I'm in a meeting."

"Which meeting are you talking about, son?" she asked, as though I'd just confessed to seeing unicorns in the lobby.

I jabbed a finger toward the very roomful of people who, to their credit, still hadn't said a damn word. A room of expensive suits and thousand-yard stares. "This. This meeting. The one that was happening until your Bond villain Zoom ambush."

"Oh," she said breezily, taking a delicate sip of her never-ending herbal tea. "That's not happening anymore. You don't have any meetings today."

I squinted harder, stomach doing that thing where it preemptively tightens in self-defense. I knew this tone. I hated this tone. This was the tone she used when she was about to drop some cryptic, life-upending truth bomb on me.

"I have to—"

"Everyone," she announced cheerfully, cutting me off like I was a background extra in my own movie, "Yuvaan will be taking a day off today. Kindly see yourselves out."

And just like that — poof. The delegates began packing up no less than trained actors in a dystopian play. Chairs scraped back. Papers shuffled. Not a single person made eye contact with me, probably because they knew better than to witness my oncoming breakdown.

Mr. Jones remained seated, of course. It was his damn laptop hosting the digital coup.

I gaped at the scene like a man who'd just been evicted from his own kingdom via video call.

"What is this, mom?" I demanded, gesturing helplessly as people filed out like loyal minions obeying the supreme overlord. "You can't just storm in on a live meeting and cancel my day."

"I can," she smiled sweetly. "I did."

"No," I shot back, waving a hand like a deranged traffic cop. "Seriously. Why? What—"

"Shh," she said, holding up a hand like I was a chatty toddler. "Listen to me for once. Work's an endless treadmill, Yuvaan. You're chasing a moving finish line. It's a never-ending cycle. And frankly, you're one bad report away from a full-blown mental implosion."

I scowled. "I don't need a break. And FYI, I already took seven days off."

"That wasn't a break," she countered, voice turning sharp. "That was you being violently ill and working from bed like a fool. There's a difference."

"Same thing to me."

"Well, it shouldn't be."

I glared at the screen. She took another smug sip of her witch's brew and smiled.

"Here's the plan," she declared, and I braced for impact. "I want you to go downstairs, step outside this building for a healthy two minutes — two minutes, Yuvaan — soak up some sun, touch some grass, remember what the sky looks like, and then… boom. Surprise."

I blinked. Opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "No," I finally ground out, barely restraining my inner spiral. "No, I am not doing that. That's ridiculous. And more importantly, it sounds like a colossal waste of time."

She gave me a look. That look. The one that suggested if I didn't cooperate, she'd ground me. And the terrifying part? I was a thirty-three-year-old CEO and I still, somehow, lived in terror of that look.

"Yuvaan," she cooed in a voice that could convince a navy fleet to surrender. "It's two minutes. Not a year-long sabbatical in the Himalayas."

I threw my hands up. "I don't have two minutes. Do you have any idea how much is on my plate today? Meetings, approvals, contract signings—"

She waved a dismissive hand, like I'd just listed the world's most boring chores. "Nothing that can't wait. And I have already cleared today's tasks for you."

I clenched my jaw so tight it might've cracked a molar. "This is my company too, Mom. You can't just steamroll over my schedule like this."

Her smile was pure weaponized serenity. "And yet, here we are."

I glared at the screen. "I don't need fresh air. Or grass. Or sunlight. I need to finish the Creces deal and—"

"Mr. Shan will handle it," she replied smoothly.

I shot a glance at Mr. Shan, who was standing right beside me. He gave a noncommittal shrug, and threw me a long, unwavering gaze that said: See? I told you this wasn't a drill. Or a prank. Or some weird HR trust exercise.

I scoffed so hard my ribs might've rattled.

"Fine. Whatever," I bit out, pushing my chair back with enough force to make a satisfying scrape against the floor.

The Zoom call mercifully cut off with a soft ding. Mr. Jones — that quiet old fox — closed his laptop, gave me a stiff bow as if we were suddenly in a period drama, and he then ghosted out the door before I could hurl a single passive-aggressive comment his way.

"I'll take care of the revenue reports and the contract signing deal," Mr. Shan offered, gesturing toward the exit no less than a smug yo-yo ushering me to my own funeral.

I scoffed harder, throwing him the kind of glare that could bleach fabric. "Yeah, yeah. And I'll make sure you don't get a full night's sleep until Christmas. Maybe until next year's Christmas. Hell, I'll make sure your entire life feels like an upside-down reality show hosted by Satan."

He swallowed audibly, blinking fast. "That's your—"

"Mother's order," I snapped, slicing through his sentence like a guillotine. "It's always her call, isn't it? Everything's about what she wants. Cute system you've got going." I leaned in, letting my voice drop into that dangerous, almost-whisper register that made people instinctively check for an escape route. "Just a friendly reminder, genius. You work for me. Not her. Ever heard of this ancient, possibly mythical concept called loyalty? Or is that too old-school for you?"

"I… right… should," he stammered, fidgeting no less than a man being threatened by an armed porcupine. "Sorry, boss."

I squeezed my eyes shut, took a breath so deep it could qualify as a desperate plea to the universe, and summoned every ounce of inner Zen I did not, in fact, possess. Then, with one final, soul-piercing death glare and stormed out of that godforsaken room as if I was headlining a dramatic royal exile.

The second my Italian leather shoes hit the pavement outside the company, a wave of disgust hit me square in the face. The sun was a blazing ball of aggression, and it felt like the universe itself was leaning down to sweat on me. I loathed wasting time. It physically offended me. I could be in a meeting right now. Or three. PowerPoint presentations to glare at. Projections to bark at. Numbers to make bleed. Instead, here I was—standing on a sidewalk in a suit so sharp it could file a restraining order against the weather, looking like I was auditioning for a tragic indie film about a jaded billionaire losing his grip on reality.

And where the hell was this so-called surprise?

If this turned out to be one of my mother's "life lesson" setups, I was going to reply to every message she ever sent me from this moment on with one word: No.

A minute passed.

I stood there, baking alive, watching pedestrians stroll by like they weren't witnessing the most bizarre corporate scene of the decade. Their eyes darted to me and then away again, as if afraid that making direct eye contact would infect them with responsibility.

I could practically hear them thinking: Isn't that the president of Sauve Group? What's he doing out here? Waiting for a bird to poop on him?

I gritted my teeth and remembered my mother's words: Soak in the sun, look at the sky, relax.

Right. Sure. Maybe those were code words for… I don't know, the surprise detonating nearby or a confetti cannon going off.

God, I hated this.

But fine. If this was the way to see whatever was meant to happen so I could get back to work faster, so be it.

I tilted my head back, glared at the vast blue sky, spotted a plane slicing through it like a silver bullet, and sighed. My shoulders loosened up and tension dropped half a percent. I was still annoyed, but I wasn't actively plotting world domination anymore.

And then — it happened.

A matte-black limo appeared out of nowhere, sleek and sinister, like something out of a Mob Boss's fever dream. It sped up, took a drift that screamed illegal and expensive tires, and screeched to a stop right in front of me.

Before my brain could string together a single what the hell, three enormous guys jumped out. Six-foot-five minimum, built like refrigerators. Either they were personal bodyguards or professional criminals. Frankly, it was a coin toss.

Two of them lunged forward and grabbed me like I weighed nothing, and I instantly transformed from High-Powered President to Outraged Hostage.

"Hey—what the hell do you think you're doing?!" I shouted, jerking against them like a lightweight scarecrow with a superiority complex. "You protein-overdosed psychos better start explaining yourselves before I bankrupt every one of your ancestors!"

I kicked, twisted, and might have landed a solid elbow somewhere vital, judging by the guttural bear-growl one of them let out.

"Put me down, you sentient brick walls! This isn't a charity mugging! It's illegal!"

Somewhere in the chaos, the third one slapped a blindfold over my eyes. The world went dark. My stomach dropped into my expensive shoes. I was unceremoniously hauled into the limo, the door slammed shut with the finality of a guillotine blade, and my brain settled on a single, rational conclusion:

If this is a kidnapping, I sincerely hope they brought snacks.