“I’m going to figure this out. I don’t want you to worry. I will not let it happen. You have to trust me.” Finally she looked at Vansh, and he had the gall to look concerned. She held up a finger at him. “Get inside my office right now.”

“I’m already in your—”

“Shut up.” She stormed through the door, forcing him to back up, and turned to her gaping colleagues. “Can you give Hari the tour while I take care of this?”

Mariel nodded, and for once did not offer a conflicting opinion on the matter.

Naina shut the door with deliberate gentleness, because shattering doors by slamming them seemed far too tempting right now.

How could you stab me in the back? she wanted to scream. Instead she kept her voice steady. “I cannot believe you just did that in front of my team. This project is their life. My life!”

“I tried to tell you in private,” he said too gently. “You’re the one who insisted on having the conversation with everyone present.”

She took a breath. She had to calm down. Why was her office so pink? Why was that fact irritating the shit out of her right now?

“Don’t try this with me, Vansh. Don’t think you can manipulate me just because . . . because . . .” She wanted to say because we’re friends. But she had no idea what they were. It wasn’t something she’d ever given a thought to.

Every single moment of their last encounter flashed in his eyes. Dear God, why had she done that? She was never drinking again. Not ever.

“I’m not manipulating you,” he said as though she were a wild horse and he were some sort of animal whisperer.

He tried to take a step toward her, and she spun around, went to her desk, and dropped into the hot-pink chair. The desk was not nearly large enough to put enough distance between them.

“You are. You wanted your way. You wanted to barge in here, and you knew I wouldn’t see you, so you dropped that bomb in front of everyone. That qualifies as pretty straightforward, garden-variety manipulation.”

He crossed his arms. Even for a meeting like this he’d worn one of his undersized shirts. Solid navy, basic cotton, no logo, not even a pocket, and old-fashioned jeans that draped his hips in an adoring hug. Who dressed this carelessly when so much was at stake?

Someone who knew the power of the biceps that were bulging under the muscle shirt. That’s who. Someone who didn’t need to dress up to be taken seriously. That’s who. Someone who didn’t even need to be taken seriously to get what he wanted.

“Oh, and congratulations on being the new face of the Omnivore Foundation. Thanks for giving me a heads-up about Mehta making that announcement.”