“The company was a recommendation. We won’t make the same mistake again.”

“Yes, sir,” Sri said.

“And after you’re done, talk to our new SVP of legal about what can nullify our noncompete agreement with the company. Then reach out to the consultants and offer a job at double the salary to work for us directly. Be honest. Tell them that their boss didn’t act in good faith. If we have to publicize this bullshit to hire those contractors, let’s do it. Communications can help.”

This time Raj gasped. She reached out to snatch the phone from his hand, but Ajay was already hanging up.

“You son of a bitch,” she said, shoving at his shoulder. “What gives you the right—”

“You did,” he replied, and tucked his phone away. He took a few steps backward before turning on his heel. “I’m neither easy prey in business nor your personal fuck boy, Raj. Don’t underestimate me again.”

He didn’t bother seeing if she’d follow him this time. He had to go back to the fundraiser and make an appearance.

He was there for Bharat and for his father. His family legacy was the most important thing in his life and no woman would ever change that.

Chapter Three
Rajneet

Raj dropped her bag on the foyer console table with a loud thud, and slipped into her heels. She was going to be late for her lunch with Mina.

It had been a week since the fundraiser, and she was still dealing with a loss of revenue and employees thanks to her conversation with Ajay Singh. He’d gotten under her skin, and now that she was missing four of her top employees, she was reminded of him every time her human resources team sent her a new hire for approval. She had a bunch of projects on her plate, and backfilling roles was not supposed to be one of them.

She had to explain herself to Mina, too. She hated explaining herself, even to people she considered her best friends.

“Kaka, was my dry cleaning delivered?” she called out. The cavernous four-thousand-square-foot brownstone echoed in silence. She waited another moment before she repeated her question in Punjabi.

Her frail caretaker popped up at the end of the hall. He had a spatula in his hand and a dishcloth draped over his shoulder. His pagadi, tied in a very regal fashion, matched the color of his beige sweater vest.

“Always shouting, just like when you were a wild little girl,” he said as he hobbled forward. “Yes, yes, your clothes are in that apartment you call a closet. I asked the dry cleaners why they shrank all of them, but apparently that was your size. If your grandmother could see you now.”