Kabir's POV

"Thank you so much for today, Kabir. The photoshoot was completed without a hitch. I'm glad you were able to make time from your schedule." Ishani, the editor for the magazine, said.

"The pleasure is all mine," I said.

I hung the leather jacket I was wearing for the shoot on the rack and turned around. Her sparkling face hinted so much more than I would have cared to acknowledge.

She took a step forward. We were in the dressing room, the lights shone dimly in the room.

"Kabir. . . I was wondering if you would like to. . . you know. . ." She rested her hand on my chest.

Ishani had climbed her way up the ladder to work for one of the top magazines in the country. I wasn't deaf to the rumors about how she climbed up so high.

But I was in no place to judge her choices, I had no right to. No one does. Only what she is doing right now, isn't for some professional gain. It's real. I knew it.

I took her hand in mine. "Ishani, listen to me." Her eyes locked on my face, intent, and admiring. "I can't give you what you want. I'm not the one for you, I know it. There's no point in taking this further than our professional boundaries."

She needed love, care, and devotion. But she was asking for it from the wrong person. All the tender cells in my body were stabbed and discarded.

She smiled and turned around, wiping at her face. "Of course, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that." She walked out of the room.

Soon after she left, I changed into my own clothes, bid my thanks to all the staff, and began towards the First Runners in my car.

Mrs. Sharma had been so adamant about this new project I was expected to be a part of. I was hearing her talk about it for almost an hour last night.

I hoped this project to be as interesting as she had described it to be.

I was to meet her at the office in ten minutes. Throughout the drive to her office, my mind kept going back to what happened in the green room.

Will I ever be able to look at someone and feel that pull, that excitement, that rush? Will I ever look at someone and think, I don't ever want to stop looking at them?

The traffic today was surprisingly low, letting me pull down my window. I needed that brush of morning air on my face to reduce the weight of thoughts on my shoulders.

A sudden sound of a song from my phone snapped me back from my reverie. It was. . . Shakira. As my ringtone. Shakira. As. My. Ringtone.

My prayers for that idiot's brain to be returned failed today as well, and so did my attempts to keep him away from my phone.

I grabbed my phone and blocked the number. Out of my to-do list for today, which usually wasn't that long, finding a new best friend, just jerked its way up to the very first spot.

As I approached the office, I checked my wristwatch; it read 10:15.

When the receptionist saw me on the 10th floor, she pointed to Mrs. Sharma's cabin and told me she was already in there with this new project's designer.

I knocked twice on Mrs. Sharma's door. I walked in.

"Did you call me?" I asked, studying the room. Mrs. Sharma looked radiant. She was practically beaming with happiness to have this woman sit in front of her.

Sitara Roy. The woman whose name every man takes with respect, jealousy, and desire. No one in the world could challenge this woman and not hesitate to quit the next second.

She created that reputation herself. She made sure that's how the world will see her. Ambitious and nothing less.

I had seen her in newspapers, on social media, on television, there was no denying the beauty she possessed. But the moment she turned just enough in her chair to face me, I envied every person who had seen her in person before me.

Her eyes were brilliant depths of coldness and sin. She could cut through your soul and snatch any piece she wanted to taste.

"Kabir, I'm glad you're here. Ms. Roy wanted to talk to you." Mrs. Sharma said.

I wanted to tell her that we were already talking. Discussing. Debating on who should look away first.

Sitara was the sun. You couldn't look longer in fear of the sun being the only thing you see before becoming blind.

So I looked away.

I slowly loosened the hold of my hand on my wrist behind my back and relaxed in my stance.

I kept looking at Mrs. Sharma. I didn't dare look at the sun again. "Of course, that's why I am here."

My boss, Mrs. Sharma, smiled some more. "Great. As I have emailed you all the details, I don't need to tell you everything. You two can sit here and talk and clear if you have any doubts."

I nodded once.

"Ms. Roy has already signed the papers. You can sign it later if you want—"

"I can sign it now."

Mrs. Sharma laughed a little. "Sure. That's great." She pointed at where Sitara was sitting. "She has the papers."

I breathed in and turned my gaze to her.

She hadn't looked away.

My exterior was toughened up over years of practice in this field of work. Sitara was someone who dared to pick it out piece by piece.

Her lips curved up. She smiled. Slightly. She pulled the file of contract towards her, took a pen, and laid it on top of it.

The file was sitting right in front of her now.

I walked near her and took the pen.

My mind clouded itself on reflex as I sensed the proximity between us. She wasn't touching me, but I felt it everywhere in my body.

I was to sign three papers. One from the First Runners, one from Estilo, and one from the law firm binding me to Estilo as its showstopper for the next few months.

I was dangerously aware of Sitara's eyes on me. I took my time hovering next to her, reading the papers without really reading the papers.

I put the pen down once I was done and stepped back. It felt like suddenly being thrown away from a field of flowers and a vineyard—that's what she smelled like. Sweet and delicate, a complete contrast to what she is.

I wanted to breathe her in one more time but I wasn't someone to tease that line between us.

Right?

I imagined the media going nuts whenever this news was to break out.

Kabir Sinha to model at the showstopper's position for Sitara Roy's new and a definite future hit collection, Classic.

The weight of this responsibility wasn't lost on me. I knew my chances to survive a disaster in this fashion event were very slim. I needed to put on my best game to win much more recognition and opportunities.

Many designers, stylists, brands were to attend this event. From the country and outside.

Sitara Roy was planning to jump five steps higher on the stairs of success, and she will make sure her every movement is precise, calculated.

I remembered her face when she briefly brushed upon her goal with this collection.

Whatever wicked had taken over her when she first saw me to make me question my every breath taken in her presence, was gone when she spoke business.

Her no-nonsense tone created an invisible professional wall between us.

I remembered the way she corrected me, with a soft laugh, when I called her 'Ms. Roy'.

"Call me Sitara. We are going to meet a lot more than you would expect. Let's get rid of the formalities."

Those were the first words she had ever said to me. I didn't like the way my throat worked on a swallow hearing her voice.

I threw back my head as I was driving the car, recalling my next words to her.

"Then you should call me Kabir."

We talked for 20 minutes. 20 minutes of standing in front of her, looking down at her in the chair. Those brown eyes holding my gaze.

20 minutes of me questioning my morning thoughts.

We shook hands when she got up to leave.

Mrs. Sharma had left us alone to discuss the terms and conditions.

It was just the two of us in the room for 20 minutes.

I felt the tough exterior falling back into its place when she left the cabin without looking back.

My phone once again started playing Shakira, breaking my film of events.

I didn't bother looking at the number, as I knew he had almost five of them at hand.

I parked in the parking and took the elevator to his office floor.

When I entered the refreshing atmosphere only his office can have, I was greeted by the receptionist. She was used to it by now—me barging in once in while to yell at her boss.

I entered his cabin. "You fucking donkey!"