Rudra had just taken a sip of water, trying to calm the faint heat still lingering from Ayaan's whispered "love you" over the phone. He set the glass down on his desk, deep in thought.
And then it happened.
A sharp, unexpected cough erupted from him. He coughed again—harder. Water sprayed across the desk. His chest heaved violently for a second.
"Sir?!" Meera's voice cracked, panicked.
Rudra's hand shot to his throat. His eyes widened. For one terrifying moment, everyone in the office thought the unflappable, untouchable Rudra Malhotra—the man feared across thirty floors—was choking.
"Breathe… breathe!" one of the assistants shouted, scrambling forward with a paper cup in hand.
"Call—someone—help!" another stammered, voice shaking so badly it sounded like a squeak.
Rudra's senior manager nearly knocked over his own chair trying to reach him. "Sir! Sir, are you—?!"
But Rudra, for all his internal chaos, was barely phased. In a few controlled, deliberate breaths, he managed to swallow the water, cough once more, and straighten.
"I am fine," he said calmly, voice level, eyes sharp as daggers—but just the slightest hint of residual red on his cheeks betrayed the panic that had flared inside him.
The office froze.
Meera gasped.
The assistants hovered nervously.
Even the janitor halfway down the floor froze mid-sweep.
Thirty floors of employees, executives, and support staff stared at him, pale as ghosts.
Finally, Rudra leaned back in his chair, picked up his pen, and continued working as if nothing had happened.
But the aftermath was palpable: whispered curses, frantic glances, and a shared, unspoken thought in the minds of everyone present:
We almost watched the impossible—Rudra Malhotra—die over water.
And somewhere, tucked quietly, a small, unreadable smirk played at the corner of Rudra's lips. Only he knew why.