THE MANAGER NIM

66. ENRAGED TIGERS

I'm breathless with anger as I step out of this fancy Limousine. Fury roars through my mind, how can a grown-up still be ordered around like a five-year-old? Perhaps, when one's father is a tyrant, the child is gotta be his puppet, I guess. I'm his puppet and he pulls the strings the way he wants. From the shade of my shoes to the model of the Limousine I just climbed out of; everything stands like a reminder that every one of them was chosen by Mr. Mahadevan Fernando and not by me, Maaran Mahadevan Fernando, including my career. I never wanted to be here, as a CFO or as a CEO's son.

These glitters and flashlights blind me, attending these lustrous events filled with plastic smiles and lunatic billionaires, in crisp suits that clutch my throat, I abhor and despise all these with all my heart. I just want to be at home with my paints, palates, comfily cladded in one of my paints smeared aprons, with those paintings that speak my soul's language.

The moment I enter the grand hall, every head swivels in my direction, and a fresh wave of murmurs floods through the room. Every eye that meets mine curves into a sweet smile, as if I can't read their covetous plans veiled beneath those sickening smiles. I already know how this evening is going to be, listening to all the crappy ideas these shitheads concocted with their bonehead partners and deciding the future investment projects like a wise businessman, like Mr. Mahadevan. At least that is what my father told me I would be doing tonight. There won't be a single soul to whom I can confide about my hatred for this place, for my job, for my father. I have to walk through this clamorous crowd with a poker face, and gritted teeth, keeping my frustration in check.

I perceive an elegant figure in the distance, which seems like a well-known face. Shit, is that IU?

This is going to go down in Maaran's history as one of the worst nights, good god!

I avert my gaze from her direction and my eyes drift in the air, accessing the crowd gathered. I do know I'm just transposing my anger on my autocratic father and my candy-ass self towards these common humans, but something about these so-called artists triggers me. Perhaps, I might stop hating them when an artist with a paintbrush receives more popularity and a glorious fanfare, grander than any singer and actor.

I walk past the yearning men and zealous women and I see her, sitting in the corner. By accident? By god's grace? By fate? I can't point my finger at the exact reason behind this phenomenon, but I know what it's called,

A miracle!

Is she really here, a few meters away from me? Is it even possible? Am I hallucinating? The loop of questions arises like distant sea waves, one after another ceaselessly, while I walk towards her.

If it's really her, now she will turn around with a gaze that will burn me alive.

"Hey princess, we met again!"

It's her! It's really her! Those beautiful almond eyes betray the rage that is consuming her entirely, just like the other day. I can sense her anger spiking at a tremendous rate, but for some reason, it prompts me even more. Why am I smiling like an idiot? Why happiness is swelling inside me like a tide? What is she? What did she do to the anger and hatred I specially reserved for this night?

What a witch!

A beautiful witch!

_

"YOU?!" is all you can say because your mind is already occupied with the thoughts of shooting and stabbing him.

"So, my seventh sense was right! Woah, I do possess some super power I guess!" he says with a handsome smile that infuriates every cell in your body.

"Why are you here? Did he send you just to ruin my night even more? The vengeance that guy holds against me for not believing his existence is just too much to digest." Your words escape through your gritted teeth as a mere whisper. You can perceive how all the eyes and ears are turned in your direction all of a sudden.