ADHURI KAHANI: A tale of an amnesic bond

58. THE BAD NEWS

INAAYA'S POV

I leaned back in my chair, letting out a sigh of relief as I stretched my arms overhead. Hours of back-to-back tasks had left my body stiff, but there was also a small sense of accomplishment. Joining the marketing team had been a change I hadn't anticipated, but to my surprise, it was seamless. The team had welcomed me with open arms, their camaraderie making it easy to feel at home. Most of them were familiar faces from previous interactions, and Raghav, true to his nature, had gone out of his way to make things even smoother. He'd practically taken me under his wing, guiding me through the initial weeks. But no matter how comfortable I felt here, I couldn't help but miss my old cabin upstairs. It wasn't just the space itself—the polished desk, the quiet solitude—it was the view that came with it. The view of someone seated at their desk, utterly engrossed in a file, with furrowed brows and an air of quiet authority. That memory played in my mind more often than I cared to admit, tugging at my thoughts when I least expected it.

Since that day in the cafeteria, when our conversation was so abruptly interrupted, we hadn't had a chance to talk properly. I'd caught fleeting glimpses here and there, but they were just that—glimpses. Short-lived, stolen moments that left me longing for more. Still, I couldn't deny that being in the marketing team felt like a pivotal step for me. It aligned closely with my major, giving me the chance to grow in ways that mattered. I'd thrown myself into the work, finding fulfillment in the challenge and satisfaction in being part of a team that valued my input.

I pushed back my chair, standing up with a stretch before deciding to head to the cafeteria on this floor. My craving for butterscotch ice cream was too strong to ignore. However, when I opened the fridge, disappointment hit me like a wave—there wasn't any butterscotch ice cream left. My mood instantly soured at the sight of empty shelves where my favorite flavor should have been. But just as quickly as my spirits fell, a hopeful thought crossed my mind. Maybe the cafeteria on the upper floor still has some. It wasn't as frequently visited, and I distinctly remembered spotting a few tubs of butterscotch ice cream there the last time I'd been upstairs.

A small spark of excitement stirred in me as I made my way towards the elevator, my steps quickening with anticipation. It wasn't just the thought of indulging in the creamy sweetness of butterscotch that lifted my mood—it was also the possibility of catching a glimpse of someone I hadn't seen in days. I still don't think he's regained his memories. It feels more like he's developed a liking for me after coming here. Though, him calling me Plum makes me question it sometimes. But he hasn't given me any clear sign that he remembers our past, so until he tells me otherwise, I'll assume he doesn't.

That brings me to a difficult question: should I tell him about our shared past or not? I wanted to tell him that day, but I hesitated. I'm not sure how he would react once he finds out that his parents and friends kept everything from him. I don't want him to lose his relationships with the people he's closest to because of this revelation.

At the same time, I can't shake the feeling that I'm deceiving him by not telling the truth. It's as though I'm withholding a piece of himself that he has every right to know. But would telling him only create more chaos, or would it bring us closer together? I can't decide what's right, and the weight of this secret is growing heavier with every passing day.

I made my way toward the cafeteria, passing by the COO's office on the way. He rarely comes to the office, opting to work from home most of the time so he can take care of his daughter. Public events aren't his thing; he prefers to stay focused on work, which is probably why Ishaan hired him in the first place.

Zidaan—that's his name. I've only met him once or twice in the past few months. He seems like a kind and grounded man, someone who values his responsibilities both as a father and as a professional. And his daughter? She's absolutely adorable—the kind of kid whose smile can light up a room.