Her route to the office was on foot — twenty-two minutes, two main roads, three lane changes, consistently the same. This was the thing that concerned him most in the first week: her routines were disciplined and therefore predictable, and predictable routines were a protection officer's nightmare because they gave any threat actor a schedule to work from.
Rohit Kapoor appeared on Day Four.
He arrived at the office at seven PM in a black BMW — exactly the right car for someone who had money and wanted it known but had enough taste to avoid the more aggressive displays. He was thirty-five, well-maintained in the specific way of men who had access to good tailoring and consistent gym time, with the ease of bearing that came from a lifetime of being in rooms where people deferred to you. He was also — Arjun registered this immediately — handsome in a deliberate way, the handsomeness of someone who had understood early that their face was a professional asset.
He brought flowers. Roses — a dozen, the correct dozen, neither extravagant nor token. He was good at calibration. Very good at the specific amount of everything.
From the corridor, through the slightly-open office door, he could hear them. Rohit's voice was warm, easy, the voice of a man who was comfortable making people feel attended to. He asked about her day, her project, a meeting she had mentioned in the morning. He remembered details. He was the kind of partner who listened and retained — a quality that was either genuine or very well-practised, and from corridor distance Arjun could not determine which.
What he could determine: she was warmer with Rohit than she was with most people. Less guarded. She laughed at something he said — a real laugh, not managed. She touched his arm when she made a point, the easy physical habit of someone comfortable with a person. She was in love with him, or something that was doing a very convincing impression of it.
