First day at a new job? Please. It’s like walking into a party where you don’t know if you’re the guest of honor or the main course. Exciting? Sure. Terrifying? Only if you’re weak. And Manvi Mishra was many things—but weak wasn’t one of them.
She smirked at her reflection in the mirror. The blush-pink blouse hugged her curves with a confidence that shouted promotion material, while her black pencil skirt had the audacity to fit like it was sewn by angels on commission. And the curls? Flawless. A spritz of perfume—just enough to make people lean in when she walked by.
The elevator pinged. “Okay, boss girl,” she muttered under her breath. “Let’s not trip before we conquer.”
Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she walked through the glass doors of Avenir Corporate. She spotted the receptionist, a tall woman with perfectly drawn eyeliner and a smile that could slice through glass.
“Hi, I’m Manvi Mishra. I’m joining as a business analyst—” Manvi fumbled. The words tripped out of her mouth like nervous schoolchildren. Great. Nailed it. First impression = zero. She hadn’t fumbled like that since her first college presentation. But with the AC set to “Antarctica” and a jasmine-scented lobby? It was basically the exam hall flashbacks all over again.
The receptionist, Priya, smiled. Too wide. Too practiced. Her eyes did that subtle once-over thing women do when they’re deciding if you’re competition. It paused to suggest silent judgment. Her eyes skimmed over Manvi’s outfit, blouse to heels.
Yes, I have curves. No, I’m not apologizing for them.
“We’ve been expecting you,” Priya chirped, handing over a badge. Priya handed her a printed list. “Welcome to Avenir. The training room is through that door to your left. Ms. Raina is waiting for you.”
Manvi straightened her skirt—a power move—and walked in like she owned 8% of the company.
30% hike. Chosen over people with 15 years of experience. I earned this. And no micro-smirk from a receptionist is going to shake that.
The training room buzzed with polite chatter. Names flew across the room like paper planes, none sticking. What did stick, however, were the looks. Some curious. Some jealous. Some from the men who’d already mentally rewritten their LinkedIn status to “In a relationship.”
Manvi smiled to herself. Welcome to the era of curves, ladies and gentlemen. Move over, size zero. It’s Nora Fatehi, Tamannaah Bhatia… and yours truly.
“Good morning, everyone. I’m Raina, your immediate manager,” a petite woman announced, striding into the room—five feet of pure, caffeinated intensity.
Raina launched into training, talking about company policies, discipline, and dress codes, sprinkling motivational quotes like confetti. Manvi noticed how Raina’s eyes dipped to her blouse for half a second too long.
Oh, we’re already having the silent “cover up” conversation. Cute. I’ll add it to my list of things I don’t care about.
The door swung open, and a man walked in like the room had been holding its breath for him. Clean-shaven. Confident. The kind of presence that made spines straighten without permission.
“Everyone, this is Mehul,” Raina said, her tone softening. “He’s my reporting manager and your go-to person when I’m not around.”
“Hi, everyone,” Mehul said, flashing a polite smile that felt just a tad dangerous. “Welcome aboard. I’ll take over your technical session tomorrow. Meanwhile, don’t hesitate to ask for help. We’ve all been the newbie once.”
Then his eyes landed on Manvi. Not a glance. A pause. This was a ‘you’re interesting’ kind of look. And just like that? She wasn’t new anymore. She was noticed.
He left fast. But that look? That stuck around.
Raina continued her session. Manvi made notes, not just of what Raina explained, but also on people. Who spoke. Who noticed her. Who avoided her. Who was smart. Who was dumb.
By 1 PM, Manvi’s stomach was staging a mutiny. The cafeteria spread? Decent. She grabbed her tray—two desserts, because self-love—and turned around. Problem. Where the hell do I sit?
She stood there, tray in hand, pretending to scroll through her phone, cheeks warming. Wow. I’ve survived job interviews, but apparently not the trauma of the high-school lunch table.
“First days can be overwhelming,” came a voice.
She turned. Mehul.
“Yeah,” she said, instantly hating how shy her voice sounded. “It’s… a lot. Different from my last job. And this place has more rules than my mother’s WhatsApp forwards.”
“You’ll get it,” he said with quiet certainty. “You strike me as someone smart enough to figure things out.”
Compliment or flirtation? Or am I hallucinating? Manvi’s brain short-circuited. Normally, she only entertained guys built like Marvel heroes. Mehul? Not that.
“Wow. Do you rehearse these motivational quotes, or do they just fall out of you naturally?” Manvi teased.
“Depends. Is it working?” He grinned.
“On who? The HR handbook?” she shot back.
“Sit. Before someone mistakes you for a lost intern.” He pulled out a chair.
“Let me guess—you’re here to warn me about Raina’s ‘no personality’ dress code.” She dropped into the chair opposite him.
“Please. Raina still thinks ‘LinkedIn influencer’ is a job title.” He stole a grape from her tray. “But that blouse? Dangerous choice. You’ll give her a PowerPoint about ‘appropriate workplace attire’ by Friday.”
“Good. I look fantastic in slideshows.” She smirked, flipping her hair.
They talked. Joked. Mocked the company rules like they were old friends.
“Two desserts?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
“Strategic,” she said. “If this job sucks, at least the tiramisu won’t.”
“A realist. Raina’s gonna hate you,” he said, his eyes crinkling.
“Not my problem. Unless you plan to tattle over margaritas later.” She smirked.
“Only if you promise to argue with me about it.” His eyes widened.
A beat. Oh. That wasn’t just flirting. That was a challenge.
“Careful. I argue like I dress—to win.” She arched her eyebrow.
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Mehul grinned.
45 minutes vanished like 5. The conversation flowed like they’d known each other forever. He asked about her college, her hobbies, Instagram (yes, he noticed she’s the “selfie with coffee” type). And he listened—actually listened. No fireworks. No cheesy “he’s the one” music. Just… easy. Like they’d known each other forever.
“You’ll do well here,” he said at the end, standing with his tray. “And hey, don’t hesitate to reach out. I meant it.”
Oh, that tone? That was new. Manvi too picked up her tray and put it in the trash can. She took some pictures for her Instagram post and proceeded to the training room again.
The day wound down with a blur of policies, handbooks, and Raina’s overly cheerful lectures. Manvi signed up for the office cab—she was too tired to risk the city chaos every morning.
The minute she sank into the backseat, she did what any modern queen would do: curate the day for Instagram. A snap of the office lobby (#CorporateGoals), a selfie where the lighting adored her (#BossVibes), and a boomerang of her coffee cup (#FirstDayEnergy). Her followers needed to know she was thriving.
Traffic was brutal, but by the time she reached home, she was officially done. Not tired. Done.
“Home sweet home,” she muttered, already reaching for the food delivery app. Grilled paneer, soup, and maybe some fries because… why not? Cooking? Please. Day one survivors don’t cook.
She FaceTimed her mother.
“Ma, I survived!” she declared dramatically.
Her mom laughed. “Of course, you did. How was it? Did they like you?”
“Better than I expected. Oh—and there’s this manager, Mehul. He’s… helpful. Sat with me during lunch.”
“Helpful, hmm?” her mother teased.
“Ma! He’s just… nice.”
She switched on Mean Girls because classics deserve rewatching. She mouthed the iconic lines, finishing her dinner.
Then came the pièce de résistance—a long, unapologetically hot bath. Steam wrapped around her like a hug that whispered, Girl, you killed it today.
Fresh out of the bath, wrapped in soft pajamas, she checked her phone. A WhatsApp message. From Mehul??
Mehul: How was your first day? Hope you survived the chaos. And I hope I didn’t bore you at lunch 😉.
Manvi’s lips curved into a smile. Oh, this guy is flirting. And I like it.
Manvi: Bore me? Cute. You can sit with me tomorrow—if you bring better conversation 😏.
She hit send, warmth curling in her chest.
A reply pinged almost instantly.
Mehul: Deal. I’ll throw in some free advice 🤓.
Manvi: Like? 🤔
Mehul: Avoid the file room between 1-2 PM. That’s when the VP of Sales “meditates” 🙄.
Manvi snorted.
Manvi: Define “meditates” 😂.
Mehul: Loud phone calls to his divorce lawyer 📞💔.
She grinned at the screen.
Manvi: Now that’s the kind of insider info I can use. Got any more? 😉
Mehul: Plenty. But I charge extra for the really good stuff 💵.
Manvi: What if I promise to laugh at all your jokes? 🤭
Mehul: Then be ready to laugh your guts out at lunch tomorrow 😎.
Manvi: Tomorrow then… ✨
Tomorrow, she decided, she was going to flirt back—with intention. Game on.
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