Equation

Mansi Raihan

Part 1: Pitch or Personal?

“So, what makes you think this will work?” Anna Sanyal’s voice was crisp, like glass about to crack. She leaned forward slightly, her blazer immaculate, fingers tapping a silver pen on the mahogany table.

Ridhim Guhathakurta cleared his throat. “We’ve run a closed beta in Salt Lake with 500 users. Forty percent retention in 7 days, sixty percent reorder rate.”

“That’s data,” Anna said flatly. “I’m asking belief.”

“I believe,” he said, eyes steady. “Because I know what it’s like to wait forty minutes for overpriced biryani from an app that doesn’t care. We built Yummish to be human-first. Cheaper, faster, and… intimate.”

“Intimate?” Her eyebrow arched.

“With food,” Ridhim grinned. “Not investors.”

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Interesting branding.”

He leaned back, crossing his legs. “We’re not solving logistics. We’re solving hunger, memory, impulse. People don’t crave calories. They crave their grandmother’s Sunday kosha mangsho at 2 a.m.”

Anna didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze drifted to the cityscape outside her 19th-floor office. Kolkata looked quiet today, dulled in pre-monsoon haze.

“Your deck says you need a $150K runway for 14 months?” she asked, turning back.

“Fourteen if we’re careful. Twelve if we’re bold.”

“And what’s your personal runway, Mr. Guhathakurta?”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re young. You’ll burn out if this fails. What’s your backup?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “This is the backup. The plan, the dream, the last card.”

Anna scribbled something in her Moleskine. The silence stretched. Ridhim shifted slightly, then decided not to fill the void.

After a long beat, she looked up. “I’ll be honest. You’ve got charm. But charm burns quickly in business. The numbers are decent, the mission compelling. But your product isn’t defensible. What stops Zomato from doing this tomorrow?”

“We’ve signed five local chefs who’ve never used tech before. We build a brand on trust, on warmth, not on discount coupons. Zomato can’t do that at scale.”

She watched him for a few seconds longer. “Leave the pitch deck. I’ll think.”

“That’s not a no,” he said, half-smiling as he rose.

“Neither is it a yes.”

Outside, the corridor smelled of new paint and power games. Ridhim exhaled slowly, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. Then he heard her voice behind him.

“Mr. Guhathakurta.”

He turned. “Yes?”

Anna stood at her door, arms crossed, hair tied back in the no-nonsense bun she wore like armor. “Do you drink coffee?”

He blinked. “Often. Poorly brewed, most days.”

“There’s a place in Hindustan Park. Crimson Cup. 8 p.m. I want to see how you think outside PowerPoint.”

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “That… sounds like a second round.”

She smiled slightly. “Call it an unconventional due diligence.”

At 8 p.m. sharp, Ridhim stood awkwardly near the entrance of Crimson Cup, wondering if this was a test. He wore his only nice shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to look relaxed.

Anna arrived five minutes late, in black slacks and a loose silk top. No laptop, no files. Just presence.

“I hope this isn’t some elaborate trap to steal my startup idea,” he joked as they sat.

“If it were,” she said, “you wouldn’t see it coming.”

He laughed. “Fair.”

She ordered black coffee. He asked for cold brew. There was an awkward pause until he said, “So, do we talk CAC or childhood trauma first?”

Anna chuckled. “Let’s try something radical—no business talk for thirty minutes.”

“Deal,” he said, leaning in. “But you go first.”

She blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. You’re the investor. What do you do when you’re not interrogating founders?”

“Read. Run. Avoid my mother.”

“Impressive trilogy.”

“And you?”

“Make playlists for imaginary dates. Daydream about IPOs. Get ghosted by women who say I talk too much about algorithms.”

“I can imagine,” she said with a small smile.

Their drinks arrived. Silence, not uncomfortable, settled for a few minutes.

“You know,” he said finally, stirring his glass, “you don’t seem like the spreadsheets-and-skepticism type in person.”

“Don’t be fooled,” Anna said. “I make decisions with cold eyes and colder logic. I just happen to like caffeine with it.”

“Cold logic doesn’t ask for coffee meetings.”

“I’m allowed curiosity.”

“And I’m allowed hope,” he said, eyes playful. “Maybe this meeting is also… curiosity of another kind?”

She raised her eyebrow. “Are you flirting with your potential investor?”

“I’m talking to a woman who asked me out for coffee without an NDA. You tell me.”

Anna laughed—short, surprised, real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She sipped her coffee. “You’re also smarter than you pretend. That’s dangerous.”

“Only if I lie. I don’t. I just… keep a few truths in my back pocket.”

“Such as?”

“I think this—” he gestured between them “—is the most exciting pitch of my week.”

Anna’s gaze held his. “We haven’t even talked term sheets.”

“Maybe some things can’t be negotiated.”

She leaned back, regarding him carefully. “This could be messy.”

“Startups always are.”

There was a long pause, their coffee cups nearly empty now.

“Alright,” she said, standing, “send me your updated user metrics by Friday. And don’t be late.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That,” she said, turning to go, “is a maybe with potential.”

As she walked into the night, Ridhim watched her disappear into the blur of headlights and city dust. Somewhere inside, equations were already shifting.

Part 2: Terms of Engagement

“I’ve gone through your new user matrix,” Anna said, flipping through the printed sheets without looking up. “Seventy-two percent of your users are women aged 22 to 35. Interesting.”

Ridhim nodded. “That demographic is under-served in late-night food delivery. They feel unsafe with most platforms. We’re working on female-only delivery partners.”

She looked up, surprised. “You didn’t mention that before.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Anna narrowed her eyes. “You’re learning. Good.”

They were in her office again. Less formal this time—no suit jacket for her, no tie for him. A thin drizzle tapped against the windows. The city looked like it was holding its breath.

“So,” she said, tapping the edge of the table, “here’s what I’m offering. One hundred thousand dollars, equity at ten percent, milestone-based tranches. You hit growth benchmarks every quarter, you get the next disbursement. Fair?”

Ridhim tried to hide the tremor of excitement. “Sounds fair. Aggressive, but fair.”

“And I want board observer rights. I won’t interfere in daily ops, but I want visibility.”

“Done.”

“And one last thing,” she said, pausing. “If this goes sideways, professionally or personally, I’m out.”

He hesitated. “Personally?”

She folded her arms. “Don’t play coy. Last night wasn’t just coffee and metrics.”

“I wasn’t planning to flirt my way into funding, Anna.”

“No? Because you’re very good at it.”

Ridhim smiled faintly. “And you’re very good at building walls. But here we are.”

Silence. She looked at him for a long moment, then slid the paperwork across the table.

“Sign it. And remember, this is still business.”

He took the pen, signed.

But as their fingers brushed, just briefly, neither moved.

Two weeks later, they sat on opposite ends of a long bench at a food expo, surrounded by chaos—neon boards, samples, startup buzzwords flying like popcorn.

“I hate events like this,” Anna muttered.

Ridhim grinned, chewing on a momo. “You look like you’re wearing battle armor.”

She scowled at her blazer. “Corporate survival. And you?”

“T-shirt, sneakers, hope.”

Anna gave a rare laugh. “So what are you here for?”

“Investor visibility. Also free cheese.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” he said, watching her.

“I wanted to see how you pitch when I’m not in the room.”

“And?”

“You’re better when I’m not there.”

“Thanks, I guess?”

They sat in silence for a bit, watching a group of young founders trying to sell mushroom-based protein chips to an elderly couple who clearly wanted samosas.

“Do you always keep a line between business and personal?” Ridhim asked suddenly.

Anna didn’t look at him. “I try. Doesn’t always work.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I regret it.”

He leaned in slightly. “Do you regret last Friday?”

She turned to face him, her eyes unreadable. “Do you?”

“I think about it,” he said softly. “You. The way you asked me about belief. The way you sip your coffee like it’s a negotiation.”

Anna looked away. “Ridhim, don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve built too much to let it collapse over something… uncertain.”

He leaned back. “Isn’t uncertainty the birthplace of all value?”

“You sound like a TED Talk.”

“I sound like someone who doesn’t want to lie to himself.”

Anna exhaled sharply. “You want something more than funding.”

“I want truth. And you.”

She stood up. “Don’t say things you can’t afford.”

He rose, standing beside her. “Maybe this is the riskiest investment of all. But I’m in.”

Anna didn’t answer. She simply walked away into the crowd.

Days passed. Meetings continued. Emails flew. Milestones met.

And yet—every time their hands brushed while reviewing a document, every time their eyes met across a Zoom call—something lingered.

Then one evening, without preamble, she called.

“Can you come over?”

He didn’t ask why.

Her flat was minimalist, clinical, but the lights were low, and there was a bottle of wine half-drunk on the table.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping in.

“I fired a founder today,” she said flatly. “Tanked their second round because he tried to hide numbers.”

“That’s your job.”

“Still feels like murder.”

Ridhim didn’t speak. He just sat.

Anna poured him a glass. “Do you ever wonder… if any of this matters? All the pitches, the cap tables, the ROI?”

He nodded. “Sometimes I think the only real thing is the silence between two people.”

She looked at him then. Not as an investor. Not as a gatekeeper.

Just as a woman, tired and brilliant and afraid.

“Stay,” she said.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

As the rain poured outside, the equation between them began to shift—no longer X and Y, but something unsolved, alive.

Part 3: Margins and Maybes

“You stayed.”
Anna’s voice was soft in the dim light of her living room. She stood by the window, holding her second glass of wine, her shoulders slightly relaxed for the first time since he met her.

“I said I would.”
Ridhim sat cross-legged on her couch, barefoot now, jacket off, his eyes gently fixed on her silhouette.

“I didn’t think you meant it,” she said.

“Then you don’t know me yet.”

She turned. “That’s the point, Ridhim. I don’t.”

He tilted his head. “Do I have to submit a spreadsheet of my emotions?”

She smiled faintly. “If you did, it would probably be beautifully formatted.”

“Thank you. But my heart’s still in beta.”

She laughed. Just once. Short and warm and unexpected. “God, you’re annoying.”

“But honest.”

She walked over, sat beside him, not too close. “This—whatever this is—it’s a distraction.”

“Or it’s focus. Depends on the lens.”

Anna looked at him, serious now. “I don’t date founders I invest in. It’s a rule. And for good reason.”

“I’m not asking for a relationship right now.”

“Oh?”

“I’m asking for a moment. This moment. The one we’re in. Without terms. Without a valuation.”

She sipped her wine, watching him. “You speak like a poet when you’re trying to escape reality.”

“And you build walls out of protocol when you’re trying to avoid feeling.”

Silence. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

“Why food?” she asked suddenly. “You could’ve done fintech, AI, crypto.”

He shrugged. “Because I know what it’s like to skip dinner. Not for diet. But for budget.”

Anna’s eyes softened.

“My father died when I was fourteen,” Ridhim continued. “Ma ran a mess service to keep us going. I used to help—cleaning rice, delivering tiffins, burning my fingers on steel containers. So when I think of food, I think of her. Of survival. Of love.”

Anna stared at him. “You never put that in your pitch deck.”

“I didn’t think you funded sentiment.”

“I don’t,” she said. Then quietly, “But maybe I should.”

The next morning, they went their separate ways without promises. Just a silent agreement written in glances.

Back at Yummish HQ—a two-room rented space above a beauty parlour—Ridhim stood before the whiteboard.

“Okay, team,” he said to the three others in the room, “we have to hit 2,000 orders this week. That means more hyperlocal campaigns, new chef onboarding, and someone needs to fix the bloody check-out bug.”

“I’m on it,” said Trisha, their UX dev.

“And the new investor?” asked Vivek, his co-founder. “Is she… chill?”

Ridhim hesitated. “She’s focused. Smart. Demanding.”

“Pretty?”

He smiled. “That’s not relevant.”

Vivek grinned. “Which means yes.”

Ridhim rolled his eyes. “Get back to work, Romeo.”

As the day rolled on, notifications pinged—orders, complaints, refund requests. Chaos wrapped in code. He loved it.

Until 3:42 p.m., when his phone buzzed.

Anna Sanyal: “Board call. 6 p.m. Sharp. And wear a shirt this time.”

He grinned.

The video call began with four tiles—Anna, Ridhim, a finance advisor, and an HR consultant. Anna looked serious, corporate mask back on.

“Ridhim,” she said, “walk us through last week’s burn rate.”

He did. Efficient, clear, controlled.

“Projected runway?”

“Ten months, assuming stable CAC and five percent weekly growth.”

The advisor spoke up. “I’d recommend hiring a CFO soon.”

“We can’t afford a full-time one yet.”

“Then part-time. You need structure.”

Anna interjected. “Let’s not drown him in overhead too early. He’s executing well.”

Ridhim looked at her, surprised. She was defending him.

Professional. Precise. But the briefest flicker in her eyes told him—she remembered last night.

After the call, as the others dropped off, Anna stayed.

“You did well,” she said.

“Thanks. You were… tough.”

“I had to be.”

“I liked it.”

She gave him a long look. “Careful, Ridhim.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but you’re emotionally transparent. That’s dangerous around people like me.”

He laughed. “And what are you?”

“A woman who built her walls so high, she sometimes forgets there’s a door.”

There was silence. Then, softly, he said, “What if I knock?”

She sighed. “Then I might let you in. And regret it.”

“Or not.”

Anna leaned forward, eyes dark. “This—us—this cannot interfere with your focus. Your business is not your flirtation platform.”

“I know. But maybe you’re my co-founder in chaos.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“But I’m building something worth believing in.”

“And if it fails?”

“Then I’ll still have believed. That’s more than most people get.”

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t log off either.

That night, Anna stared at her reflection in the mirror, the wine untouched beside her.

Why him? she wondered. Why now?

But no answer came.

Just a feeling. Raw, risky, real.

Something no spreadsheet could measure.

Something she didn’t know how to control.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t want to.

Part 4: Downturns and Desires

The rain hadn’t stopped for two days. Kolkata’s streets glistened under flickering streetlights, the city sighing under the weight of monsoon and unmet expectations.

At the Yummish office, the mood was tense. Orders had dropped 18% that week. The payment gateway integration was buggy. A major chef partner pulled out after a licensing issue.

“People think food is simple,” Ridhim muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “But the supply chain is a house of cards. One gust, it all collapses.”

Trisha looked up from her laptop. “You okay?”

“No.”

She paused. “Want me to make that call to Anna?”

Ridhim hesitated. “No. I’ll handle it.”

But at 9:38 p.m., as thunder growled outside and the office dimmed to emergency bulbs, he finally typed:

Ridhim: “Can we talk? Not investor-to-founder. Just you and me.”

Five minutes later, her reply buzzed in:

Anna: “I’m at The Adda Room. Park Street. Come if you want clarity.”

He didn’t overthink. He just grabbed his hoodie, stepped into the night, and let the rain slap his face back into the present.

The Adda Room was half-empty, filled with jazz and the scent of overpriced whiskey. Anna sat alone near the back, a glass in her hand, blazer draped over the chair.

“You came,” she said without looking.

“I always do.”

He slid into the seat across from her, wet hoodie dripping onto the floor.

“You look like a drowned start-up,” she said.

“Feels accurate.”

They sat for a while without speaking.

“I lost a chef,” he finally said. “And about 400 active users.”

Anna swirled her drink. “And?”

“I can recover, but it’ll take a hit on burn. I’ll need to stretch funds.”

She nodded slowly. “And what do you want from me right now?”

“Just… space. Not strategy.”

Her eyes softened, just a bit. “That’s rare, coming from a founder. Most expect miracles from their investors.”

He gave a tired smile. “I just want honesty.”

She exhaled. “Here’s the truth. I’ve been in three failed relationships, one broken engagement, and two lawsuits from ex-founders. I don’t gamble on feelings anymore.”

Ridhim leaned in. “I’m not a gamble. I’m a chance. There’s a difference.”

“You think I don’t know that? Every time I look at you, I calculate risk. That’s how I was trained.”

“And yet you keep letting me in.”

“That’s the problem.”

He reached for her hand, hesitated, then pulled back. “Then fire me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“If I’m a distraction, if I ruin your perfect system, fire me. Walk away. Be logical.”

Anna’s lips parted but no words came.

“I’ll survive,” he continued. “But don’t keep standing at the edge of the pool and pretending the water’s too deep.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I don’t want to lose control,” she said finally.

“You already have,” he whispered. “And so have I.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment the noise of the world vanished.

Then she stood. “Walk me to my car.”

Outside, the rain had paused like it, too, was holding its breath.

They walked in silence. As they reached her car, she turned to him.

“Don’t follow me if this gets messy.”

“I won’t follow,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

Anna stared at him. Then she leaned forward, barely inches from his lips.

“This is a mistake,” she murmured.

And kissed him anyway.

It was brief. Quiet. A kiss that tasted like restraint and thunder.

Then she pulled back, breath uneven.

“Goodnight,” she said, slipping into the car before he could respond.

Ridhim stood there for minutes after she drove off, heart pounding like monsoon against glass.

Three days passed.

No messages.

No calls.

Then on the fourth day, an investor update pinged into his inbox. Formal, bullet-pointed, written in perfect Anna-style.

No mention of that night.

No warmth.

No pause.

Vivek noticed. “You okay, boss?”

“I think my heart just got a quarterly report,” Ridhim said.

Trisha stared at him. “She ghosted you?”

“No,” he sighed. “She… compartmentalized me.”

“You going to call her?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“No.”

And yet, he focused. Yummish launched two new features, onboarded three new home chefs, and pulled off a midnight Biryani campaign that trended locally on Twitter. They were alive.

But he felt hollow.

Then one evening, at a quiet rooftop pop-up dinner they hosted for loyal users, a familiar voice spoke from behind him.

“You’ve grown.”

Ridhim turned.

Anna stood there in a maroon saree, uncharacteristically soft.

He blinked. “You look… unreal.”

“I came to see what you built without me hovering.”

He laughed. “You never just hover. You hover and assess risk.”

“And tonight I’m assessing something else.”

They stood side by side, watching people laugh, eat, smile.

“This,” she said quietly, “is the kind of equation I forgot to solve.”

He looked at her, unsure.

“And what does the answer look like?” he asked.

She reached for his hand, this time not hesitating.

“Messy,” she said. “But real.”

As their fingers intertwined and the city breathed around them, neither needed spreadsheets anymore.

Just the moment.

Just the maybe.

Part 5: Clauses of the Heart

“Your term sheet needs amending,” Anna said the next morning, standing in the Yummish office with her arms crossed, surrounded by the smell of reheated parathas and startup stress.

Ridhim looked up from his laptop. “Are we still pretending nothing happened on that rooftop?”

“We’re not pretending,” she said flatly. “We’re separating.”

“Business from pleasure?” he asked.

“No. Business from disaster.”

He leaned back. “So what’s the amendment?”

“I want to reduce my board observer rights. Make myself less present. Less… influential.”

He frowned. “Why?”

She looked directly at him. “Because I kissed you. Because I care. And because if this fails, I don’t want you thinking it was because we blurred lines.”

“And if it succeeds?”

“Then you get to say you did it without favoritism.”

“I never thought you were biased,” he said softly. “I just thought you were human.”

She didn’t smile. “Let’s not mistake chemistry for compatibility, Ridhim.”

“Too late,” he replied. “I already started confusing conviction with care.”

Silence stretched.

“I’ll sign the amendment,” he said finally. “But not because I agree.”

“Why then?”

“Because I trust you to walk away from feelings. I just hope you know how to walk back to them too.”

The next week, Anna went quiet.

She attended meetings via Zoom.

Spoke in crisp, emotionless sentences.

Ridhim didn’t push. But he felt it—her absence wasn’t physical. It was strategic.

A kind of heartbreak drafted like a legal clause: sterile, impersonal, defensible.

Then came the feature crash.

Yummish’s new “pre-saved cravings” option glitched, causing orders to auto-reply with incorrect meals.

People who wanted dal got donuts. Keto lovers got kachoris.

Twitter exploded.

“@yummish is trolling my diet I ordered soup, got biryani! #FoodFail”

Vivek panicked. “We’re losing credibility.”

Trisha groaned. “It’s the script injection in the backend. I told you to run a dry test!”

Ridhim stared at the chaos and muttered, “Call Anna.”

“No,” Trisha said. “This is a tech failure, not a boardroom one.”

“She’ll want to know.”

He dialed anyway.

She picked up after two rings.

“I’m aware,” she said before he could speak. “Fix it, fast. Issue public apology, disable feature, give credits to users. Own it before it owns you.”

“We’re on it.”

He paused.

“Anna…”

“Yes?”

“I miss the version of you that said ‘we.’”

A breath. “Then give me a version of you that doesn’t make me choose between logic and longing.”

Click.

She hung up.

They survived the crash.

User numbers dipped but recovered within four days.

The tech team didn’t sleep. Trisha threatened to quit. Vivek cried in the bathroom. Ridhim bought everyone beer and samosas.

That night, as he sat alone in the darkened office, Anna walked in, unannounced.

“I brought sushi,” she said, holding a bag.

“I can’t afford sushi.”

“You didn’t buy it. I did.”

He gave a tired smile. “What happened to boundaries?”

“They were never real,” she said, sitting beside him on the old couch. “Just bullet points pretending to be rules.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad you called.”

He looked at her. “You scare me.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because you make me want to pause. And I’ve been running for so long.”

She handed him chopsticks. “Maybe you don’t have to stop. Maybe you just walk slower next to someone.”

He opened the box, took a bite. “This is better than our MVP launch dinner.”

“That was microwave rajma at 1 a.m.”

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence, eating, side by side, without urgency.

“Do you believe in fate?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I believe in pattern recognition.”

“And what pattern are we?”

“Something nonlinear. But powerful.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

And for once, there were no terms. No clauses. Just breath.

Two days later, they sat on stage together at a startup summit.

Topic: “Romancing Risk: Love, Venture, and the Modern Entrepreneur.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

When the moderator asked Anna if founders should ever date investors, she answered coolly, “Only if they’re prepared for conflict of interest, heartache, and one hell of a cap table conversation.”

The audience laughed.

Ridhim grinned. “I dated my investor,” he said into the mic. “And the returns, so far, are promising.”

Later backstage, Anna nudged him. “That was bold.”

“You kissed me in public, I just matched your energy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Careful. I might revalue your equity for being cheeky.”

“You can revalue my life anytime.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t stop smiling.

That night, they walked along the river, quiet, the city breathing around them.

“What happens if we fail?” he asked.

“We won’t,” she said.

“And if we do?”

“We start again. But this time, as equals.”

“No term sheets?”

“Just trust.”

“No valuation?”

“Just value.”

He took her hand. “Then I’m in. Fully diluted, completely invested.”

She looked at him, really looked.

And said, “So am I.”

Part 6: The Pivot Point

The Yummish office smelled of coffee, cables, and quiet triumph. A soft jazz playlist played from a corner speaker. The team had just closed a bulk B2B order from a co-working space chain—a breakthrough.

Ridhim stood by the whiteboard, drawing arrows between metrics and milestones. But his mind was elsewhere.

Anna hadn’t texted all morning.

Last night had been electric. They’d shared stories under flickering streetlamps and made out in the back of a cab like teenagers. Her hair had smelled like rain. Her voice had trembled when she whispered, “Maybe I needed to fall.”

But this morning—nothing.

He texted.

Ridhim: “Thinking about last night. And about you.”

No reply.

Anna sat in her home office, laptop open, eyes distant. Her mother had called earlier.

“He’s too young for you, Anna. You’re 38. He’s barely figuring out taxes. You want someone to raise or someone to build with?”

Anna had listened in silence, not out of agreement but exhaustion.

Later, her mentor from her early VC days, Meera Kapoor, called.

“Anna, you know founders get clingy. Especially the ones who think every coffee is a confession. You’re not a rescue team.”

“I know,” Anna had said.

“Then draw the line before it blurs into regret.”

That stayed with her. Regret.

At 4:00 p.m., she finally replied.

Anna: “We need to talk. Coffee? Your place. 6?”

Ridhim replied in under ten seconds.

Ridhim: “I’ll make sure the coffee doesn’t taste like heartbreak.”

By 6:02, she was there.

He opened the door in an old kurta, barefoot, his hair a mess.

“You look… poetic,” she said, setting her bag down.

“And you look like a storm dressed in silence,” he replied, offering her a cup.

She didn’t take it. “I’m scared.”

He nodded. “Of me?”

“No. Of us. Of what it might cost.”

Ridhim put the mug down. “Anna, love isn’t a dilution event. It’s compounding interest.”

She sat. “That’s the problem. Everything with you becomes metaphor.”

“Then give me a real question.”

“Okay,” she said. “What happens if we break up while I’m still on your board?”

“Then we cry, raise a Series B, and hire someone to mediate product-market fit between our broken hearts.”

She laughed, despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re irresistible.”

Pause.

“I’m thinking of stepping back,” she said finally.

“From me?”

“From the company. Temporarily. Let another partner handle the board seat.”

His heart dropped. “Is this your way of leaving without saying goodbye?”

“No,” she said. “It’s my way of staying in your life without corrupting your dream.”

“Yummish isn’t just my dream anymore. You’re in it. Even if you pretend you’re not.”

She looked at him, raw, blinking hard. “Then let me love you as a woman, not as an investor. Let me be unfair in a way that matters.”

He reached for her hand, held it tight. “Then we pivot.”

She smiled. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“I’m an entrepreneur. I don’t stop change. I survive it.”

One week later, a new board liaison was introduced—Suresh Nambiar, calm, older, mostly bored by food tech but sharp with numbers.

“Looks stable,” he said during his first call with Ridhim. “Anna spoke highly of you.”

Ridhim replied, “She speaks in silence too.”

Suresh chuckled. “Then you must be listening with your heart.”

Anna, now absent from meetings, began to show up in other ways—texting campaign ideas, forwarding chef profiles, sending late-night songs.

One night she sent:

Anna: “Remember the rooftop dinner you planned? Let’s do a smaller version. Just you and me. No pitch. No prep.”

Ridhim: “Can I still bring candles?”

Anna: “Only if they don’t come with a term sheet.”

He smiled at the screen, heart full and afraid.

That Friday night, he cooked. Not a five-course meal. Just mustard fish and rice—his mother’s recipe.

When she arrived, barefoot, wearing a cotton saree and no earrings, he stopped breathing for a moment.

“This smells like nostalgia,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“And this feels like a new chapter,” he replied.

They ate in silence.

Later, she said, “You know what I realized?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to build someone else’s dream anymore. I want to build one with someone.”

“And I don’t want to run alone anymore,” he whispered. “I want a co-founder of the soul.”

She kissed him then—not desperate, not hurried, but like a yes.

In the quiet after, she lay with her head on his chest, tracing circles over his heart.

“What do you call this stage?” she asked.

He thought for a moment. “The pivot point.”

She smiled. “And what comes after that?”

“Traction. And then—maybe—something that lasts.”

She nodded against him.

No numbers.

No deadlines.

Just two people.

In progress.

Part 7: When Valuation Meets Vulnerability

“You need to raise more, and soon.”
Suresh’s voice crackled through the Monday Zoom call, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Your burn rate’s acceptable, but if the new city expansion doesn’t meet KPIs, you’ll need another runway.”

“I know,” Ridhim replied, jaw tight. “We’re already preparing the deck for pre-Series A.”

“Good. And you’ll need to be sharper with numbers. Anna made you look good in the last round.”

Ridhim paused. “She didn’t make me look good. I earned it.”

Suresh shrugged. “Earn it again. Without the charm factor.”

The call ended. Ridhim stared at his screen, a bitter taste creeping up his throat.

Anna hadn’t checked in today. No texts. No random article links. Just silence.

At 4 p.m., he couldn’t take it anymore. He texted.

Ridhim: “Can I see you tonight? Not for advice. Just… presence.”

No reply.

An hour later, the reply came.

Anna: “I’m at my father’s place. Emergency. Can’t talk. Sorry.”

Just that. No warmth. No ‘take care’. No ‘later’.

Anna sat on the edge of a hospital bed, her father unconscious beside her. Machines beeped with quiet insistence.

She held his hand gently, remembering the man who once warned her: “Never trust a man who speaks in metaphors, Anna. They’ll romanticize your ruin.”

She didn’t want to think about Ridhim now. But he lingered—like a notification you don’t dismiss.

She unlocked her phone, re-read his last message. Then locked it again.

Not now. Not here.

Back at the office, the team was jittery.

The expansion into Bangalore had hit friction—delivery partners were fewer, local permits delayed, user onboarding slow.

“We might miss the month’s growth goal,” Trisha admitted.

Vivek looked panicked. “Should we delay the rollout?”

“No,” Ridhim said firmly. “We push through. Adjust strategy, not ambition.”

But inside, he was fraying.

He typed an email to Anna, didn’t send it.

Then, finally, around midnight, he gave in and called.

No answer.

Just voicemail.

“Hey,” he said into the silence, “I know you’re dealing with things. But I miss your voice. I miss the way you look at me like I’m not just an idea. Call me. Or don’t. Just… know that I’m here.”

Two days passed.

Then a knock on his door.

Anna.

Pale, tired, rain in her hair, a bag slung over her shoulder.

“My father had a stroke,” she said softly. “I was with him. Still am. But I needed… a moment.”

He stepped back, let her in.

“I thought you disappeared,” he said.

“I almost did.”

She sat down, hugged her knees to her chest. “I’m not good at needing people.”

“And I’m not good at waiting for people who vanish.”

“I didn’t vanish,” she whispered. “I just paused. For breath.”

He knelt in front of her. “I would’ve waited. Even if you vanished.”

She looked up at him. “I know.”

And then the dam broke.

Tears, messy and real.

He pulled her close, held her, let her cry into his chest.

“I’m tired,” she murmured. “Of being the strong one.”

“Then be soft. With me. I’ll hold it.”

They stayed like that for a long time.

Later, she lay on his couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot water with ginger.

“I have to step back even more,” she said. “Family. Health. Maybe… life beyond business.”

“Take what you need,” he said. “We’re still building. With or without constant eyes.”

She smiled faintly. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“And you’re more fragile than you pretend.”

She laughed. “And yet somehow, we balance.”

“That’s what an equation is,” he said. “Not a perfect match. Just two variables adjusting to each other.”

She looked at him, eyes soft. “So what are we solving for now?”

He leaned closer. “Something that isn’t in the pitch deck.”

She kissed him, gently this time. No hunger. Just home.

At the next team meeting, Vivek looked around and said, “Feels like something’s shifted.”

Trisha nodded. “Ridhim’s… calmer.”

He smiled. “We’re building something big. And something small too. Both matter.”

Anna didn’t attend that meeting.

But her presence lingered in every thoughtful decision, every patient correction, every risk measured with emotion—not fear.

That night, she texted:

Anna: “He opened his eyes today. Held my hand. Said I looked tired.”

Ridhim: “Tell him I think you look like a miracle.”

Anna: “You’re impossible.”

Ridhim: “And you’re necessary.”

The equation held.

Not solved.

Not final.

But in motion.

Part 8: Founders and Fault Lines

“Are you sleeping with your investor?”

The question came like a slap—unexpected, cold, and echoing.

It was Vivek who asked it, arms crossed, jaw clenched, standing in the middle of the Yummish kitchen where a leaking water pipe added an ironic soundtrack to the confrontation.

Ridhim froze. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not even sure how to answer that without slapping you back with a lawsuit.”

Vivek didn’t back down. “Trisha saw Anna leaving your flat. Late. You were—”

Ridhim stepped forward. “Whatever is happening between Anna and me, it’s none of your business unless it affects this company. Which it hasn’t.”

“It has!” Vivek snapped. “You’re distracted. You’re soft. You let her walk away from the board without any transition process. You didn’t even loop us in!”

“I did what was right for the company and for her. She needed space.”

“She needed space or you needed her?”

“Vivek, enough.”

“No. I’ve put two years into this company. I’ve slept on floors, begged chefs, coded till my eyes bled. And now I watch you get everything—funding, limelight, her—and I’m standing here wondering if I’m the fool.”

Ridhim’s face changed—hurt, then guilt, then something sharp and solid.

“You think I didn’t bleed for this?” he said quietly. “You think I coasted on charm? Anna pushed me harder than anyone. She didn’t make me. She made me better.”

“Still sounds like a convenient arrangement,” Vivek muttered.

Ridhim exhaled. “You’re angry. I get it. But you don’t get to reduce a relationship to an agenda.”

“I just want to know,” Vivek said softly now, “if you love her more than this company.”

That stopped him.

The silence stretched.

Then, quietly, Ridhim said, “It’s not more or less. It’s different. But I won’t let one destroy the other.”

Vivek turned and walked away.

The pipe continued to leak.

That night, Anna called.

He almost didn’t pick up. But he did.

“Rough day?” she asked.

“I just got accused of sleeping my way into failure.”

Anna was quiet for a beat. “Vivek?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not wrong to worry.”

“Are you taking his side now?”

“I’m taking the company’s side.”

There was a pause.

“Do you regret us?” he asked finally.

“No,” she said. “But I regret not defining it clearly. For them. For us.”

“So what now?”

“We talk. In person. Tomorrow.”

They met on neutral ground—her old apartment terrace, surrounded by dead potted plants and half-remembered sunsets.

“I fell for you,” she said simply, leaning on the railing. “Not because you’re brilliant, though you are. But because you made me feel like a person, not a portfolio.”

He stood beside her. “And I fell for you because you believed in me when no one else even looked.”

“But belief isn’t strategy,” she added. “It’s not scalable.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“I’m trying to future-proof us.”

He laughed bitterly. “You talk like a term sheet even when you’re heartbroken.”

“I’m scared, Ridhim.”

“Of what?”

“Of being the reason this implodes.”

He turned to her, voice raw. “Then be the reason it doesn’t.”

Anna looked at him, eyes shining. “I don’t know how to be both investor and lover.”

“Then be one. I’ll be the other.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I’m buying you out. Your shares. Quietly. No press, no drama.”

Her breath caught. “You’d do that?”

“Yes. Because I don’t want your name on a cap table. I want it on my phone. At 2 a.m. When I’m scared. Or in love.”

Anna swallowed. “I’ve never had someone choose me over a business.”

He smiled sadly. “Maybe that’s why you chose the business first.”

Silence.

Then she said, “Deal.”

He nodded. “We’ll draft the paperwork tomorrow.”

“No lawyers,” she said. “Just trust.”

“Finally,” he whispered, “we’re building the same thing.”

The news of her exit was quiet. Internal only. Suresh stepped in as the primary board contact.

Vivek didn’t say much.

But one afternoon, he handed Ridhim a cup of tea and muttered, “She really left, huh?”

“Not from me.”

Vivek nodded. “Then… okay.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was peace.

Later, in his kitchen, Ridhim found Anna going through his spice rack.

“You don’t label anything,” she said, amused.

“I like surprises.”

She held up two similar-looking jars. “Cinnamon or chili?”

“Only one way to find out.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You’ll never be predictable.”

“And you’ll never be boring.”

They stood there, two people with a hundred moving parts, still figuring out the mechanics of being in love without a manual.

It wasn’t tidy.

But it was true.

The fault lines were still there.

But now, they were dancing on them. Together.

Part 9: Exit Strategy

It was almost poetic—the way the term sheet ended where the love letter began.

Anna sat across the table in Ridhim’s apartment, reading the final version of the buyout agreement. Her eyes scanned the numbers, but her mind drifted elsewhere—to their first coffee, their first fight, the first time he looked at her not like an investor but like a person who mattered beyond balance sheets.

Ridhim leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You don’t have to do this if you’re unsure.”

“I’m sure,” she said softly, pen in hand. “But this still feels like losing something.”

“You’re not losing anything,” he said. “You’re shifting roles. Out of spreadsheets, into skin.”

Anna chuckled, shaking her head. “Only you can make a resignation sound romantic.”

“Because it is,” he whispered. “A resignation from pretending I don’t love you in rooms filled with metrics and men in suits.”

She signed the document. Slowly. Deliberately.

And it was done.

Just like that.

News of Anna’s departure never made it to the startup blogs. Ridhim insisted on silence, and she agreed. The company rolled on under Suresh’s stewardship, now cleanly defined, with no grey zones between governance and emotion.

And yet, something shifted.

Ridhim’s pitches became more personal. His leadership more grounded.

“You’re glowing,” Trisha teased during a late-night work session. “Love or Series A optimism?”

“Both,” he replied. “But mostly love.”

Even Vivek softened. He handed Ridhim a post-it note one day that read: Build what you love. But love without building walls.

Anna spent her mornings differently now—long walks, journaling, reconnecting with her father, who was recovering slowly.

“Who is this boy?” her father asked one afternoon, sipping soup.

“The one who kissed you into quitting?”

Anna smiled. “He’s not a boy. He’s a founder.”

“Same thing.”

She laughed. “He’s the man I stopped calculating.”

Her father nodded. “Then hold on to him. Math can’t solve everything.”

One evening, Anna surprised Ridhim at the Yummish kitchen.

He looked up from a batch of packaging samples. “Did we run out of metaphorical cinnamon again?”

“No,” she said. “I just missed you. Missed this.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around her. “You’ll always be part of this, even if your name’s not on the board.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I think I want to build again.”

“With me?”

“With you. Beside you. Maybe something new. Something that starts with feelings, not forecasts.”

He smiled. “Like what?”

“A food literacy platform for children. Teach them about spices, smells, culture—connect food to memory early.”

Ridhim’s eyes lit up. “That’s brilliant.”

“Would you… co-found it?”

“Only if I get to name it.”

“And the name would be?”

“Equation. But for a different kind of hunger.”

They pitched the new idea at a small social impact incubator a month later. This time, Anna led the deck. Ridhim followed with the story. Their chemistry wasn’t part of the pitch—it was the pitch.

And they were funded.

A small grant. But a loud yes.

One night, after dinner, Ridhim asked, “Do you think we’d have fallen for each other if we met outside a pitch room?”

Anna thought for a moment. “Maybe not. I would’ve thought you were too hopeful.”

“And I would’ve thought you were too terrifying.”

“But we met when we needed balance,” she said. “And that’s the thing about equations. They don’t make sense unless both sides give something up.”

He kissed her hand. “And we both gave. And got.”

She looked at him. “No regrets?”

“Only that we didn’t start sooner.”

She smiled. “We started exactly when we were supposed to.”

The next quarter, Yummish hit 10K daily orders. Their new venture, Equation Kids, launched its first pilot workshop in a government school in Barasat.

Anna stood with children huddled around spice jars, watching them smell turmeric like it was treasure.

Ridhim leaned on the doorframe, watching her.

She looked up, caught him staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I’ve never seen you look so free.”

“I’ve never felt it,” she whispered.

“Then hold on to it,” he said. “This time, not as an investor. But as everything.”

And in that moment, with children laughing and spices in the air, the equation wasn’t about valuation or ownership.

It was about love.

Balanced.
Built.
Brilliant.

Part 10: Return on Emotion

It began like most Sundays—with filter coffee, open windows, and the faint smell of cinnamon in the apartment. Anna stood barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of Ridhim’s old college t-shirts, flipping through a recipe book with more margin notes than ingredients.

“You’re really making posto?” he asked, yawning into his elbow as he shuffled in.

“Only if you promise not to add random cheese to it.”

“That was one time.”

“It was a crime against tradition.”

He kissed her shoulder. “Good morning to the love of my life and the guardian of Bengali authenticity.”

She smirked. “Flattery won’t save you from peeling the potatoes.”

Later, they sat cross-legged on the floor, eating from mismatched bowls, their laptops closed, their phones upside down.

“I’ve been thinking,” Anna said between bites. “Maybe we should formalize things.”

Ridhim looked up. “You mean… marriage?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “Not yet. I meant the Equation Foundation. Turn it into a full non-profit, hire a curriculum head, build regional branches. Long-term structure.”

He grinned. “Wow. You’re in love. You used the word ‘non-profit’ with actual enthusiasm.”

“I’m evolving.”

He raised a spoon. “To evolved capitalism.”

She raised hers. “And unevolved romance.”

They clinked. And chewed. And smiled. That deep, quiet kind of smile people wear when they know they’ve chosen right.

That week, Yummish was shortlisted for a national startup award.

Anna sat in the third row of the banquet hall, wearing navy blue, applauding louder than anyone when Ridhim’s name was called.

He took the mic, paused, looked at her.

“I was told to thank the usual suspects,” he began. “The team, the customers, the board. And I do. With all my heart. But tonight, I also thank the person who once told me that belief is rarer than capital. The one who asked me if my product had soul. She invested in my company, yes. But more than that, she invested in me. And I’ve never stopped growing because of it.”

Anna looked down. Blinked. And smiled.

Later, as they walked out together into the chilly night, heels in hand, he whispered, “I meant every word.”

“I know,” she said. “And I loved every one.”

Some things stayed constant. Midnight ramen. His ridiculous playlists. Her obsession with post-its.

Some things shifted. She taught him to slow down. He reminded her how to laugh without an agenda.

They fought, too—over missing salt, missed calls, misread signals. But never without returning. Never without repair.

On a quiet evening, sitting on a bench near the lake, Ridhim asked, “Do you miss it? The rush? The spreadsheets?”

“Sometimes,” Anna admitted. “But I’ve found a different kind of rush. One that’s quieter. Deeper.”

“You mean me?”

“I mean us.”

He took her hand. “We’re not conventional.”

She smiled. “But we’re consistent.”

Silence.

Then, he said, “I used to think success was a number.”

“And now?”

“It’s the way you look at me when I’m not trying to be anything.”

She kissed him. Just once. Just enough.

Months passed.

The foundation grew.

Yummish raised their Series A, led by a new, enthusiastic investor who loved spicy food and asked fewer personal questions.

Anna taught financial literacy in schools on weekends.

Ridhim started journaling.

They talked less about valuations, more about values.

One night, after watching a silly indie film, lying on their beanbags, Anna turned to him and said, “Do you think we’re still an equation?”

He paused. “We’re a solution now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not a problem?”

“No,” he said. “An answer. To years of trying to balance ambition and affection. Of building alone. Of loving in fragments.”

She rested her head on his chest. “I like that.”

He whispered, “So what’s our return?”

She smiled. “Emotion. In full.”

And so, they remained—two variables, once opposing, now aligned.

Not flawless.

Not without tension.

But always in progress.

Always building.

Together.

THE END