Should I message him? Danica mused, staring at the ornate ceiling as if it had answers hidden between its gilded swirls.
To her surprise and disappointment, the encounter with the mystery man had been ricocheting through her skull for far longer than it should have—unsolicited, relentless, clawing at the edges of her sanity like a thought that refused to die
Stupid, she told herself. Pathetic, really.
She'd seen better—men with sharper jawlines, smoother tongues, and the kind of polished charm that could make a room tilt in their direction. And not once had any of them managed to get under her skin, slip into the cracks, and build a campfire in her chest like he had.
He's not that special. He couldn't be.
She huffed and rolled onto her side. The red velvet quilt rustling as she turned, cocooning her like armour.
Why should I message him? If he wants to talk, he can damn well find a keyboard and type.
Then, out of nowhere, a realization mauled at back of her mind.
"Shoot." she muttered, louder than necessary. "I didn't ask his name."
The walls of king size room didn't respond, but her own voice echoed in the silence like a slap.
Seriously? That's what we're doing now, Danica? You forget to ask someone's name and suddenly you're ruminating?
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could flush the thought out of her brain.
What's next? A playlist of songs that remind me of his jawline?
God. What is wrong with me.
Her pride stung. It wasn't just the idiocy of forgetting—it was the feeling. This gravitational pull toward something she couldn't define. It scared her. Or maybe it pissed her off. She couldn't tell the difference right now.
I'm not desperate. She reminded herself, again.
I'm not desperate.
I'm not—
Okay. Maybe a tiny bit curious.
She hated this version of herself. The one who could be unmoored by a few moments of eye contact and a voice that hadn't even tried to be seductive but it was calm and deep enough to leave her spellbound. Those predatory dark eyes were eating her up as if he'd already undressed her a thousand times in his mind and he could picture the exact way she'd fall apart—trembling, moaning his name—and was just waiting patiently for her to realize it.
You should never trust your own mind after 9 p.m. She anchored to that thought like a lifeline. It was almost two in the morning now, and she'd wasted the entire night spiralling over something so stupid it made her want to scream into her pillow.
Maybe it's nothing.Just a product of too many years alone. Too many suitors rejected, too many dinners where I had to fake interest, smile politely, escape strategically. 90 proposals. Ninety men forgotten before dessert. Maybe he will bethe ninety-first. Maybe he's already forgotten me. Maybe. Maybe freaking—
But the second she let her eyelids flutter closed, her last thought wasn't of forgetting. It was of what she'd say if he did email her first. And a heartbeat later, she fell asleep on the thought—quiet, reluctant, and a little embarrassed by her own heart.
___________________
The day had already started on a terrifyingly bad note.
Danica's gaze was simmering with barely disguised contempt as she stared down from the upstairs railing. Below her, the living room had turned into a social battlefield. A man—unfamiliar, overdressed, and dangerously comfortable—was sitting across from her parents in the living room.
Danica's mother, Emma, was perched delicately on the edge of her seat like a bird ready to preen. She was in pearls at 9 a.m., which said enough. Her hair was in its usual soft blowout, and her eyes—bright, sly, and a little too hopeful—sparkled with the same subtle madness that had guided her to throw ninety suitors at her daughter in the last six years.
Her father, Jayden, sat beside her, nursing his coffee with the haunted look of a man who'd witnessed too much and said too little. His salt-and-pepper beard was trimmed; his sweater was layered neatly over his collared shirt—a man who still clung to the fantasy that appearances fixed things.
They all were chatting. Or rather, her parents were rhapsodizing. And the man—who clearly fancied himself a catch—was nodding, laughing, and interjecting with little comments designed to impress.
It wasn't difficult to join two and two situations to know what exactly the missing puzzle was trying to sell.
Danica squinted at the man.
He was wearing a tight, maroon t-shirt that probably came from a mall brand pretending to be expensive, paired with Armani jeans—a subtle flex, a failed attempt. His hair was neat to the point of obsessive. He looked about forty-five trying to pass for thirty-five, and the fine lines near his temples betrayed him. There was a shallow smugness in the way he smiled that made the insides of Danica churn into vicious knot of rage.
"Jerk." She muttered under her breath.
As if on cue, his eyes flicked upward and caught her.
For a moment, he just stared.
There she stood, at the railing of the first floor in her black silk robe, one hand clutching the railing as if she might throw herself over just to escape the scene below. Her hair was a careless, sexy mess in a bun that somehow made her look even more dangerous. Her face was slightly puffed—half-sleep, half-fury—and absolutely gorgeous.
His eyes lingered a brooded over too long on the line of her collarbone, the curve of her barely covered cleavage. Heat flickered behind his irises, and he swallowed hard, forcing down the lust clawing up his throat before it exposed him.
Then, with effort, he dragged his attention back to the conversation, trying to pretend she hadn't already owned the entire room without saying a word.
By next second, Danica was already making her way down the stairs. Her bare feet made no sound against the marble steps, but her presence roared.
"Here you are!" Emma chirped, beaming. "I was just about to call you down."
Danica gave her mother a smile—soft, rare, and reserved for only two people in the entire world. She sat gracefully on the armrest beside her father, her posture flawless, the robe shifting just enough to make the man uncomfortable again.
"This is Daniel Rodriguez," her father addressed, clearing his throat in that hopeful, masculine way men do when they're trying not to sound pressured. "He's an industrialist, by the way. Very passionate. Ambitious. One of the most driven men I've ever met." Jayden leaned in and whispered in a conspirational tone. "Just like you."
Danica shot a look at her father that silently screamed, Seriously, Dad?That comparison was supposed to impress me?
"He is interested..." Her mom chimed in, eyes lighting up with forced cheer.
"In marrying me," Danica finished the statement, deadpan, looking straight at the man as if assessing whether he could survive being buried alive in their backyard.
Daniel chuckled awkwardly. "Well—I wouldn't say it like that exactly—"
"You want a wife," she retorted. "I'm the assignment. Let's not sugarcoat the cringe."
Emma gave her daughter, Danica, behave glance that had absolutely zero effect.
Danica turned to her parents. "You already know my answer," she explained plainly, her smile a quiet betrayal of her own boredom. "But if you keep throwing men at me like this…" she let the pause settle, "then I might just surrender out of exhaustion."
Emma blinked, startled. She had expected resistance, a cutting remark, or possibly a flying object aimed at Daniel's face. But surrender? Not at all. She knew her daughter to the marrow. Danica wasn't someone who had surrendered so easily. She was rather a stubborn, stone-cold knight who'd fight tooth and nail to defend what she believed in.
Jayden was too unbothered to interfere. He had seen this drama unfold hundreds of times and was too aware of the end result.
Danica turned her attention back to the suitor.
"Let's meet at Crown & Caviar. 9 p.m. sharp." Her tone was polite and professional, but held enough firmness to make the guy excessively sweat. "The fate of this marriage depends on that dinner. So, show up on time. Show up looking like you want to live. And don't ever look at my chest again. I know my tits are dangerously distracting, but they are not for display."
She let the sharpness of her words sink into quintessence of his ego, before tilting her head slyly and adding, "So maybe... keep your eyes where your dignity is—if you can find either."
Daniel's fake smile stuttered and then collapsed instantly. His face was drained of any color as the room suddenly felt too small for his shame. It was excruciating. Not only because Danica had verbally eviscerated him in ten seconds flat, but also partly because her parents were right there. Witnessing. Blinking. Existing. In the same room.
Emma opened her mouth and then closed it again, and then opened it—unsure what kind of words would be appropriate to fill in. Her eyes flicked from her daughter to the ghost of a man who once thought he had a shot.
Jayden slowly turned to his wife, one brow lifting just slightly in that I told you this would happen kind of way. His silence said it all. You wanted to throw another man at her? Well, congratulations. He's dead now.
Danica's silk black robe billowed slightly as she rose from the chair.
"See you tonight, Mr. Rodriguez." She acknowledged for the effect before walking away with zero hesitation or a second glance.
Emma stared after her, stunned. "She said yes...?"
Jayden set down his coffee, finally speaking. "She said yes like a lion says yes to a goat."
__________________
It was unnerving and mildly ludicrous as an extravagant room—cradled with mahogany tables that gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, linen napkins folded like origami swans, and stemware catching the light in a thousand tiny reflections—was eerily quiet. It should have been alive with conversation and clinking glasses. Instead, it felt like stepping into a royal ballroom after the kingdom had collapsed—opulent, empty, and holding its breath.
Daniel glanced at his watch only to find that he was ten minutes early for the date. Considering the threats that were hauled at him wrapped in firm yet caramel tones, and topped with forced smiles, it was difficult to deduce whether Danica was really interested or was toying with the idea of anything as remote as a real relationship just to throw him in the pit of animosity and destruction in the end.
He was thirty percent nervous, forty percent petrified, and one hundred percent sure that something deadly was being brewed behind the curtains.
As minutes ticked by, his pulse escalated at the unease, and he attempted to put on a straight face. It was the sound of a click striking against the black marble floor that broke his inner spiral and he snapped his head in the direction of the echo.
Danica—draped in a red wrap dress that latched on and bordered every curve of her body like a sin, her black obsidian hair cascaded over her shoulders like velvet shadows, and her sharp, beautiful features gave away all the charm of the universe—entered the restaurant as if she owned every square inch of oxygen in the room. Regal, unreadable, and more devastating than he remembered.
He was on his feet before he realized the heat of a raw, uncanvassed infatuation blooming in his chest. It thrilled him. It warned him.
Danica didn't offer any flicker of interest when he tried to pull out a chair for her. She ignored the gesture entirely, sliding the chair out herself and settling into it with the casual authority of someone who'd just reminded Satan she didn't need his assistance to dominate the world.
He swallowed the disappointment like a good puppet and eased back into his chair. The silence between them wasn't just awkward—it was dense and oppressive, pressing against his ribs with every second that passed.
As if on cue, a waiter in a perfectly pressed suit glided to their table, placing the Rivoli, a steaming bowl of bisque, and an array of carefully plated appetizers between them.
Daniel gave the waiter a polite nod of acknowledgement when he left, his eyes flicking—almost hopefully—toward Danica. She didn't look up. Instead, she picked up her spoon and began savouring the bisque with the focus of someone far more interested in the soup than in the man across from her.
If this was a date, it was the loneliest one he'd ever been on.
"So, Ehm..." He began, unsure what to say next. "…you booked an entire restaurant for this da—uh, meeting?"
A cold silence.
She took the first bite of ravioli then dabbed the corner of her lips with the napkin, and reached for her wine glass, her gaze fixed anywhere but him.
"I basically…" Daniel tried again, trying to force a smile as if he wasn't already feeling ridiculed. "…wanted to thank you for giving it a shot. Honestly, I didn't expect you'd want to talk to me, let alone meet in person." He laughed once, brittle and short. "…Even though you're still not saying much, I guess I should've expected—"
"What are you up to?" Danica finally spoke, fully immersed in tasting appetizers and swirling the glass of wine.
"I—uh—" Daniel straightened, his hand brushing at the cuff of his shirt as though it could buy him time. "I got back from a world tour last month. And I'd be damned if I didn't share the best moments. Skiing in Ireland, the Ghewar in Jaipur—God, that dessert should be illegal—the sunrise over Santorini…"
"I meant business." She devoured one last sip of wine and kept the glass on the table.
"Right. Of course." His chuckle landed flat.
"A factory has a 2% defect rate. Quality control inspects 50% of items produced and removes defective ones. How many defective items slip through in a batch of 10,000?"
Daniel wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Nothing about this evening in the godforsaken, top-notch restaurant, the dinner, and the conversation gave the impression of date, but felt more like an interrogation in a locked, secluded bunker.
Before he could even stitch together a half-decent response, she was already firing a deck of questions. Each one more twisted than the previous ones.
"If a CNC machine stops due to a power surge during a scheduled maintenance window," she continued smoothly, slicing her steak as if she were slicing him in half, "do you record it on the Downtime Log, the Maintenance Report, or both?"
"Huh…?" He blinked.
Danica didn't blink back. She just took another bite, chewed with maddening slowness, and aimed again.
"If the conveyor jams every 10 minutes, how many minutes are lost in an 8-hour shift—and is it possible to lose more than 120 minutes without the conveyor jamming more often?"
"I—jam—conveyor—what?"
He looked no less than someone who had just been asked to recite quantum physics in Sanskrit.
"You can't answer even the simplest questions for an industrialist," Danica finally addressed, her gaze flicking up to meet his for the first time, cold and lethal. "Quite understandable, though. It's not easy keeping up the act when a software engineer from some start-up decides to masquerade as an 'industrialist' to land himself a trophy wife."
His chair scraped slightly as he shifted, jaw tightening in defiance. "What exactly are you trying to imply here? This is nonsensical and baseless."
A smirk danced across her mouth—dangerous and unkind.
"Baseless? Spineless?" She repeated mockingly. "Not so much like your half-hearted attempt to pass yourself off as an industrialist or win my steel heart with bedtime stories of a globe-trotting life you never actually lived."
A bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck. He swallowed hard, tasting the metallic tang of humiliation.
"You know what they say," she went on, tone clipped, lifting a forkful of ravioli from her plate and holding it suspended in the air. "Fools and lonely men love to speak vacuously. They show up where they're not invited. Talk when no one's asked them to. Always eager." She let the pasta slip past her lips and ate it almost thoughtfully before adding, "Always pathetic."
He stiffened. "What are you trying to say?"
Her fork paused midair. Then she placed it down and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin like she had all the time in the world.
"I'm implying," she drawled, "you're a perfect specimen of a fool. I didn't ask for a damn thing, and you were already foaming at the mouth to impress me."
Daniel's scoff was brittle. "You might be queen of your empire in your little business kingdom, but that doesn't give you a fast pass to ridicule me like this."
"Oh, I dare," Her piercing gaze pinned him where he sat. "You're married. You have three children. You're drowning in thirty-five million in debt. And you lied to my parents—sold them some absurd fantasy that you were a respectable man looking for a wife, when all you really wanted was a wealthy woman to clean up your sorry ass and raise your kids."
His muscles paralyzed, blood ran cold and his tongue grappled with thick ash.
God, I love when people fear me. Ha! Danica mused, imagining a slow waltz with the devil under a pale, merciless moon—a fitting celebration for a night like this.
"H... how do you know that?"
She smirked, slow and lethal. "Poor you."
Then she reached out and picked up the knife—not to attack, just to toy with it. She traced its sharp edge with tip of her manicured index finger.
"I didn't win Businesswoman of the Year by letting snakes like you slither into my life."
She let the words hang, heavy as a noose, before finishing. "I could destroy you. Don't tempt me."
"This?" she raised the knife, motioning to his paling face and shaking hands, "this is just the tip of the iceberg. I know your mortgage numbers, your offshore account in the Caymans, and the forged employment letter you sent to the agency where you are working right now. Do you really think someone like me walks into meetings blind?"
He sat as hard as iron, panic blooming in blotches across his face. The air between them grew even more hot and suffocating.
"I have your entire history. Every ugly little secret." Danica raised one perfectly sculpted brow. "… And if I choose to, I'll make sure the whole damn city knows who you really are. Especially the precious company where you are currently working."
He was drenched in sweat now, a mess of fear and humiliation. Every word she'd thrown at him had landed like a spear straight to the gut, ripping apart that carefully curated façade he paraded to the world. The mask was gone—shattered—and what was left was a desperate man scrambling from his seat, collapsing onto his knees before her like a sinner begging at the altar.
"Please spare me the mercy." He pleaded. "It's—uh—it's the only way I can feed my family."
Her lips twitched in amusement. "I like that tone."
She rose from her seat, still holding the knife, and stood exactly in front of him so that he could get a better view of her manicured feet enveloped in the silver straps of Prada heels.
"You sound better when you surrender," she murmured, lowering herself just enough so her shadow draped over him. "When you beg…" The sharp edge of the knife traced a slow, deliberate line along the curve of his jaw. "…when you fear me."
She inhaled slowly and then let out a cold, disappointed sigh. "Perfect moment to stab you right in the chest and close your pathetic chapter forever." Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth. "Tch. Too bad. I'm feeling generous today."
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the knife onto the table—it landed with a muted thud against the linen.
He teetered on the edge of sobs, a pitiful fracture in the impression of the man who brandished through the world untouchable.
"If life is dear to you, then run." She folded her arms. "If I see your face again, you'll wish I hadn't been so merciful."
Without a word, he stood up hastily and bolted.
She exhaled, watching him exit like a madman. "Bastard."
Just then her phone buzzed for a nanosecond, and she picked it up only to realize that she had received an email. Her lips, as if they had a mind of their own, curled into trace of a grin.