On the other side.
Asha pushed through the crowd, her eyes scanning frantically for Piya. At the same time, Joe stormed across the dance floor, irritated from being dragged into the club scene when all he wanted was peace. Fate—or perhaps mischief—made them stumble into each other right near the edge of the bar.
"Watch where you're going!" Asha snapped, glaring up at him.
"You bumped into me," Joe fired back, his sharp tone cutting through the thumping music.
Their words clashed, biting like flint against steel. And then—an accident.
Someone brushed past roughly, jolting Asha forward. Her balance slipped, and before she could react, her lips collided with Joe's.
For a heartbeat, the world froze. The music faded, the lights seemed to blur, and all that existed was the stunned press of lips.
Joe's eyes widened. Asha's brain screamed. And then—
"Asha?"
The voice. Piya's voice.
She had walked straight into the scene, her breath hitching at the sight. Her mind blanked, her body went still.
All three froze—like a photograph snapped at the wrong moment.
Then Asha's eyes flicked sideways. Horror flooded her face. She shoved Joe back with both hands, muttering something incomprehensible. Her cheeks burned crimson as she rushed toward Piya, grabbing her hand.
"Let's go!" she barked, dragging her away without another word.
Joe stood rooted to the spot, fists tightening. Anger boiled in his chest, more at the situation than the accident. His jaw clenched as he muttered under his breath. He turned on his heel and stormed back to the private lounge.
"What happened?" Liam's calm, cold voice asked as Joe barged in.
"Nothing" Joe said frustrated.
Liam glanced at him once, then returned to his glass of wine. His expression didn't change, though something in his eyes darkened ever so slightly. Without another word, he stood. "Let's go."
And together, the two men left the club, Liam's silence heavy, Joe's anger still simmering.
Meanwhile, in the cab, Asha was ranting nonstop, practically pulling at her hair.
"I swear, Piya! I didn't mean for that to happen—it was an accident! A disgusting, humiliating accident! Ugh, that arrogant jerk, and of all people—why him?" she fumed, pacing in words.
Piya sat quietly, still shaken from everything, but managing a small chuckle. "Calm down, Asha. I know you didn't mean it."
"Don't laugh at me! This is a tragedy!" Asha wailed.
Piya squeezed her hand gently. "It's okay. Really. Forget it."
But when Asha finally dropped her off at home, Piya didn't say a word about her own ordeal. She just told her parents she'd been overwhelmed by the club, leaving out the darker details.
After Piya finished telling her parents the safe version of her club experience, her father leaned back dramatically on the sofa.
"So, let me get this straight," he said, stroking his imaginary beard. "My daughter... went to a club... without me?"
Piya rolled her eyes. "Dad, you don't even dance."
"Excuse me? I was known as the disco king in my time." He stood up suddenly and made a ridiculous attempt at moonwalking across the living room, nearly knocking over a chair in the process.
"Dad!" Piya burst into laughter, clutching her stomach. "Please stop before I die of second-hand embarrassment."
Her mom, hands on her hips, sighed but her lips twitched. "Disco king? More like sleeping king. The only dance you do is turning sides on the bed."
Piya clapped, giggling as her dad gasped. "Traitor! You're supposed to be on my side."
"Sorry, Dad," Piya grinned, "but Mom's right. I've only ever seen you dance in your dreams. You keep shaking in bed."
He placed his hand on his chest dramatically, pretending to faint. "You two have ganged up on me. I knew it. Betrayed by my own family."
Her mother shook her head fondly. "Stop being so dramatic. Go brush your teeth and sleep, old man."
"Old man?!" he shouted in mock outrage. "Do you not see this youthful glow? Even the club bouncers would've let me in for free."
Piya laughed so hard her cheeks hurt. For a while, the scary moments of the night melted away, replaced with warmth, silliness, and her father's theatrics.
Once the door closed, her facade crumbled. She exhaled shakily, her fingers brushing the strap of her dress. As she untied the delicate knot at her shoulder, her mind replayed the moment—the one she was desperate to forget.
His fingers had tied that knot.
His dark eyes had studied her every move.
His voice—deep, controlled, echoing in her ears.
Her chest tightened. She sat on her bed, burying her face in her hands. "Mr. Moon..." she whispered toward the window, the silver glow spilling over her. "Why does he keep appearing in my life like this? Why does my heart race every time? It's too much... way too much."
Yet, even as she scolded herself, she felt her cheeks warm. She hated that her body betrayed her. That her mind replayed the brush of his fingers against her shoulder. That his eyes, so dark and unreadable, still lingered in her memory.
"No," she muttered firmly, shaking her head. "I need to stay far away from him. I'll hide, I'll avoid him, whatever it takes. If he remembers tonight, he'll probably fire me anyway."
Finally, exhausted, she changed into her pajamas and slid under her blanket. Tomorrow, she decided, would be different. No incidents. No intensity. No Liam Asher in her mind.
"Tomorrow," she whispered with determination, "I'll do nothing but sleep, eat, watch my series, and annoy Dad. That's it."
And she did exactly that.
The next day was spent in the comfort of home—ignoring her mother's scolding, giggling at her father's jokes, munching on snacks, and watching drama after drama. Piya let herself melt into the simple joys, her heart still shaky but grateful for the safety of her walls.
But no matter how many episodes she watched, when the lights dimmed at night and she lay under her blanket, the memory came back—the knot, the stare, the unspoken tension.
And far away, in his mansion, Liam Asher sat at his desk, pen in hand, documents spread before him. His expression was calm, his body composed.
But when the night grew quiet, a single image drifted into his mind unbidden:
A pair of panicked, trembling eyes, wide and vulnerable, staring back at him.
His pen paused. His gaze lowered slightly, shadowed. Then, without a word, he set the pen down.