Piya sat stiffly in the corner of Liam Asher's car, her hands clasped so tightly on her lap that her knuckles turned pale. The silence inside wasn't ordinary silence—it felt heavy, charged, almost alive. Every second stretched endlessly, every sound from the outside world muffled beneath the weight of his presence.
She tried not to look at him, not even from the corner of her eye, but her mind betrayed her.
How can someone sit so still? So composed? she wondered. His broad frame was relaxed against the leather seat, his dark eyes half-lidded, face unreadable as if he was carved from stone. He didn't even have to say a word to make her pulse trip over itself.
Her thoughts swirled until the secretary, Karan, leaned forward. "Sir, we've got a situation. Sam is at a downtown club, drunk and... creating a scene."
Liam's gaze flickered once, a sharp shift that made even Karan pause before continuing. "He's blabbering about a girl... Meera. Seems messy."
The name snagged in Piya's mind. Meera? Who is she?
But she knew better than to ask. She didn't even dare to breathe too loudly in this atmosphere.
"We're going there," Liam finally said, voice as deep and calm as a blade being unsheathed.
The car turned, and soon they were standing before the pulsing neon lights of a club. Piya's stomach twisted. Not again. Please, not again. Her memory replayed the panic, the leering eyes, the suffocating press of bodies the last time she stepped inside a place like this.
She unconsciously edged closer to Liam, so near her shoulder almost brushed his sleeve. His stride was steady, unhurried, like he owned the ground they walked on. And in a way, he did.
Inside, it didn't take long. Karan found Sam slumped in a booth, drink spilling as he muttered apologies to some unseen woman. "Meera... I'm sorry... I didn't mean..."
Piya bit her lip, watching Liam kneel slightly to catch Sam's gaze. But Sam's eyes were glassy, unfocused, his voice cracked with emotions only he understood.
"Drop him home," Liam instructed, rising with an air of finality. His tone left no room for argument.
Karan nodded and hurried to manage the task.
Piya's blood chilled. That meant— just me and him now.
As they walked toward the entrance, someone staggered into her, jostling her shoulder. Piya stumbled back, panic shooting through her like fire, but before she could fall, a hand—firm, unyielding—caught her.
Her breath stuck. Liam's grip was steady at her waist, his eyes lowering to hers, dark and unwavering. For a moment, the world blurred. The music, the voices, everything outside dimmed.
Then, without a word, he guided her out of the club, his arm briefly anchoring her before releasing as they stepped into the night.
The car door opened. He got in first, and she followed, her nerves coiled tight as string.
"Drive," Liam ordered, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air.
The car moved, and silence fell again. Piya pressed her hands together, willing her heart to slow. And then it happened—her stomach let out a loud growl.
Her entire body flushed hot. No, no, no, not now! She bent slightly forward as if she could silence it by sheer force.
Liam's eyes flicked to her, sharp but unreadable. "Hungry?"
It was the first word he'd spoken to her directly, and it nearly stopped her heart. She shook her head furiously. "N-no, sir. I'm fine."
His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. Then he turned to the driver. "Hotel."
Her lips parted in shock. "No! I—I mean... it's not necessary, I'm fine, really—"
One glance from him shut her down instantly. That single lift of his brow carried more weight than an entire lecture. She sank back into her seat, defeated, her cheeks burning.
When they arrived at a luxury hotel, her panic only worsened. Oh god, how much will this cost? I can't afford even the water here! Her thoughts spiraled as she followed him inside, past chandeliers and velvet carpets, into a private dining room.
She sat gingerly across from him, fidgeting with her sleeves. The waiter appeared with a thick menu, full of names she couldn't pronounce and dishes she couldn't picture. She tried to glance at the prices—but there were none. That only made her more nervous.
"What will you have, miss?" the waiter asked.
Piya's mind went blank. Her throat dried. "I... um..."
The silence stretched. Liam leaned slightly back, his eyes on her—sharp, dark, unreadable yet somehow amused. Then he spoke. "She'll have the grilled salmon, light seasoning. And orange juice."
His tone was calm, almost casual, but it carried that same authority that made people obey without hesitation.
The waiter nodded and left.
Piya stared at the tablecloth, her ears hot. He... ordered for me? Part of her bristled, but another part—the louder one—was relieved. Because she truly had no idea what to say.
"You're very quiet." His voice broke through her thoughts, smooth and deep.
She jumped slightly. "S-sorry. I just..."
He tilted his head, studying her, as if peeling back the layers of her silence. "Do you always apologize this much?"
Her lips parted. "I—I don't know... maybe..." She clutched her hands tighter, words tumbling. "I just... don't want to cause trouble."
Something flickered in his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his presence wrapping around her like smoke. "You think you're trouble?"
Her breath hitched. She didn't know how to answer, so she simply looked away, staring at her reflection in the polished silverware.
Liam said nothing more. But his gaze stayed on her, unwavering, as though he could hear every frantic thought echoing in her mind.
And Piya Arora realized with a sinking, shivering certainty—this man was far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.