Piya rushed off the dance floor, her heart still pounding so violently that it echoed in her ears louder than the violins. Her steps were shaky, her palms clammy. She had barely survived those endless minutes in Liam's arms, his hand at her waist, his gaze burning into her.
She wanted to disappear. To hide. To scream.
But mostly, she wanted to breathe.
She stumbled toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, where a small table stood with glasses neatly lined up. Her throat was parched, her mouth dry from nerves. She grabbed the first clear liquid she saw in a tall stem glass, thinking it was water. Without hesitation, she gulped it down.
The sweet, burning aftertaste hit her throat instantly. She coughed, eyes widening.
This isn't water...
It was white wine.
And instead of stopping, her panicked mind thought only one thing: Fine. Maybe this will calm me down.
So, she grabbed another.
Minutes passed. The golden lights blurred into halos. The music felt distant, swaying, like a lullaby. Her cheeks warmed, her heart softened. And her carefully built walls—those trembling shields she held up around him—began to crumble with every sip.
Soon, she found herself standing near the farthest corner, back against the wall, trying to steady her spinning head. Her heels wobbled dangerously. And before she could realize what was happening, she stumbled forward—straight into a hard chest.
Large, steady hands caught her instantly.
Her dazed eyes lifted...and met his.
Liam.
For a second, she forgot to breathe. He was so close again, his scent—sharp, intoxicating—wrapping around her. His dark eyes studied her with that same unreadable calm, though tonight, something faint flickered in them. Amusement.
"You—" she hiccupped, her words tumbling out in a slurred whisper. "You're...so handsome. And so scary..."
The words slipped past her lips like a child complaining.
Her small fists clutched at his suit jacket, wrinkling the fine fabric. Her head tilted, her big eyes glassy as she gazed up at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
"You always look like...like an ice mountain," she mumbled, tugging weakly at his lapel. "But...you also look like...like someone who could..." Her voice trailed into nonsense.
Liam's brows lifted slightly, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. "Have you been drinking?"
She shook her head violently, though her stumble betrayed her. "Nooo...I only had...water. Fancy water..."
He exhaled, almost a chuckle—but not quite. His secretary, Karan, appeared from the side, eyes wide, rushing toward them.
"Sir, let me—" Karan began, panicked.
But Liam raised a single hand. The command was silent but absolute.
Karan froze. She's dead, he thought miserably. No one touches Mr. Asher's suit like that and lives.
But to his horror—and utter confusion—Liam didn't push her away.
Instead, when her knees buckled again, Liam bent smoothly, sliding one arm beneath her legs, the other around her back. In one effortless motion, he lifted her into his arms.
Bridal style.
Gasps rippled quietly through the few who noticed. But Liam's expression was so composed, so coldly confident, no one dared utter a word.
"Bring the car," he ordered in that tone of command that tolerated no delay.
Karan nodded furiously and sprinted out.
Inside the sleek black car, the divider slid up at Liam's command, shutting them off from the driver.
The leather seats gleamed under the dim light. Piya lay sprawled against him, her cheek resting on his chest, her soft fingers still curled into his suit as if she refused to let go.
Her lashes fluttered, her lips moving. "Y-you smell...so expensive," she whispered hazily. "I don't belong near you... I'll...ruin everything."
Her words pierced something deep inside him, though his face betrayed nothing.
Liam's arm tightened slightly around her waist, pulling her closer into the safety of his lap. "Do you always complain this much when you're drunk?" he asked coolly, voice low, velvet over steel.
Piya pouted faintly, her brows knitting as if she were a child being scolded. "I'm not drunk... I'm... just not...balanced."
His lips curved, dangerously amused. "You're anything but balanced, Miss Arora."
Her heart fluttered at the way he said her name, deep and deliberate, like it belonged to him. She shifted nervously, her fingers fisting his shirt now instead of the suit jacket, pulling herself closer.
"You don't smile," she whispered, staring at his collarbone, too shy to meet his eyes. "Always glaring...always making people scared..."
"And you?" His voice brushed her ear, dark and low. "Do I scare you?"
Her lips trembled. She nodded weakly. "Yes. So much... But also..."
She stopped herself, biting her lip.
His grip firmed at her waist. "Also what?"
Her lashes lifted, eyes glassy, innocence and vulnerability laid bare. "Also...like I want to keep looking at you. Even when I'm scared."
For the first time, Liam's breath hitched ever so slightly. His jaw clenched, his eyes darkened with something raw, unspoken.
"You don't know what you're saying," he muttered, though his tone wasn't as steady as usual.
Her lips curved into the faintest drunk smile. "Maybe not. But my heart does..."
Silence wrapped around them, heavy, suffocating, charged.
Piya shifted again, accidentally brushing against him in ways that made her cheeks burn even in her drunken haze. Her small hand splayed across his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm.
Liam caught her wrist gently, holding it there. His eyes, dark as midnight storms, locked on hers.
"Careful," he warned softly, dangerously. "You don't realize the fire you're playing with."
But she didn't move her hand. Instead, she looked at him with wide, childlike defiance. "Maybe I like fire."
The air between them ignited.
The car glided through the city, but inside, time felt suspended. Her soft breaths, the warmth of her body pressed against his, the way she whispered nonsense complaints—about his glare, about how tall he was, about how unfair it was that he looked this perfect—it all wrapped around Liam like a spell.
And when she finally grew dizzier, her eyes heavy, her head dropping against his chest, Liam simply shifted her closer, his large hand steady at her back, his thumb brushing once across her spine in a gesture so fleeting she'd never remember it when sober.
He gazed down at her sleeping face—lips parted, cheeks flushed, brows faintly furrowed even in slumber.
So fragile. So unguarded. So utterly his, even if she didn't know it yet.
His jaw tightened, his control razor-sharp as he whispered into the silence, words she would never hear.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me, little one."
And as the car drove into the night, Liam Asher held her closer—dominant, composed, but with storm clouds gathering behind his calm eyes.