Yuvaan Grewaal [Now in Italy]
I looked at her bitingly, disgustingly, and in every way that screamed, 'I hate this place. I hate you and everything in between'. But she didn't flinch. She never did. My fury to her was as mundane as morning coffee—something to be savored, not feared. She wore indifference like silk: effortless, sensual, and criminally irritating.
"I don't think you heard me," I gritted out, feeling already offended on all levels, "so let me try again. Slower this time, for your obviously under-functioning sense of decency. Call off your linebacker bodyguards, fetch me a damn helicopter, and take me back to the exact coordinates where you decided kidnapping me was a charming idea."
She dabbed her mouth with her linen napkin, then slowly—irritatingly slowly—tilted her gaze from her untouched plate to me.
Those eyes. Cool, amused, slightly predatory.
By this time, I hated her so much it was making my palms itch.
And the worst part?
A very wrong, very dangerous part of me wanted to drag her onto this table and do a few impolite things that would definitely violate several HR clauses. But I couldn't. For reasons:
A) She was the queen bee of TVS Media Group, which meant she could spin a story faster than I could unbutton her blouse. One whispered word and artfully staged sob from her, and I would be crucified under a mountain of fabricated scandals. She'd paint me as a villain with trembling lips and glassy eyes, and the world would eat it up like candy. #MeToo board would hang loose from my thick neck.
B) She already breathed me in like perfume, already unraveled under the heat of my stare. One taste, one brutal, glorious claiming from me and she would be addicted. My touch, my voice, my wrath—it would live in her skin like fire beneath the flesh. And she wouldn't let me go. She'd ruin me with dark obsession.
So, no. That was not a good idea. It was a fucking disaster. I needed a different play—a darker move. Something she'd feel in her marrow.
She tilted her head, her lips painted in that unapologetic red that begged to be dismantled.
"Eat," she ordered, gesturing lazily at the lasagna that was kept and served hot twenty minutes ago. "It's your favorite."
That simple command—the flippant authority in her tone—ignited something primitive in me.
How dare she!
I scoffed, raking a hand through my hair in defiance, "It seems like I'll have to make my point in a way you'll remember long after your skin forgets the heat of this room."
Before she could spit out one of those sharp-witted remarks she was so damn proud of, I swept my arm across the table. Plates, cutlery, and wine glasses crashed onto the floor with a satisfying shatter.
And then in one controlled motion, I hauled her into my arms and pinned her down against the cold surface of the table. Like a goddamn work of art: a masterpiece meant to be studied, dissected, and punished.
Her eyes widened—shock laced with something darker. A want. A glimmer of amusement, too. That was dangerous.
I didn't waste time.
I shackled her wrists above her head, my body hovering over hers. Every inch of me pressed down, just close enough to scorch her with the warmth of my breath.
"I'm not interested," I growled, my fingers tightening around her wrists, "in this pathetic attempt at romance."
My fingers grazed her temple, trailing fire along her jawline, her chin, and those tempting, smug lips before cupping her face hard enough to make her breath catch.
"This entire charade?" I whispered against her skin. "This laughable date? I'm not buying it."
I let go of her face and dipped lower, brushing past her throat, hovering over her collarbone. I felt her tremble. Saw the hitch in her breath. She wanted it, but she wouldn't get it.
Her breath hitched, but she didn't look away. No. She stared into me like she could unravel me with her eyes.
"And I'm especially not interested," I hissed as my hand wrapped around her ass, gripping hard, and my fingers branding through the fabric, "in you."
She gasped then—torn between fury and fire. Her lips parted, and a sound slipped out that she didn't mean to give me.
Her chest heaved beneath me. "I could stay like this forever," she said, her voice a husky murmur, "just to watch you break." A slow, deadly smile crept across her face. "Hell, I'd burn for it."
"Too bad you won't get that privilege," I whispered in annoyance. "Not in this lifetime. Not in the next. I don't belong to you."
She inhaled sharply but didn't flinch.
"I don't wait for privileges," she responded with fire, her velvet voice laced with venom. "I snatch them. I bleed for them. And whether you like it or not, you're already mine. You just haven't accepted it yet."
I laughed—cold, bone-deep, and devoid of humor.
"Then let me spell it out, Ms. Jenny Saini," I said, releasing her wrists slowly, deliberately. "I belong to no one. And if you keep playing these games, your empire will burn before your eyes. And I'll be the one lighting the match."
She tilted her head, a wicked smile ghosting her lips. "You think that scares me?" Her fingers slid around my neck like silk over a blade. "You can wage wars, Grewaal. Drown cities in your fury, move mountains, bring down governments, and shatter lives like glass. But me?" Her nails dug in, just enough to sting. "I could obliterate entire nations with the flick of a pen and not so much as smudge my lipstick."
I tore her hands from me and stepped back like her touch was acid. "Whatever. I—"
"You can leave." Her voice was smooth, unbothered. She perched on the edge of the glass table. "I just wanted ten minutes of your precious time. The date's done. Wasn't half as bad as I imagined," she added with a smirk that was a direct punch to my spine. "I imagined worse. Much worse."
"Fuck off," I snarled, heat crawling up my throat. "Fuck your games, your little fantasies, this glass tower of lies. Fuck your guards...."
"Keep talking to me with that storm in your throat," she interrupted me, stood up, and sauntered closer, heels clicking against the marble floor, "and I'll seal that wicked mouth with a kiss that'll brand itself onto your soul. You'll taste me every time you breathe, every time you fuck, every goddamn time you blink."
My breath hissed between my teeth. She was insane. Vile. Magnetic.
I'd handled blackmailers, legal threats, bomb threats, emotional threats...but...kissing threats? WTF.
"Get your goons running, Ms. Saini," I ignored her statement, "and get the damn chopper ready. Right now!"
"Already done. It's waiting behind the building." She smirked, "You've got ten minutes to ride down a hundred floors, get your stubborn ass on that helicopter, and fly back to your beloved States." She flicked her wrist, checking her diamond-laced watch without looking at me. "Miss your chance… and you stay. With me. In every dark and broken way you can imagine."
She stepped into my space again, eyes alight with something twisted and beautiful. "Forever."
The way she said it made something primal uncoil in me.
I wanted to punish her mouth with mine. I wanted to rip that smugness off her face and fuck her until she forgot her own name.
"You're a goddamn psychopath," I growled, veins throbbing, vision red.
She laughed—low and cruel, like a goddess watching mortals burn. "Correction." She blew across her freshly painted nails. "I thrive on chaos. And you, Mr. Grewaal, are wasting time."
HOLY CRAP.
"We will meet again, my dark darling," she called out as I made my way out of the room, "and next time... I'll be the one making you beg."
The edge of her words scraped against my spine as I descended the staircase two steps at a time, adrenaline knotting with something far more dangerous in my chest.
My lungs burned like hellfire, not from exertion, but from the sheer humiliation that clung to me like smoke in a crumbling cathedral. Me. The president of a billion-dollar empire. The ruthless force behind AeroCrest Airlines. The kingpin of fifty motels, twenty high-end restaurants, and thirty goddamn hotels scattered like trophies across the continent.
And yet, here I was: running.
Not striding. Not commanding. Running.
The sound of my polished Oxfords slapping against the cold tile felt like an insult, a violation against everything I was, and a scandalous desecration of everything I had ever built from blood, sweat, and ruthlessness.
It was... unholy.