The bass of the music thrummed through the floor of 'Rudra,' one of Mumbai's most elite clubs, vibrating in Myra's chest. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, expensive liquor, and the sweat of people trying to lose themselves.
Myra downed her third shot of tequila. The liquid burned her throat, but it wasn't enough to drown out the image of Arjun's hands on that other woman.
Another," she slurred to the bartender, slamming the glass down.
"I think you've had enough, miss," the bartender said, eyeing her tear-stained mascara.
"I didn't ask for your opinion. I asked for a drink," she snapped. Her heart was a jagged mess, and she wanted to be someone else—anyone else—for just one night.
She turned around, leaning her back against the bar, and her eyes drifted upward to the VIP lounge. That's when she saw him.
He was sitting in the shadows, a glass of dark whiskey in his hand. He wasn't dancing. He wasn't talking. He was just... watching. Like a predator observing the chaos below. Even from a distance, his presence felt heavy, suffocatingly masculine.
Myra set her glass down and climbed the stairs to the VIP section. The bouncers moved to stop her, but a slight nod from the man in the shadows stayed their hands.
She walked straight up to him. He didn't move. Up close, he was devastating. Sharp, aristocratic features, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes that looked like they had seen every sin in the world.
"You're staring," Myra whispered, her voice trembling.
You're making it hard not to," he replied. His voice was a deep, velvety baritone that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"Maybe I am," Myra challenged, stepping into the space between his knees.
The air between them charged with a sudden, violent electricity. He didn't back away. Instead, he reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, his touch searingly hot.
"Do you even know who I am, princess?"
"I don't care," Myra breathed, her eyes clouded with tears and tequila. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she grabbed his silk tie, tugging him downward. "I just want to forget. Make me forget."
Reyansh's eyes darkened, turning into twin pools of midnight. He didn't pull away. Instead, his hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping firmly around her throat—not to hurt, but to possess. His thumb tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him.
"Be careful what you pray for," he rasped, his gaze dropping to her trembling lips. "If I start, I don't stop until there's nothing left of you."
"Then ruin me," she challenged, a lone tear finally escaping and rolling down her cheek.
With a low growl, Reyansh bridged the gap.
The kiss was a violent collision of teeth and tongue. He tasted of aged scotch and cold command. It wasn't the gentle, hesitant kiss Arjun had given her for years. This was a claim. Reyansh's hand moved from her jaw to the small of her back, his palm hot even through the fabric of her dress, pulling her so tight against him that she could feel the frantic thud of her own heart—and the steady, rhythmic beat of his.
Myra moaned into his mouth, her hands moving up to his chest, bunching the expensive fabric of his shirt. For a moment, the world disappeared. The music, the lights, the heartbreak—it was all incinerated in the heat of his touch
He broke the kiss just an inch, his lips grazing hers as he spoke. "You smell like Delhi rain and desperation," he whispered, his breath hitching. "Tell me your name, little bird."
Myra," she gasped, her legs feeling like lead.
Myra," he repeated, the name sounding like a prayer and a curse on his tongue. "Remember this heat. You're going to need it to survive what I do to you next."
Before she could respond, he pulled back, his eyes unreadable. He signaled his bouncer without looking away from her. "Take her to the black sedan. I'm not finished with her yet."
Next morning
She opened her eyes, squinting against the harsh Mumbai sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Her head throbbed with the rhythm of last night's tequila, but as her vision cleared, the memory of what she'd done hit her harder than any hangover
She was in a king-sized bed with sheets that felt like liquid silk. Beside her, the space was empty, but the pillow still bore the indentation of a head and the faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and cold power.
Reyansh.
The name flashed in her mind along with blurred images of his hands on her skin, the low rumble of his voice in the dark, and the way he had systematically dismantled her grief until there was nothing left but sensation
Oh god," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
She sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. Her clothes were scattered across the plush cream carpet—her dress a lonely heap of silk near the door. On the nightstand sat a glass of water and two aspirin, placed there with a precision that felt almost clinical
Every second she spent in this penthouse made the reality of her life more suffocating. She was a woman who had lost her boyfriend, her home, and her dignity in less than twenty-four hours.
Scrambling out of bed, she ignored the ache in her limbs and dressed with trembling hands. She didn't bother with her heels; she picked them up, preferring to walk barefoot on the cold marble.
She yanked the door open and bolted toward the elevator. It was only when she was down in the lobby, standing in the humid Mumbai air, that she realized she had left her ring on his nightstand.
But she didn't go back. She couldn't.
She had an interview at Khurana Enterprises in two hours. She needed to focus. She needed to be professional.
She had no idea that the "Blackberry and Sandalwood" scent she was trying to escape was the same one she was about to walk right back into.