"You walked into the lion's den, sweetheart," he whispered, stepping closer. "And lions don't let go so easily."
He looked down at her leg, at her trembling hands, and the fear in her eyes.
"A beautiful young girl like you," he chuckled, "shouldn't...
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They dragged Vihaan in like a sack of rot-bloodied, broken, whimpering like a kicked mutt.
I stared.
He looked like the thing he truly was.
A man who gambled a woman's body to buy himself out of failure.
I walked toward him slowly, my boots echoing on the cold concrete.
He whimpered.Pathetic.
"Stand him up," I barked. "I want to see his eyes when he realizes I'm the final thing he's ever going to fear."
But before my men could react, she was there.
Stepping between us like a lamb protecting a wolf. Her arms wrapped gently around him, her hand on his neck, steadying him, her face streaked with saltwater.
Helping him.
I stared.
"Get back," I snapped, voice low but sharp. My hand wrapped around her wrist-not tight, not brutal-but firm enough to make her look at me.
Her eyes turned toward mine.Terrified. Tear-stained. But still...... burning.
Like she was screaming without making a sound.She looked at me like I was the devil and still dared to stand tall. I released her wrist slowly.
"Zubair," I said flatly, never breaking eye contact with her, "pack this piece of shit into the car."
She opened her mouth, but I raised a hand before she could speak.
"Not another word."
Vihaan was dragged away, moaning softly.
The way she was still looking at me.
"You should reconsider what I said," I muttered.
She straightened, lifting her chin, even as her lip quivered.
"If you offered me a crown, a palace... even your name," she spat, "I would still say no."
She walked away, wiping her tears with shaking fingers, and I watched every step she took like a dying man watches the last glass of water being poured into the dirt.
---
That night, I sat in my cabinet, lights off, the silence thick as tar.
The documents on my table remained untouched. My phone rang twice-I ignored both.
I should've been working.
The papers were stacked before me, blueprints of upcoming shipments, ledger books encrypted with codes only I could understand. But my eyes kept drifting-past the ink, past the desk, past the polished glass-back to her.
Why the fuck am I wasting my time thinking about a woman?
I scoffed, pushing away the files.
I was Sultan Emad Khan. The bloodline of warlords. My grandfather ran heroin from Myanmar to Karachi before the military ever learned to fly a drone. My father kissed the rings of princes in the Middle East while making their enemies disappear overnight. And I-I inherited the syndicate, expanded it, drenched Southeast Asia in power and fear. I dealt in weapons, lives, and silence.
