"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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Sam, I can do anything," she pleaded, her voice barely a shaky whisper. "Data entry, translations, running coffee—I don't care. Any salary. I just need a proper job. Something outside that house."
Sam listened silently, his dark eyes fixed on her. He didn't interrupt her frantic rush of words, just watched the nervous energy vibrating off her.
"I'm willing to start tomorrow," she insisted. "Just tell me where to be."
He finally leaned back, the leather of his chair sighing softly. He took a slow sip of his espresso.
"Mishti," he said, setting his cup down. "I have something much better than data entry for you."
She frowned, confusion replacing desperation. "What? What is it?"
"Next month," he replied smoothly, "I'm opening a new project in Paris, France. It's a clean slate. No family, no drama, no expectations." He paused,"If you want, I can arrange everything. You can leave with me."
She looked completely taken aback. "Leave? Leave where?"
"To France, of course," he repeated, his voice laced with the kind of confidence that always got him what he wanted. "And why do you think? Because you need to get out. You've been through hell. This isn't about 'getting independent,' Mishti, that's just a bandage. You need to get free."
"I can't, Sam," she whispered, shaking her head. "I can't just... you know I can't."
He gave a cynical, knowing smile. He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, but he also saw the internal battle. "You certainly can, Mishti. You are the strongest person I know. You just have to be willing to stop pretending. Stop playing the damsel for a man who treats you like property."
He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly smoldering.
"Tell me the truth, Mishti," he challenged, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low murmur that muted everything else.
"Do you still love that Sultan?"
She stared at him, her beautiful eyes wide with astonishment. She looked utterly blindsided.
"I—I..." she fumbled, her brain short-circuiting. She couldn't form a single coherent word. The question was a low blow, an emotional truth she was desperately trying to avoid.
He didn't look away from her speechless face. He repeated the question, slow and agonizing, demanding an answer her heart was refusing to give.
He waited for a beat longer, then pulled back, his decision made. "Okay. Don't answer now. But when you are clear, you inform me. I will arrange your tickets and your passport." He stood up, towering over the table.
"You have one week to decide, Mishti. After that, if you don't reach out to me, I'll have my answer."
He paused at the edge of the table, his demeanor changing to all business. "In the meantime, you need money. I have an online job you can start immediately. Data entry, exactly what you asked for. No need to come to the office in your condition. I'll email you the details."
