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The night stretched long and restless, the hush of the rain casting a rhythmic lull over the sprawling Oberoi Mansion, its towering walls steeped in quiet authority.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the grand bedroom in soft amber hues, flickering against the polished mahogany furniture, casting elongated shadows that seemed to breathe with the night itself.

Ishaani lay curled beneath the impossibly soft silk sheets, the fabric cool against her bare skin, a stark contrast to the warmth still lingering in the air-the warmth of him.

Dev had been here. Had ensured her comfort before silently disappearing into the depths of the mansion, but not far enough. She knew, with an unnerving certainty, that even in his absence, his presence remained.

Watching. Always watching. The air itself felt charged, laced with an invisible tether that bound her to him, a quiet, inescapable claim.

She turned onto her side, clutching the pillow, the weight of everything pressing down on her.

What was she doing here?

She should have refused. Should have insisted on leaving. But that was the thing about Dev Oberoi-he never demanded, never coerced. He simply set the path before her, with the unwavering expectation that she would follow.

And she had.

A strange, thrilling fear coiled deep in her stomach, something both intoxicating and terrifying.

Because the worst part?

A small, treacherous part of her didn't regret it.

In a secluded wing of the mansion, behind the heavy oak doors of his private study, Dev sat reclined in a leather chair, his form bathed in the dim, golden glow of a vintage desk lamp.

The scent of aged whiskey and burning wood from the fireplace mingled in the air, wrapping the space in a smothering warmth.

Between his fingers, a crystal glass swirled with rich amber liquid, the ice clinking softly against the sides, mirroring the tension that simmered beneath his otherwise calm exterior. His gaze was unreadable, fixed on nothing and everything at once.

Across from him, Laksh, his most trusted man, stood at attention, awaiting his orders with the patience of a soldier who understood the weight of silence.

Dev finally spoke, his voice low, smooth, but carrying the unmistakable edge of authority.

"Keep an eye on Ruhan Kapoor."

Laksh dipped his head in understanding, his expression unreadable. "Yes, Sir."

Dev took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the liquid burn its way down, as if welcoming the sting. He set the glass down with deliberate slowness before speaking again.

"And Natasha?"

Laksh hesitated for the briefest second before responding. "Still running her mouth about Miss Varma."

The weight of those words settled between them, thick as the scent of the smoldering logs in the fireplace.

Dev's fingers, which had been resting loosely against the glass, flexed slightly.

Laksh exhaled, his voice quieter now, more cautious. "She's spreading rumors. Saying Miss Varma is desperate for attention, that she plays innocent while manipulating you-"

CRACK.

The sound sliced through the quiet.

Laksh flinched.

The whiskey glass shattered in Dev's grip, shards glinting under the soft light, amber liquid seeping into the dark wood of the desk like blood from a fresh wound.