SHOULD I MESSEGE HIM? Danica mused, staring at the ornate ceiling as if it had answers hidden between its gilded swirls.
To her surprise and disappointment, the encounter with the mystery man had been ricocheting through her skull for far longer than it should have, unsolicited and relentless, clawing at the edges of her sanity like a thought that refused to die.
Stupid, she told herself. Pathetic, really.
She'd seen better: men with sharper jawlines, smoother tongues, and the kind of polished charm that could make a room tilt in their direction. And not once had any of them managed to get under her skin, slip into the cracks, and build a campfire in her chest like he had.
He's not that special. He couldn't be. She huffed and rolled onto her side. The red velvet quilt rustled as she turned, cocooning her like armour.
Why should I message him? If he wants to talk, he can damn well find a keyboard and type.
Then, out of nowhere, a realization mauled at back of her mind.
"Shoot." she muttered, louder than necessary. "I didn't ask his name."
The walls of king size room didn't respond, but her own voice echoed in the silence like a slap.
Seriously? That's what we're doing now, Danica? You forget to ask someone's name and suddenly you're ruminating?
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could flush the thought out of her brain.
What's next? A playlist of songs that remind me of his jawline?
God. What is wrong with me.
Her pride stung. It wasn't just the idiocy of forgetting; it was the feeling. This gravitational pull toward something she couldn't define. It scared her. Or maybe it pissed her off. She couldn't tell the difference right now.
I'm not desperate. She reminded herself, again.
I'm not desperate.
I'm not....
Okay. Maybe a tiny bit curious.
She hated this version of herself. The one who could be smitten by a few moments of eye contact and a voice that hadn't even tried to be seductive but it was calm and deep enough to leave her spellbound. Those predatory grey eyes were eating her up as if he'd already undressed her a thousand times in his mind and he could picture the exact way she'd fall apart—trembling, moaning his name—and was just waiting patiently for her to realize it.
You should never trust your own mind after 9 p.m. She anchored to that thought like a lifeline. It was almost two in the morning now, and she'd wasted the entire night spiralling over something so stupid it made her want to scream into her pillow.
Maybe it's nothing.Just a product of too many years alone. Too many suitors rejected, too many dinners where I had to fake interest, smile politely, escape strategically. 90 proposals. Ninety men forgotten before dessert. Maybe he will bethe ninety-first. Maybe he's already forgotten me. Maybe. Maybe freaking—
But the second she let her eyelids flutter closed, her last thought wasn't of forgetting. It was of what she'd say if he did email her first. And a heartbeat later, she fell asleep on the thought quietly, reluctantly, and a little embarrassed by her own heart.
***********************************
The day had already started on a terrifyingly bad note.
Danica's gaze was simmering with barely disguised contempt as she stared down from the upstairs railing. Below her, the living room had turned into a social battlefield. An unfamiliar, overdressed, and dangerously comfortable man was sitting across from her parents in the living room.
Danica's mother, Emma, was perched delicately on the edge of her seat like a bird ready to preen. She was in pearls at 9 a.m., which said enough. Her hair was in its usual soft blowout, and her bright, sly, and a little too hopeful eyes sparkled with the same subtle madness that had guided her to throw ninety suitors at her daughter in the last six years.
Her father, Jayden, sat beside her, nursing his coffee with the haunted look of a man who'd witnessed too much and said too little. His salt-and-pepper beard was trimmed; his sweater was layered neatly over his collared shirt. He was a man who still clung to the fantasy that appearances fixed things.
They all were chatting. Or rather, her parents were rhapsodizing. And the man, who clearly fancied himself a catch, was nodding, laughing, and interjecting with little comments designed to impress.
It wasn't hard to connect the situations and figure out what, exactly, the missing piece was pointing toward.
Danica squinted at the man.
He was wearing a tight, maroon t-shirt that probably came from a mall brand pretending to be expensive, paired with Armani jeans. The contrast was a subtle flex, but missed its mark entirely. His hair was neat to the point of obsessive. He looked about forty-five trying to pass for thirty-five, and the fine lines near his temples betrayed him. There was a shallow smugness in the way he smiled that made the insides of Danica churn into vicious knot of rage.
"Jerk." She muttered under her breath.
As if on cue, his eyes flicked upward and caught her.
For a moment, he just stared.
She stood at the first-floor railing in her black silk robe; one hand wrapped around the banister as if she might leap just to put distance between herself and the scene below. Her hair was an artful mess pinned into a bun that added to her dangerous charm. Sleep and irritation puffed her features, yet she remained stunning.
His gaze lingered far too long on the line of her collarbone, trailing lower to the subtle curve of her dress. A dark heat sparked in his eyes, something possessive and unfiltered before he forced a swallow, pushing down the desire clawing its way up and threatening to give him away.
Then, with effort, he dragged his attention back to the conversation, trying to pretend she hadn't already owned the entire room without saying a word.
By next second, Danica was already making her way down the stairs. Her bare feet made no sound against the marble steps, but her presence roared.
"Here you are!" Emma chirped, beaming. "I was just about to call you downstairs."
Danica gave her mother a soft, rare smile that was reserved for only two people in the entire world. She sat gracefully on the armrest beside her father, her posture flawless, the robe shifting just enough to make the man uncomfortable again.
"This is Daniel Rodriguez," her father addressed, clearing his throat in that hopeful, masculine way men do when they're trying not to sound pressured. "He's an industrialist, by the way. Very passionate. Ambitious. One of the most driven men I've ever met." Jayden leaned in and whispered in a conspirational tone. "Just like you."
Danica shot a look at her father that silently screamed, Seriously, Dad?That comparison was supposed to impress me?
"He is interested..." Her mom chimed in, eyes lighting up with forced cheer.
"In marrying me," Danica supplied, expression flat as stone, eyes fixed on him as if assessing whether he could survive being buried alive in their backyard.
Daniel chuckled awkwardly. "I only meant it might be nice if we go out an…"
"You want a wife," she retorted, "I'm the assignment. Let's not sugarcoat the cringe."
Emma gave her daughter, Danica, behave glance that had absolutely zero effect.
Danica turned to her parents. "You already know my answer," she explained plainly, her smile a quiet betrayal of her own boredom. "But if you keep throwing men at me like this…" she let the pause settle, "then I might just surrender out of exhaustion."
Emma blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. She'd expected resistance, a cutting remark, or possibly a flying object aimed at Daniel's face. But surrender? Not in any sense. She knew her daughter to the marrow. Danica wasn't someone who'd surrendered so easily. She was a stubborn, stone-cold knight, the kind who fought tooth and nail for every inch she believed in.
Jayden was too unbothered to interfere. He had seen this drama unfold hundreds of times and was too aware of the end result.
Danica turned her attention back to the suitor.
"Let's meet at Crown & Caviar. 9 p.m. sharp." Her tone was polite and professional, but held enough firmness to make the guy excessively sweat. "The fate of this marriage depends on that dinner. So, show up on time. Show up looking like you want to live. And don't ever look at my chest again. I know my tits are dangerously distracting, but they are not for display."
She let the sharpness of her words sink into quintessence of his ego, before tilting her head slyly and adding, "So maybe... keep your eyes where your dignity is…if you can find either."
Daniel's smile stuttered and then collapsed instantly. His face was drained of any color as the room suddenly felt too small for his shame. It was excruciating. Not only because Danica had verbally eviscerated him in ten seconds flat, but also partly because her parents were right there. Witnessing. Blinking. Existing. In the same room.
Emma opened her mouth and then closed it again, and then opened it, unsure what kind of words would be appropriate to fill in. Her eyes flicked from her daughter to the ghost of a man who once thought he had a shot.
Jayden slowly turned to his wife, one brow lifting just slightly in that I told you this would happen kind of way. His silence said it all.
Danica's silk black robe billowed slightly as she rose from the chair.
"See you tonight, Mr. Rodriguez." She acknowledged for the effect before walking away with zero hesitation or a second glance.
Emma stared after her, stunned. "She said yes...?"
Jayden set down his coffee, finally speaking. "She said yes like a lion says yes to a goat."
********************************
It was unnerving and mildly ludicrous as an extravagant room—cradled with mahogany tables that gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, linen napkins folded like origami swans, and stemware catching the light in a thousand tiny reflections—was eerily quiet. It should have been alive with conversation and clinking glasses. Instead, it felt like stepping into a royal ballroom after the kingdom had collapsed: opulent, empty, and holding its breath.
Daniel glanced at his watch only to find that he was ten minutes early for the date. Considering the threats she'd tossed his way in those deceptively warm, caramel tones, and smiles that felt close to warning signs; he couldn't tell if Danica was intrigued or simply humouring the concept of a relationship long enough to drag him into inevitable hostility and complete ruin.
He might've been thirty percent jittery and forty percent petrified, but he was one hundred percent convinced that something lethal was brewing behind the curtains.
As the minutes dragged, his pulse climbed with a quiet, creeping dread, and he forced a mask of composure over the chaos building inside him. It was the sound of a something sharp striking against the black marble floor that broke his inner spiral and his head snapped toward the echo before he even realized he'd moved.
Danica Clarke. She stepped into the restaurant like she owned not just the space but the air everyone else depended on. The red wrap dress clung to her like temptation itself, outlining every forbidden curve. Her obsidian hair spilled over her shoulders in dark, silken waves, and her sculpted features held the kind of beauty that could ruin a man without ever lifting a finger. She was regal. Unreadable. And far more dangerous than he remembered.
He was on his feet before he realized the heat of a raw, uncanvassed infatuation blooming in his chest. It thrilled him. It warned him.
Danica didn't offer any flicker of interest when he tried to pull out a chair for her. She ignored the gesture entirely, sliding the chair out herself and settling into it with the casual authority of someone who'd just reminded Satan she didn't need his assistance to dominate the world.
He swallowed the disappointment with practiced obedience and eased back into his chair. The silence grew thick, awkward, and relentless, pressing hard against his ribs with every ticking second.
As if on cue, a waiter in a perfectly pressed suit glided to their table, placing the Rivoli, a steaming bowl of bisque, and an array of carefully plated appetizers between them.
Daniel dipped his head in a courteous nod as the waiter disappeared, but his gaze slid back to Danica—quiet, searching, almost hopeful. She didn't spare him a glance. Instead, she lifted her spoon with deliberate calm, tasting the bisque as if its warmth deserved her full attention. As if the man sitting across from her wasn't even a factor in her world.
If this was a date, it was the loneliest one he'd ever been on.
"So, Ehm..." He began, unsure what to say next. "You booked an entire restaurant for this da....uh, meeting?"
A cold silence.
She took the first bite of ravioli then dabbed the corner of her lips with the napkin, and reached for her wine glass, her gaze fixed anywhere but him.
"I basically…" Daniel tried again, trying to force a smile as if he wasn't already feeling ridiculed. "…wanted to thank you for giving it a shot. Honestly, I didn't expect you'd want to talk to me, let alone meet in person." He laughed once, brittle and short. "Even though you're still not saying much, I guess I should've expected...."
"What are you up to?" Danica finally spoke, fully immersed in tasting appetizers and swirling the glass of wine.
"I…uh…" Daniel straightened, fingers skimming his cuff like he could stall the moment. "I got back from a world tour last month. And hell, if I wasn't going to brag about it. Ireland for the kind of skiing that makes you forget your own name. Jaipur, where the Ghewar is so sinful it should come with a warning label. And Santorini…" His voice dipped. "You haven't seen a sunrise until it burns you alive the way it does there."
"I meant business." She devoured one last sip of wine and kept the glass on the table.
"Right. Of course." His chuckle landed flat.
"A factory has two percent defect rate. Quality control inspects fifty percent of items produced and removes defective ones. How many defective items slip through in a batch of ten thousand?"
Daniel wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Nothing about this evening in the godforsaken, top-notch restaurant, the dinner, and the conversation gave the impression of date, but felt more like an interrogation held in a locked, secluded bunker.
Before he could even stitch together a half-decent response, she was already firing a deck of questions at him. Each one more twisted than the previous ones.
"If a CNC machine stops due to a power surge during a scheduled maintenance window," she continued smoothly, slicing her steak as if she were slicing him in half, "do you record it on the Downtime Log, the Maintenance Report, or both?"
"Uh?" He blinked.
Danica didn't blink back. She just took another bite, chewed with maddening slowness, and aimed again.
"If the conveyor jams every ten minutes, how many minutes are lost in an eight hour shift and is it possible to lose more than one-twenty minutes without the conveyor jamming more often?"
"I...jam...conveyor...what?"
He looked no less than someone who had just been asked to recite quantum physics in Sanskrit.
"You can't answer even the simplest questions for an industrialist," Danica finally addressed, her gaze flicking up to meet his for the first time, cold and lethal. "Quite understandable, though. It's not easy keeping up the act when a software engineer from some start-up decides to masquerade as an 'industrialist' to land himself a trophy wife."
His chair scraped against the floor as he leaned forward, jaw locked in a warning. "What exactly are you trying to imply?" His voice dropped, lethal calm edging each word. "Because this is fucking ridiculous and you know it."
A dangerous and unkind smirk danced across her mouth.
"Ridiculous?" She repeated mockingly. "Not so much like your half-hearted attempt to pass yourself off as an industrialist or win my steel heart with bedtime stories of a globe-trotting life you never actually lived."
A bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck. He swallowed hard, tasting the metallic tang of humiliation.
"You know what they say," she went on, tone clipped, lifting a forkful of ravioli from her plate and holding it suspended in the air. "Fools and lonely men love to speak vacuously. They show up where they're not invited. Talk when no one's asked them to. Always eager." She let the pasta slip past her lips and ate it almost thoughtfully before adding, "Always pathetic."
He stiffened. "Get to the damn point before I lose it."
Her fork paused midair. Then she placed it down and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin like she had all the time in the world.
"I'm implying," she drawled, "you're a perfect specimen of a fool. I didn't ask for a damn thing, and you were already foaming at the mouth to impress me."
Daniel's scoff was brittle. "You might be queen of your empire in your little business kingdom, but that doesn't give you the right to treat me like I'm something you can step on."
"Oh, I dare," Her piercing gaze pinned him like a specimen. "You're married. You have three children. You're drowning in thirty-five million in debt. And you lied to my parents; sold them some absurd fantasy that you were a respectable man looking for a wife, when all you really wanted was a wealthy woman to clean up your sorry ass and raise your kids."
His muscles locked, blood turning to ice as his tongue fought against a mouth gone dry with ash. He'd braced himself for sharp glances and an avalanche of fury; for that impenetrable, emotionless wall she wielded so well. But not this. Not being peeled open, layer by layer, under a gaze that stripped every mask he'd ever worn and saw far, far too much.
God, I love when people fear me. Ha! Danica mused, imagining a slow waltz with the devil under a pale, merciless moon. What a fitting celebration for a night like this!
"H... how do you know that?"
She smirked, slow and lethal. "Poor you."
Then she reached out and picked up the knife; not to attack, just to toy with it. She traced its sharp edge with tip of her manicured index finger.
"I didn't win Businesswoman of the Year by letting snakes like you slither into my life. You could sell my saintly parents a whole corpse dressed in pretty lies, and they'd buy it with a smile, because their hearts are pure gold. But me? Nah. You can't peddle the truth's prettier cousin my way because I don't have a golden heart. Hell, I don't have a heart at all," Her smile wanned gradually, "just the sharpened swords of my mind."
She let the words hang, heavy as a noose, before finishing. "I could destroy you. Don't tempt me."
"This?" She lifted the knife, gesturing lightly toward his paling face and trembling hands. "This is barely the tip of the iceberg. I know your mortgage numbers. Your little offshore account in the Caymans. The forged employment letter you slipped to the agency that hired you. Do you really think someone like me walks into meetings blind?"
He went rigid, panic blooming in blotches across his face. The air between them ballooned, growing hot and even more suffocating.
"I have your entire history. Every filthy little sin." Danica raised one perfectly sculpted brow. "…And if I decide to open my mouth, the whole damn city will know exactly who you are. Including that precious start-up company you're so hopeless to impress."
He was drenched in sweat now, a mess of fear and humiliation. Every word she'd thrown at him had landed like a spear straight to the gut, ripping apart that carefully curated façade he paraded to the world. The mask was scattered into pieces too small to name, leaving behind a desperate man scrambling from his seat, collapsing onto his knees before her like a sinner begging at the altar.
"Please, don't." He pleaded. "I know how it looks, but I'm out of options. If I had another choice, any choice, I'd take it." He swallowed hard, eyes flicking up, wide and cornered. "It's the only way I can keep my family alive."
Her lips twitched in amusement. "I like that tone."
She rose from her seat, still holding the knife, and stood exactly in front of him so that he could get a better view of her manicured feet enveloped in the silver straps of branded heels.
"You sound better when you surrender," she murmured, lowering herself just enough so her shadow draped over him. "When you beg…" The sharp edge of the knife traced a slow, deliberate line along the curve of his jaw. "…when you fear me."
She inhaled slowly and then let out a cold, disappointed sigh. "Perfect moment to stab you right in the chest and close your pathetic chapter forever." Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth. "Too bad. I'm feeling generous today."
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the knife onto the table and it landed with a muted thud against the linen.
He teetered on the edge of sobs, a pitiful fracture in the impression of the man who brandished through the world untouchable.
"If your life means anything to you, run." She folded her arms. "Because if you show your face again, you'll wish I hadn't been so merciful."
Without a word, he stood up hastily and bolted.
She exhaled, watching him exit like a madman. "Bastard."
Just then her phone buzzed for a nanosecond, and she picked it up only to realize that she'd received an email. Her lips, as if they had a mind of their own, curled into trace of a grin.