Her phone buzzed again.
This time? Unknown number.
Krishna squinted at the screen, lips twitching.
Could be a client. Could be a stalker. Could be someone with a death wish.
Honestly? Either way… sounded like her kind of entertainment.
She let it ring twice - just enough to be petty - before she finally swiped to answer.
"Krishna Debonair speaking. If you're here to complain…" she drawled, already smiling like a wolf scenting blood, "kindly line up behind the others."
For a moment, dead air.
Then—
"…About the bill."
Her grin widened, slow and deliberate, like velvet over razor wire.
Oh…
Him.
The train station Alpha.
The idiot.
The walking, talking ego bruise she left behind just days ago.
Krishna rose from the couch with the lazy stretch of a cat, her spine curving, arms above her head, popping one shoulder like she had all the time in the world.
"You know…" she mused, pacing toward her closet, fingers trailing across rows of jackets—leather, cotton, linen, some designer, some stolen from past mistakes and bad decisions—"I half expected you to ghost me."
Her nails skimmed over her favorite dark blazer. Tailored. Sharp at the edges. Black like her humor and twice as unforgiving.
"Took you long enough," she added, pulling it off the hanger with a flick.
On speaker now, she let the phone rest on the shelf as she slipped into her blazer, already imagining how deliciously annoyed he must look on the other end of the line.
"You owe me three things," she continued, voice soft but dangerous, like a blade under silk. "One: The cost of the pill I wasted on your poor Omega. Two: Compensation for my ruined afternoon. And three…" She paused, savoring the words. "…an apology. Public. Loud. Preferably on your knees, but hey… I'm flexible."
The line crackled with silence.
Then, sharp and clipped like he was biting through gravel:
"I'll pay for the pill. That's all."
Krishna laughed.
Not a giggle. Not soft.
A full, bright, throat-deep laugh that rang out through her apartment like a gunshot at midnight.
"Oh honey…" she purred, snatching her phone off the shelf, tossing it once in the air before catching it again, "…if you think this conversation was ever about money, you're even dumber than you looked with your face slapped sideways."
She hung up before he could stammer a reply.
Click.
Sliding into her boots with practiced ease, she grabbed her keys, slung her bag over her shoulder, and tucked her phone inside like it wasn't still buzzing with incoming regret.
If he was dumb enough to chase her down?
Perfect.
Let him.
Life had been boring lately.
And Krishna Debonair…?
She loved making messes she had no intention of cleaning up.
[Train Alpha's POV - after call]
He stared at his phone like it had personally offended him.
The call had ended.
Just like that.
No goodbye.
No chance for him to fire back.
Just her voice - sharp, smug, and dripping with the kind of mockery that left a bitter taste in the back of his throat - then static.
His grip tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned white.
"Unbelievable…" he muttered under his breath, pacing the length of his office like a caged animal.
The room - normally pristine - now had a jacket flung over the chair, half-empty coffee cups cluttering his desk, and a stack of ignored reports sitting untouched in the corner.
He ran a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots like that might pull her voice out of his head.
On your knees?
Public?
Flexible?!
His jaw clenched.
"Who the hell does she think she is?"
But even as the words left his mouth, he knew exactly who she was.
Krishna Debonair.
The Beta who slapped him in front of fifty witnesses.
The Beta whose glare had burned hotter than any Alpha's pheromones.
The Beta who now had him… calling her like some whipped fool paying off a debt.
He tossed his phone onto the desk with enough force to make it skid and bounce off a report labeled: "Pending Legal Action – Public Incident Complaint."
Perfect.
Just perfect.
As if on cue, his assistant knocked at the door.
"Sir… the PR team is asking how you'd like to handle the social media fallout."
He closed his eyes. Exhaled slow.
"Tell them… I'm handling it."
Another beat of hesitation.
"And, uh… there's a courier waiting downstairs. Something from…"
A pause.
"…Miss Debonair."
His eyes snapped open.
"Debonair?"
"Yes, sir. Small box. No return address. Just… your name written in red marker."
Of course.
Because apparently, verbal humiliation wasn't enough for her.
He waved the assistant away with a growl and stomped toward the elevator, heart racing, head spinning, and pride somewhere in a ditch six feet underground.
Downstairs, he found the box sitting at the front desk.
Inside?
One shiny air freshener.
Scent: "Crisp Public Decency."
And taped to it… a sticky note, written in her sharp, chaotic handwriting:
"For next time, darling. Wouldn't want you spraying your personality all over town again. xx -K"
His teeth ground together.
Somewhere, deep down, under all the annoyance and secondhand humiliation…
A part of him laughed.
God help him.
But this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.