Raina's POV
That same Night
He didn't stop walking toward me until he was close enough for me to see the darker flecks in his hazel eyes — like burnt gold caught in shadow.
I took half a step back.
Not out of weakness.
Out of instinct.
"I asked you a question," I said quietly, my voice low but steady this time. "What do you want from me?"
He didn't rush to answer.
He simply studied my face — like he was memorizing every micro-expression I made.
Finally, he spoke.
"I'm not here for therapy."
The way he said it — it wasn't a confession.
It was a declaration.
"Then why are you here?" I pushed. "This is a clinic. Not a playground."
His jaw tightened — just once — then loosened.
"You think you buried your past," he murmured, "but some things don't stay buried, Rai."
A chill slid down my spine.
I drew in a slow breath to steady myself.
"If this is some kind of twisted stalking fascination," I said, keeping my voice even, "you should know that Beverly Hills security is not very forgiving."
He smirked — the smallest hint — like he found that sentence… adorable.
"That's where you live now?" he asked softly. "Beverly Hills. A corner penthouse. I know."
My stomach dropped.
No patient file.
No appointment booked.
No introduction.
He shouldn't have this level of access.
"Do I frighten you?" he whispered, almost gently.
I swallowed. "I don't get frightened easily."
He lowered his gaze to my shaky hand — the pen still between my fingers.
"You're trembling."
I hate that he sees that.
He steps back then — not because I asked — but because he chooses to.
"I'll let you prepare," he says, as if this were a normal clinical session. "Next week. Same day. Same time."
He didn't ask for availability.
He decided it.
He turned toward the door — paused — then looked back over his shoulder.
"And Rai…"
His voice dropped lower — velvet-dark.
"Don't try to run from this again."
He left.
Just like that.
The room felt suddenly larger — and colder.
And I realized — I had barely inhaled in the last sixty seconds.
______&&&&&__________
The moment the door closed behind him, I felt my lungs expand like I had been holding my breath for minutes.
I stood frozen for a second.
Then the instinct to move kicked in.
I grabbed my bag, locked my office door, double-checked it, then walked through the empty hallway of the clinic.
Usually, I enjoy this silence.
Tonight, it felt like silence was watching me.
Every light that flickered…
every soft echo of my own heels on the marble floor…
felt sharper. Louder.
By the time I reached the main entrance and set the alarm system, my hands were not steady anymore.
Outside, the parking lot was dim under the security lights.
My black Mercedes S-Class waited exactly where I parked it this morning — sleek, smooth, safe.
I opened the door and slipped inside.
The moment I shut it, the world outside disappeared.
For a few seconds, I just sat there in the dark cabin — hands gripping the steering wheel — breathing hard.
I closed my eyes.
He knew where I lived.
He said Beverly Hills like he'd been there.
Like he had seen the view from my balcony.
Like he had watched me before.
What if he did?
My chest tightened.
I leaned my head back against the seat and whispered into the empty car:
"What the hell is happening…"
The dashboard clock blinked 9:02 PM.
I exhaled sharply, turned the ignition, and the quiet hum of the engine gave me a small sense of grounding.
I drove out of the clinic lot — every pair of headlights behind me making my shoulders stiffen — until I finally reached the Beverly Hills neighborhood.
Tall palms.
Clean streets.
Mostly quiet.
On normal days, this drive calms me.
Tonight, every red light felt like a trap.
When I reached the underground parking of my building, I parked my Mercedes in my reserved slot.
I scanned the area twice before stepping out.
Elevator ride up — floors blinking one by one.
My apartment — corner penthouse — lights off, pitch black inside.
I unlocked the door slowly.
My hands felt cold.
I pushed the door open… and stood still on the threshold.
Every instinct inside me whispered the same thing again:
I am not safe.
The yellow light in my hall usually gives me a sense of relief.
This apartment is supposed to be my safe place.
What if I am not safe here anymore?
I closed the front door and leaned my back against it, eyes shut, trying to slow my breathing.
Where am I supposed to even begin?
Which part do I dig first?
My past is the one thing I've never wanted to open again.
I wanted everything to stay neat… sorted… buried.
But the moment he walked into my office tonight —
I knew my life wouldn't remain the same.
Why would a billionaire even need therapy?
I need to find out who he is.
And what his connection is… to me.
How does he know so much about my personal history?
Is he related to—
No.
He shouldn't be related to Nina.
He has a southern accent.
Nina was nowhere near that circle.
I kicked off my heels immediately — feet aching — and hurried toward my bedroom, where my laptop rested on the study table.
Maybe there is something… anything… that might give me a clue about him.
If he is connected to Nina… I am doomed.
For life.
I just hope — desperately — that he is related to my biggest enemy… but NOT Nina.
My room is neatly arranged, like always.
My study corner — calm white surfaces mixed with warm wood — usually so soothing.
But as I sat on the white chair and opened the laptop…
A wave of dizziness hit me.
I drank a glass of water, took a deep breath
I Never wanted to open that past file. But I need to now as i hover over it. In this chill winter, sweat is running down my head..