I didn't sleep that night.
Not because of what he said.
But because of how calmly he said it.
You're not owned. Not yet.
The words replayed in my head long after I'd reached home, long after I'd showered, long after I'd convinced myself I was being dramatic. Men said things all the time.
Provocative things. Empty things.
But Arin hadn't been trying to provoke me.
He had been informing me.
The next morning, I told myself I wouldn't think about him.
That promise lasted until I walked into the office.
"Ms. Mehra."
I froze.
That voice—low, measured, unmistakably his—cut through the hum of keyboards and muted conversations. I turned slowly.
He stood near the reception desk, dressed in a tailored black suit that didn't belong in a place like this unless it owned it. Calm. Unhurried. Like the building itself had adjusted to his presence.
Every head nearby pretended not to stare.
My pulse betrayed me.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
His eyes flicked over me—professional attire, neutral expression—then returned to my face. "You left before I could finish my coffee."
"That wasn't an invitation."
"No," he agreed. "This is."
He handed me a sleek folder.
I didn't take it. "I don't remember scheduling a meeting with you."
"You didn't," he said. "Your director did. Ten minutes ago."
I stared at him. "About what?"
His lips curved slightly. Not a smile.
Something colder. "About your campaign proposal. The one you didn't submit."
My throat tightened. "That was confidential."
"Nothing is," he said softly, "if you know where to look."
I should have walked away. I knew that.
Instead, I took the folder.
"Conference room three," he added. "Five minutes."
Then he turned and walked away—without checking if I followed.
I hated that I did.
The room was quiet when I entered. Glass walls. City view. He stood near the window, hands in his pockets, back to me.
"You're late," he said.
"You said five minutes."
"You took six."
I clenched my jaw. "You don't get to—"
He turned.
The air shifted.
"Sit, Ira."
My name on his tongue sounded wrong. Too familiar. Too controlled.
I sat.
He placed the folder on the table but didn't open it. Instead, he studied me—really studied me—like I was the proposal.
"You're good at what you do," he said. "But you hold back."
"That's not your concern."
"It is," he replied. "I don't invest in hesitation."
I leaned forward. "So this is business?"
"For now."
The pause between those words was intentional.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"To see how far you go when someone stops asking permission."
My fingers curled against the chair. "You don't know me."
"I know enough," he said. "You crave control because you rarely have it. You resist authority but fold under precision."
"That's not—"
"You didn't leave yesterday because you weren't interested," he interrupted calmly. "You left because staying would've meant admitting you were."
Silence swallowed the room.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
"You're crossing a line," I said.
"Yes," he agreed. "The question is whether you follow."
He stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that I felt his presence like pressure against my skin.
"I don't take what isn't offered," he continued. "But once something is placed in my hands…"
His gaze dropped briefly—to my lips, my throat—then returned to my eyes.
"…I don't let go easily."
I stood up.
"This is inappropriate."
"Then walk away," he said, stepping back immediately. Giving me space. Control again.
I didn't move.
A slow, knowing exhale left him.
"There it is," he murmured. "Consent isn't loud, Ira. It's hesitation that stays."
I grabbed my bag. "This was a mistake."
He nodded once. "Most beginnings are."
As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
"Tonight. Eight. The rooftop bar on Crescent."
"I didn't agree."
"No," he said calmly. "But you will."
I turned, anger flaring. "You're very sure of yourself."
His eyes darkened slightly. "I don't rely on certainty," he said. "I rely on patterns."
I left without another word.
But as the elevator doors closed, one truth settled uncomfortably deep in my chest—
Arin wasn't chasing me.
He was waiting.
And somehow…
that was worse.