Chapter Nine
1167 Words
Author's Note:
Hello Readers!
Chapter 8 is uploaded after chapter 9 as I was trying to upload both the at the same time and now I am not even able to delete to delete it... So Please first go for chapter 8 and than chapter 9...
Ryan's POV
She was laughing just minutes ago.
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling from the alcohol, oblivious to the chaos that clung to her like perfume. Aanya Sinha had no idea how dangerous it was to look like that in a room full of men. Men who didn’t deserve to be in the same city as her, let alone breathe the same air.
He had arrived at the club with no intention of staying long. Gabe had pulled him out for drinks, trying to give him one night off from a life where secrets could kill and love was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
And then he saw her.
Dancing.
Smiling.
Untouchable.
Until some i***t touched her.
He still remembered the way her body stilled, the moment confusion registered on her face when unfamiliar hands wrapped around her waist. It was the kind of thing she might’ve laughed off if she weren’t drunk. But Ryan saw it. That flicker of discomfort, the way she tried to step back.
And that was it.
One punch.
One broken nose.
One ruined night for a man who dared to lay a hand on his girl.
He hadn’t even thought before moving. Just acted. On instinct. On possession. On that violent, unstoppable protectiveness he hadn’t felt in years.
The rooftop was quieter.
The skyline glimmered like a crown beneath them, but all Ryan cared about was the girl leaning against the railing, her laughter now tired, her head drooping slightly.
Gabe approached, waiting for orders. “What now, boss?”
Ryan looked at Aanya's two friends, then at her—still dazed, clearly not okay. He didn’t trust anyone else to look after her tonight.
“I’ll take Aanya,” he said without hesitation. “Drop her friends home.”
Gabe didn’t question him. “Understood.”
He walked over to her, silent and sure.
“Aanya,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him, and something inside him stilled.
Even tipsy, even half-asleep—she felt everything. Every inch of her alive. Bright. Untamed.
“Come with me,” he said.
She looked uncertain. For a moment, he thought she might argue, push back, throw one of those delicious, infuriating tantrums that made her who she was.
But she didn’t.
Her lips parted as if to protest... then closed again when their eyes met.
Just one look.
That was all it took.
And as much as he enjoyed her fire, her sass, her refusal to be intimidated by him—
God, he loved this too.
The way she bent to his gaze, not out of fear, but because she trusted him. Even if she didn’t understand why.
Even if he didn’t deserve it.
Driving her back was... dangerous.
Not because of the route, but because of how badly he wanted to reach over, tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, and say, You’re mine now. Whether you know it or not.
But he kept his hands on the wheel. Kept his mouth shut.
He told her they were going to his penthouse, and of course she objected. Of course she stiffened.
But again—one look.
And she quieted.
Something about that made his chest ache.
He didn’t want to control her. But he couldn’t lie—seeing her yield to him so easily, so instinctively... it stirred something primal inside him.
At the parking lot, he didn’t wait.
He opened her door, bent down, and lifted her into his arms.
She was so light.
Too light.
As if the world had never treated her gently enough to let her rest.
He cradled her close to his chest, and for a moment, the world stopped. The pressure of his empire, the blood on his hands, the enemies in his shadows—it all faded.
Because she was in his arms.
And nothing else mattered.
He laid her on his bed like she was made of glass.
He could feel her watching him, confused, defensive, vulnerable—but she didn’t fight him this time. She asked why she was there. Why he brought her.
He told her she was safe.
Because that was all she needed to know right now.
He left her then, before his hands betrayed him, before his mouth could confess what his heart had started whispering.
He didn’t sleep.
Not really.
Not when she was in the next room.
Morning arrived in golden silence.
The first rays of sunlight spilled through the penthouse windows like warm honey. Ryan was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair damp from a shower.
He wasn’t used to doing this.
Making breakfast. Stirring soup.
Caring.
But for her... it felt effortless.
He remembered her drinks—too many shots, not enough food. He didn’t need her telling him she’d wake up with a headache.
He just knew.
So he made his grandmother’s hangover soup—a rare comfort from a past life. He’d watched her make it for his mother every New Year’s Day.
This time, it was for the woman who’d made herself impossible to forget.
The scent of warm broth filled the space. He was plating the toast and cutting strawberries when he heard soft footsteps behind him.
He turned.
And forgot how to breathe.
Aanya stood near the staircase, wearing nothing but his shirt—white, oversized, reaching her mid-thigh. Her long legs bare. Her hair tousled, skin glowing in the morning light.
She rubbed her eyes, blinking slowly. “I—uh—didn’t have anything else to wear... I hope it’s okay—”
Ryan said nothing.
He couldn’t.
Because she looked like every fantasy he’d never dared to entertain.
Not sexy in a planned way.
But real.
Like she belonged here.
In his shirt. In his kitchen. In his life.
“Ryan?” she asked, voice small.
“You’re fine,” he said, swallowing hard. “You’re... perfect.”
Color bloomed on her cheeks.
He turned away quickly, busying himself with pouring the soup into a bowl.
“I made you something,” he added, forcing his voice into neutrality.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
He placed the tray on the kitchen island and gestured for her to sit.
She did, hesitantly. Still dazed. Still unsure of what she was doing here—or what they were.
But she sipped the soup.
And she smiled.
And for Ryan Williamson—billionaire CEO, mafia king, and a man who hadn’t believed in softness for a long, long time—
That smile was enough to break him.
He didn’t know what this was between them.
But he knew one thing:
He wasn’t letting her go.
Not now.
Not ever.
- Writer
