Chapter Seven
1088 Words
Aanya's POV
It had been a week of stolen glances and aching silence.
Every time she saw Ryan on campus—during guest lectures, across courtyards, or in passing cars with blacked-out windows—he was always looking first.
Like he knew exactly where she was.
Like he was always watching.
It was terrifying.
And addictive.
And exhausting.
So when Diya and Shruti asked if she wanted to join them for a girls’ night out on Saturday, she said yes before she could talk herself out of it.
She needed the distraction.
She needed to feel like a twenty-four-year-old student again—not like the center of some silent storm.
The club they chose was crowded, thumping with bass, and smelled like tequila, sweat, and freedom. Aanya had never been much of a drinker, but after three vodka shots and half a cocktail, she wasn’t even sure what she was anymore.
The lights blurred. The music pulsed through her bones.
And for a moment, she let herself forget.
Forget Ryan’s eyes. Forget the whispers.
Forget how her heart now answered to a man she barely knew.
So when a guy in a leather jacket asked her to dance, she laughed and nodded. He was cute in a careless kind of way. Messy hair, sharp jaw, and a grin that said he’d done this before.
They moved together on the floor, hips brushing, hands finding rhythm. But soon his fingers slid to her waist—then her back. Then lower.
Aanya stiffened. “Hey—stop,” she said, voice muffled by the beat.
He didn’t.
“Seriously,” she pushed him lightly. “That’s enough.”
His hand tightened.
And then—
A blur.
A fist.
A sound like bone cracking.
And the boy was on the floor.
Blood spilled from his mouth. People screamed. The music stuttered. The crowd split in two like parting water—and at the center stood Ryan Williamson.
He wasn’t wearing his usual suit. Just a black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark jeans, and murder in his eyes.
“Don’t touch what you can’t afford,” he growled.
Ryan's POV
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight.
Gabe had dragged him out for drinks. Said he was working too hard. Said the mafia could run itself for a damn night. Ryan didn’t drink much, didn’t dance, and hated crowds.
But the moment he stepped inside the club, he felt it—like a current in his blood.
She was here.
He saw her before she saw him.
Aanya.
Wearing a short emerald dress that clung to her curves like it had been painted on. Her hair was down in soft waves, her cheeks flushed from alcohol and heat. She laughed as her friend tugged her toward the dance floor, and the sound hit him harder than a bullet.
He’d seen her smile before.
But he’d never seen her this... unguarded.
And then that punk touched her.
Ryan watched it happen. Step by step.
The boy’s hands sliding lower.
Aanya’s discomfort.
Her quiet resistance.
And in that moment, the part of Ryan that operated in boardrooms and billion-dollar deals evaporated.
Only the King remained.
He crossed the floor in seconds.
Didn’t think. Didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate.
The punch landed with brutal precision. Ryan had thrown enough in back-alley wars to know the sound of bone cracking. He barely felt the impact. He just saw red.
The boy scrambled backward, terrified. “Dude, I didn’t know she was—”
“Mine?” Ryan cut him off, voice like ice. “She isn’t. But you touched her without permission.”
Club security swarmed, but one look from Gabe had them backing off. No one wanted to tangle with Williamson.
No one ever did.
Aanya's POV
She was shaking.
Not from fear.
From something far more confusing.
Ryan turned toward her slowly. His chest was rising with shallow, controlled breaths. His knuckles were bleeding. His eyes were wild.
But when he looked at her—really looked—something inside her broke.
He wasn’t angry at her.
He was angry for her.
That changed everything.
“Aanya,” he said, voice lower now, gentler. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, speechless.
“Come with me,” he said. “Now.”
Every cell in her body screamed to run the other way.
To be rational.
To be safe.
But her legs had a mind of their own.
She followed him.
Ryan's POV
He took her to the rooftop lounge, quiet and moonlit, away from the eyes and the noise.
Aanya sat on the cushioned bench, wrapping her arms around herself like she needed to hold herself together.
He watched her.
Not just her beauty, though it was impossible to ignore.
But the way she felt.
Like sunlight trapped in a glass bottle.
Too bright to touch. Too fragile to fall.
“You shouldn’t drink like that in a place like this,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t let strange men dance with you.”
“I didn’t let him—”
“I know,” he said, cutting her off. “I saw.”
Silence.
Then she turned to him, her voice barely a breath. “Why did you follow me?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because the truth was dangerous.
Because the truth was this:
He couldn’t help himself.
“You’re not like them,” he said instead.
Her brows furrowed. “Like who?”
“Everyone here. Everyone in this city. You still have light in you, Aanya.”
And I don’t, he didn’t say.
He was too far gone for light.
But he could protect hers.
Even if that meant burning everything else down.
Aanya's POV
His words hit harder than the punch he’d thrown.
Light?
She didn’t feel light. She felt lost.
And yet… when he looked at her, she felt seen. Not as some scared girl from another country. Not as a scholarship student who didn’t belong.
Just… Aanya.
“I should go,” she said softly, standing.
He reached for her wrist—not tightly, but firmly. “I’ll take you home.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t leave things I care about unguarded.”
She froze.
Did he just say—?
No.
He couldn’t mean—
But his eyes said what his mouth didn’t.
And the terrifying truth was—
She didn’t want to be unguarded anymore.
Not from him.
Not tonight.
- Writer
