The chandelier above her head felt like it was hanging by a thread—just like her nerves.
Asra stood frozen in the middle of the enormous dining hall of the Chakrabortyy mansion, her small hands trembling as she stared at the shattered crystal glass on the marble floor. Red wine pooled around the shards like fresh blood. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure the entire staff could hear it.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She had only wanted to help. The head maid was sick, and Asra couldn’t just sit in her room like a decorative doll while everyone else worked. But the moment she heard his car pull into the driveway, her fingers had turned to jelly.
Now she was on her knees, frantically picking up the pieces with her bare hands, ignoring the sting when a sharp edge cut her finger.
“Miss Asra, please leave it! Sir will—”
The maid’s warning died the second the heavy double doors swung open.
The temperature in the room dropped instantly.
Ather Chakrabortyy stepped inside like he owned the very air itself—which he did. At 190 cm, dressed in a perfectly tailored black three-piece suit that clung to his powerful frame, he looked every bit the devil who had decided to walk among men. His face was dangerously handsome, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and stormy grey-green eyes that could freeze hell. Though he was forty, he appeared no older than twenty-three or twenty-four, a cruel gift that made his ruthlessness even more terrifying. The Italian-Bengali blood in him had sculpted something lethally beautiful.
He stopped a few feet away from the mess. His cold gaze dropped to the broken glass, then slowly lifted to Asra, who was still kneeling.
The entire room went deathly silent.
Asra’s breath hitched. She quickly lowered her eyes to the floor, her small body shrinking under his stare. Her fingers curled tighter around the shard in her palm without thinking, and warm blood trickled down her wrist.
“Get up.”
His voice was low, deep, and clipped. No shout. No unnecessary words. Just pure command.
Asra scrambled to her feet so fast she nearly slipped on the wine. Her head remained bowed, curly hair falling around her flushed face like a curtain. She was only 164 cm, and next to him, she felt like a child standing before a god of wrath.
“I-I’m sorry, Sir,” she whispered, voice barely audible. Her fingers twisted the hem of her soft cream dress nervously. “I was trying to help and the glass… it slipped. I didn’t mean to—”
“Quiet.”
One word. That was all it took for her to press her lips together, eyes stinging with unshed tears. She could feel his gaze burning into her. Assessing. Judging. Owning.
Ather took one step closer. The scent of his cologne—dark sandalwood and something dangerously expensive—wrapped around her like invisible chains. He reached out and caught her bleeding hand in his much larger one. His touch was ice cold, yet it sent unwanted heat racing up her arm.
Asra flinched but didn’t dare pull away.
He examined the cut with clinical detachment, his thumb pressing lightly on the wound, making her hiss softly. His expression didn’t change.
“Clumsy as always,” he murmured, almost to himself. There was no softness in his tone, only faint irritation laced with something darker. “How many times have I told you to stay in your wing after eight?”
“I… I just wanted to be useful, Sir,” she replied in a small, shaky voice. “Everyone was busy and—”
“Look at me when you speak.”
Her breath caught. Slowly, fearfully, Asra lifted her big doe-like brown eyes to meet his. The moment their gazes locked, she felt stripped bare. This man saw everything. Her fear. Her racing heart. The way her lips trembled.
Ather’s jaw tightened. For a split second, something unreadable flashed in his eyes before the cold mask returned. He released her hand abruptly, as if touching her had irritated him further.
“Clean this mess properly. And get that cut treated.” He turned to leave, pausing only to add without looking back, “If I see you out of your room again tonight, Asra, I will carry you there myself. Understood?”
Her cheeks burned crimson at the threat. She nodded quickly, even though he couldn’t see it.
“Yes, Sir.”
He walked away, his footsteps echoing like a death knell through the hall. Only when the doors closed behind him did Asra allow herself to breathe again. Her legs felt weak. She leaned against the long dining table for support, pressing her bleeding palm to her chest.
Why does he hate me so much? she thought, tears finally slipping down her cheeks. And why… why does my heart beat faster every time he looks at me?
Outside the dining hall, Ather stopped in the corridor, his hand clenching into a fist at his side.
The image of her kneeling on the floor, small and trembling, with those innocent eyes filled with terror, refused to leave his mind. He should feel nothing. He wanted to feel nothing.
Yet the beast inside him stirred.
She was his—bound to him by blood, debt, and a contract she had no power to break. Eighteen years old. Too soft. Too loud. Too alive for his world of darkness.
And the worst part?
Ather Chakrabortyy was starting to enjoy breaking her.
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