1

Mia never believed in crossing lines.

Best friends were sacred. And Aryan? He was her constant, her storm shelter, the only man she trusted more than herself.

But tonight, something shifted.

She felt it the moment he walked into the rooftop bar—charcoal-black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins dancing under tanned skin. His presence had always been sharp, commanding. But now… it felt dangerous.

"You look like trouble," Mia muttered, sipping her wine as he approached.

Aryan’s lips curved into that slow, devastating smile. "You love trouble when it comes wrapped in black."

She rolled her eyes, but heat coiled low in her belly. That voice—deep, rough, laced with something unspoken—it did things to her. Things a best friend shouldn't feel.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked, voice soft.

He leaned down, his breath brushing the shell of her ear. “Because you wore that dress knowing exactly what it does to me.”

Her heart stuttered. The navy silk clung to her like a second skin. It had been a reckless choice.

“Aryan…”

“I’m tired of pretending,” he whispered, his tone suddenly heavy. “Tired of watching you flirt with the world and coming home to me like you don’t know what you're doing.”

Mia blinked up at him, stunned. “What am I doing?”

He exhaled, dark eyes locking onto hers. “Testing me.”

She swallowed, throat dry. “And what if I am?”

His jaw clenched. Then his fingers brushed her wrist—light, possessive.

“Then, sweetheart, we’re not friends anymore.”

The morning sun kissed the skyline as Mia stood in front of the mansion gates, suitcase by her side, nerves twisting in her stomach like vines.

Aryan’s mansion was nothing short of intimidating—sleek, modern, and as coldly beautiful as the man himself. Steel, glass, and sharp edges. It didn’t feel like a home. It felt like power.

The gates opened silently.

He was waiting at the door, sleeves rolled up again, his hair slightly tousled from sleep or maybe stress. Or maybe because he just didn’t care enough to tame it. Mia found herself staring a second too long.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I’m five minutes early,” she shot back, dragging her suitcase through the marble-floored entry.

Aryan’s eyes flicked down to the suitcase. Then up—slowly, deliberately. “Still late. I wanted you here last night.”

She blinked. “You never said that.”

His mouth twitched. “I don’t always say things out loud.”

Mia sighed and looked around. “So… where’s my room?”

He stepped closer, towering over her. “We'll get to that. First, the rules.”

Something in her body tightened. “Rules?”

Aryan led her to the living room—floor-to-ceiling windows, leather furniture, and a low-burning fireplace that hummed against the silence. He poured himself a glass of whiskey. It was 10 AM.

“This place isn’t just a house. You’ll live here, yes—but under my terms. I don’t like chaos. I don’t like disrespect. And I don’t like being questioned.”

Mia arched a brow. “I’m not your employee.”

His gaze darkened. “You’re mine. That’s the difference.”

Heat exploded through her chest.

“You’ll follow my house rules. You’ll dress appropriately, eat on time, no locked doors. If you disobey—” he paused, taking a slow sip, “—there will be consequences.”

Her breath caught. “Consequences?”

His smile was almost cruel. “You'll find out, Mia. You’ve always wanted to test how far I’d go.”

The silence stretched. She didn’t look away.

“What if I break a rule by accident?” she whispered.

Aryan set the glass down and walked to her, so close she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes.

“Then I’ll punish you gently. The first time.”

Her heart pounded. “And the second?”

“No mercy.”

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