The relief of stepping back into her warm, familiar, simple home was profound. The smells of her mother's cooking, the sound of her father flipping the newspaper—it was an antidote to the cold, suffocating perfection of Liam's world.
Her parents greeted her, their initial joy softening into a strange, unsettling solemnity. They guided her to the small, comfortable sofa in the living room, sitting on either side of her as if protecting her from an invisible threat.
"So? How was office today?" her mother asked, the question laced with an unnatural tension.
Piya forced a smile. "It was... ok, Mom. Tiring. But good."
Her father placed a heavy hand on her knee. "Piya. We need to tell you something. Today... we had a visitor."
Piya's heart sank, fearing a delayed corporate messenger or a lawyer. "Who?"
Her mother swallowed hard, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and terror. "The Asher patriarch. Rajveer Asher. Liam Asher's grandfather."
Piya laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound that cracked in the quiet room. "What? That's impossible, Baba. He's a billionaire; he doesn't just visit employees' homes. Are you sure it wasn't a salesman? Or maybe someone claiming to be him?"
"No, Piya," her father said gravely. "It was him. We saw his car, his security. He sat right where you are sitting now."
Piya's smile vanished. The silence in the room stretched thin, suffocating her.
"And... what did he want?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Her mother took a deep, trembling breath, tears gathering in her eyes. "He came... to ask for your hand in marriage. With his grandson. Liam Asher."
The words hit Piya with the force of a tidal wave. She stared at them, motionless, processing the utter impossibility of the statement. The world tilted on its axis. Marriage? To the man whose blazer was currently suffocating under her luggage? The man who barely knew her name and whom she feared like a god?
"No," Piya said, shaking her head slowly. "That's not right. That's a mistake. He must have confused me with someone else. Maybe Mary? The intern who talks too loud?"
"He said your name, Piya," her father insisted gently. "He spoke of your honesty, your gentleness. He spoke of needing you to balance his grandson's world."
Piya stood up abruptly, stumbling back, knocking over a stack of newspapers. Panic clawed at her throat, eclipsing all previous shame.
"This is insane!" she cried out, her voice loud and raw. "This isn't a marriage proposal, Baba! This is a corporate acquisition of my life! They don't want a wife; they want a quiet, obedient asset for their dynasty! I refuse! I absolutely refuse to be sold like a business deal!"
She felt the tears finally come, hot and fast, streaming down her cheeks. The shame of the night before, the fear of losing her job, and now the impossible terror of being shackled to the coldest, most powerful man she had ever met—it all dissolved into an uncontrollable breakdown.
Piya Arora, who just wanted to stay invisible, had somehow become the unexpected, unwitting subject of a terrifying billionaire's claim. And she had no idea how to fight back against a world that had just declared her his.
Miles away from the Aroras' modest, emotion-filled home, Liam Asher sat in his office, the cityscape a silent, glittering backdrop to his calculated decision. He was reviewing a series of reports, yet his concentration was fractured. His focus kept pulling back to a simple, unadorned confidential file resting on his desk—the one containing the background check on Piya Arora.
He knew her salary, her simple education history, her parent's modest income, and her recent promotion. She was utterly transparent, utterly unprotected.
He knew his grandfather would have delivered the proposal with dignity and warmth. He also knew Piya's inevitable reaction: fear, rejection, and a deep-seated suspicion that the offer was a trap. Liam didn't blame her. She was right. It was a trap, designed and sprung by him with ice-cold precision.
Liam tapped a manicured finger on the desk, his eyes drifting to the security footage displayed on his secondary monitor. It was a loop of the previous night: a towering, composed man effortlessly carrying a fragile, blush-colored figure through a silent hotel corridor. Liam watched the moment he adjusted her small body against his chest, the motion so gentle it belied the ruthlessness of his current plan. He watched her sleeping face, unguarded, vulnerable. She's mine, he repeated the silent vow, feeling the tight, familiar coil of possession unfurl in his chest.
He paused the footage on the moment her small hand had fisted his shirt, pulling herself closer in her haze. This simple, drunken need was the vulnerability he craved—the one that would counter the ice she would surely throw up in her sober panic.
A sharp knock preceded Karan, Liam's secretary, who entered the office with the quiet efficiency of a shadow.
"Sir, the final expense reports from the acquisition trip are being processed," Karan reported, avoiding eye contact. He paused, noticing the unusual stillness of his boss. "Also... regarding Miss Arora. Her team manager, Mr. Rao, has submitted the forms. Everything appears in order."
Liam's eyes remained on the frozen image of Piya on his screen. "Did she lose anything at the party?" he asked, his voice low, a deep rumble that demanded immediate memory recall.
Karan frowned slightly, searching his notes. "Only one item, sir. A small detail. Her left heel, sir. She wore a pair of nude stilettos. The heel detached near the dance floor."
"Retrieve it."
Karan looked surprised. Retrieving a broken heel was far below his purview, but he never questioned a direct order. "Yes, sir."
Liam rose, walking to the towering glass window. "Have a letter drafted. Formal, typewritten. Deliver it to the Arora residence today. Along with the shoe."
"The contents, sir?"
Liam turned, his expression utterly devoid of warmth, all business. "The letter will simply state: 'Your presence is required for a private discussion regarding the proposal made by Rajveer Asher. Compliance is expected by 9 PM tonight, at the coordinates provided below. Failure to attend will be interpreted as a direct refusal to cooperate, which will necessitate an immediate, full-scale audit of all related department heads and managers involved in the recent project. Due diligence must be served.' Sign it only with my initials."
Karan's eyes widened slightly. This wasn't a request; it was an ultimatum that used Piya's team—her protector, Mr. Rao—as the weapon. It was a cold, ruthless power play designed to cut off her only remaining escape route: refusal.
"And Karan," Liam added, his voice like velvet over steel, "ensure she receives this as well." He took a small, black velvet drawstring bag from his desk drawer. Inside was a tiny, gold charm, an insignificant, expensive trinket Piya would never recognize. "A corporate gift for excellent performance." The lie was delivered without inflection. The gift would only confirm that he was monitoring her, that her refusal would be a betrayal of the success she feared she ruined.
The quiet afternoon calm of the Arora household was shattered by another arrival—not a stately car this time, but a sleek, unmarked black sedan.
Piya was still in her bedroom, huddled on her bed, trying to rationalize the absurdity of the marriage proposal when her mother knocked softly.
"Piya, dear," Mrs. Arora whispered, entering with a strained, pale face. "A delivery for you. From Mr. Asher's secretary."
Mrs. Arora set a small, heavy box on the bed and an envelope. Piya's hand shook violently as she reached for the envelope. She had been bracing for a termination letter, but the cold formality of the typewritten note, signed only with L.A., chilled her to the core.
She scanned the text, her breath hitching at the key phrases: "Compliance is expected... Failure to attend will be interpreted as a direct refusal... necessitate an immediate, full-scale audit of all related department heads and managers... Due diligence must be served."
Her mind instantly flashed to Mr. Rao's nervous, sweating face. He had risked his neck on this project, covering for her minor errors, believing in her. A full-scale audit by Liam Asher would be a massacre. Any minor mistake—a misplaced receipt, a calculation error, a lapse in judgment—would be weaponized. Her refusal wouldn't just affect her; it would destroy the livelihoods of the very people who had protected her.
Piya ripped open the box. Inside, resting on a bed of silk, was her missing left stiletto heel—the delicate leather ruined where the heel had snapped. Beside it was the tiny, velvet bag containing the gold charm. He knew everything. He knew she lost her shoe. He knew she was a mess. He knew about the debt she felt toward Mr. Rao.
The cold, precise ruthlessness was undeniable. This wasn't a choice for her; it was a sacrifice to protect others from a destruction she had inadvertently caused. He wasn't asking for her hand; he was demanding her cooperation as collateral.
Piya crumpled the letter in her fist, tears blurring her vision once more. She was a simple office girl being caught in the gears of a corporate machine far larger and colder than she could ever comprehend. She looked at the time: 7:00 PM. Two hours to prepare for the inevitable confrontation.
She stumbled to her suitcase and pulled out the black blazer she had hidden. The expensive scent, the luxurious weight—it felt like a velvet chain tightening around her throat. She understood now. Liam Asher didn't need to shout. His unspoken debt was louder than any threat. She had nowhere left to run. Her own terrified words from the night before echoed in her mind: I don't belong near you... I'll... ruin everything.
She was going to save them by ruining only herself.