The apartment block was quieter than usual when I reached home, city lights bleeding through the misted glass of the lobby. Every echo of my footsteps sounded doubled, as if someone else walked just a breath behind.
I fumbled with my keys, sweat slicking my palms despite the chill in the late evening air. My heart thumped so hard I could feel it in my throat. Behind me—no footsteps, no voices. Just silence so thick it rang.
The elevator took forever to arrive. As the doors finally hissed open, I glanced over my shoulder, half-convinced a shadow would flicker at the far end of the corridor. Nothing. Just the low whine of fluorescent lights, the distant rumble of a passing train.
By the time I unlocked my door and slipped inside, shivering from nerves as much as cold, I didn't feel safe. I dropped my bag and stood in the center of the room, scanning each corner, each window, every shadow. The certainty that someone had followed me clung to my skin.
Only then did I realize how alone I really was. And how very watched I felt.
I locked my apartment door and let my forehead rest against the cool wood for a moment, listening for noises in the hallway. Even the hum of the elevator sounded suspicious now.
That feeling—the prickling, the certainty—had followed me home. My mailbox was empty that evening, but on the mat just inside my door lay a single envelope, matte-black and heavy. My name was handwritten on it, but the ink shimmered faintly, like the glint of a snake's scales in shadow.
No return address. No markings, just that unfamiliar hand, looping my name with a precision that made my chest tighten.
The air felt thick as fog.
I picked up the envelope—and heard a voice behind my door, muffled, speaking my name.
I didn't answer. I just stood there, holding the envelope, heart pounding.When I opened the door, find Alex himself standing there, looking more dangerous and handsome than ever. He pushed past you into your apartment without waiting for an invitation. He placed the envelope with the check back onto your table. "I said, don't refuse it." His voice was low and commanding.
"But I cannot accept these," you tried to explain. "Please try to understand."
He stepped closer, his tall frame towering over you as he leaned down slightly. "As I said, it's not up for discussion." His voice was firm yet surprisingly gentle. "Take this money or I'll have my men deposit it directly in your account—every month until graduation."
You stare at Alex, his intensity making your heart race, but you stand your ground. "It doesn't feel right to accept," you say softly, looking away.
He sighs, frustration flickering across his features before softening. "I know you want to do things on your own," he replies, his voice gentle but determined. "But I won't watch you struggle when I can help. This isn't charity, it's support—from someone who cares." He meets your eyes, and for the first time, you see a hint of vulnerability.
"I just..." you begin, but Arjun interrupts, stepping even closer. "If you really don't want the money, then earn it—work for me," he proposes, a sly grin forming. "Be my assistant. Help me at my firm. That way, you get paid, your tuition is covered, and my conscience is clear."
His voice softened to a near whisper, every word carrying the weight of his intent.
"I want to make your life easier... I want to make sure you can focus on your studies without worrying about money. Books, equipment... even your own private study room — whatever you need, I can make it happen."
You shook your head gently, holding his gaze. "I know you feel indebted because you believe I saved your life, but I don't need your money."
For a fleeting moment, surprise flickered in his eyes. He raised a brow, as though trying to reconcile your refusal with the reality he was used to — a world where people scrambled to accept his wealth. Instead of irritation, an unexpected amusement curved his lips into a faint, unconscious smirk.
"You..." he began slowly, his tone dropping an octave, dangerous and almost teasing. "I could order you to take it. I could make your life... very difficult if you kept refusing."
But as he looked into your eyes, saw the quiet resolve there, something shifted inside him. The sharp edge in his voice dulled, replaced by something gentler — almost reverent.
"But I won't," he conceded, stepping back just enough to give you space. His hands rose in a gesture of surrender. "Just accept it as a gift. No strings attached. I'm not trying to buy you, or control you. Consider it... payment for saving my life. End of story."
You exhaled, the tension between you thinning like mist in the morning sun. "Alright," you said softly, "but I don't want this much. I really don't. Just… give me a dinner treat someday to return your favour, and that will be enough. End of story… nothing after that, alright?"
He stared at my words in disbelief, as if my words were something entirely foreign to him. Refusing a large sum of money was one thing, but to ask for nothing more than a single dinner in return? Most people would have seized the chance to demand something extravagant. Yet here she was, standing firm in her quiet resolve.
"One dinner," he repeated slowly, tasting the simplicity of the request.
"Yes… a single dinner. That would be fine… just fine," she replied softly.
A rare smile tugged at his lips—wider than he intended. No hidden expectations. No gold-digging. Just a genuine wish to return the favor of saving his life. Something about that struck him, cut through his usual guarded skepticism.
"You know…" he said quietly, almost to himself.And then, with a flicker of playfulness in his voice, "For that honesty, I'll make sure it's the best dinner you've ever had. A private room in one of my restaurants. Five courses. Top-notch service."
She shook her head, unwilling to turn their exchange into a grand affair. "You don't have to do anything like that. Just a simple dinner… somewhere quiet."
He chuckled, stepping closer, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're stubborn, aren't you? Fine. But I'm choosing the place."
"Sure," she said simply.
Without missing a beat, he pulled out his phone. "Reservations for two at La Petite Table, tonight at 8 PM. Under my name." His voice, even in something as mundane as a booking, carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
Pocketing his phone, he glanced at her with a smirk. "La Petite Table—small French restaurant downtown. Quiet. Intimate. Perfect for our little dinner date." He teased over the word date. "8 PM sharp."
"Not a date…" she corrected, the corners of her mouth twitching.
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, laughing softly. "Right, not a date. Just two people repaying a life debt… with no strings attached."
"Exactly."—i said nodding my head.
Later that evening, he walked away from her apartment,leaving him with a sense of something he couldn't quite define. Her simple honesty lingered in his mind long after.