My name is Ira Mehra, and the first thing I noticed about him was that he didn't look at me the way other men did.
There was no rush in his eyes.
No hunger.
No attempt to impress.
Just calm attention.
The executive lounge was quiet—too quiet for a place filled with people who believed silence proved importance. I sat near the window, pretending to read an email I'd already memorized, when that familiar sensation brushed my skin.
Being watched.
I looked up.
He sat across the room, alone. Dark suit. Perfect posture without effort. A cup of coffee untouched at his side. His gaze met mine without apology, without urgency—like he had all the time in the world and had chosen to spend a few seconds on me.
I broke eye contact first.
Annoyed at myself.
I checked my phone. Still nothing. The reflection on the glass showed him standing now, moving unhurriedly in my direction.
I didn't look up again.
"Interesting choice," a voice said beside me.
Low. Even. Controlled.
I raised my eyes.
He stood close—not too close—but deliberately within my awareness. His presence felt measured, intentional. Like every step had already been calculated.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"You picked the table where people can see you," he said calmly. "Then acted surprised when someone did."
I stiffened. "I didn't ask for your analysis."
"No," he agreed. "You didn't."
Silence followed. He didn't rush to fill it.
Most people do.
"Do you always speak to strangers like this?" I asked.
"Only when they're pretending not to notice me," he replied.
That irritated me. And unsettled me.
I closed my laptop. "And what makes you think I noticed you?"
His eyes held mine steadily. "You stopped breathing for a second."
My chest tightened. "That's ridiculous."
"Maybe," he said. "But it happened."
I stood. "If this is some attempt at flirting—"
"It's not."
That stopped me.
He didn't smile. Didn't defend himself. Just stated it like a fact.
"I don't chase," he continued. "I observe."
"And what exactly are you observing?" I asked.
"You," he said simply. "And the fact that you're still standing here."
I should have walked away.
Instead, I said, "Sit."
A pause.
Then he pulled the chair opposite mine and sat down smoothly, as if the decision had already been made.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He waited. Long enough for me to feel the imbalance shift.
"Arin," he said.
Just one name.
"I'm Ira," I replied.
"I know."
My pulse spiked. "You know?"
"Ms. Mehra," he said softly, "you work in marketing. Third floor. You drink black coffee when you're focused and sweetened when you're exhausted."
"That's impossible," I said.
"Observation," he replied. "People reveal more than they think."
A chill ran down my spine. "So what is this? A game?"
"If it were," he said, leaning back slightly, "you'd already be losing."
I stood up.
"Enjoy your coffee, Arin."
I turned to leave.
"Ms. Mehra," he called behind me.
I stopped but didn't turn.
"You're not owned," he said calmly. "Not yet."
My fingers tightened around my bag.
I walked away without looking back.
But I knew one thing with unsettling clarity—
men like Arin didn't make statements.
They made promises.