The sharp, throbbing ache radiating across both sides of her face was the first thing Shivanya registered when consciousness slowly dragged her back to the surface. Her eyelids felt heavy, glued shut by dried tears and the swelling that bloomed hot and painful across her cheeks. As she stirred against the plush silk of the mattress, the faint, crisp scent of sandalwood cologne and freshly pressed cotton filled her senses.

She opened her eyes to the dim, amber-lit luxury of the bedroom. Standing a few feet away, standing before the mahogany wardrobe, was Abhimaan. He was slipping his arms into the sleeves of a charcoal-gray tailored suit jacket, his movements measured, methodical, and entirely untouched by the violent emotional tempest that had just torn through the room hours prior. He was preparing to step back out into the world—to run his empire, manage his syndicates, and pretend that the woman bleeding on his bed was anything other than a captive bird with clipped wings.