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“We need to hurry. I don’t want to make my client wait.”

As we head back to the car, a thought strikes me. “Do you actually drive while eating a croissant?” I ask, my tone sharp.

“Yeah, big deal!” She shrugs.

I sigh, rubbing my hand over my beard, frustration building up again. Stepping closer, I lower my voice. “It is a big deal. That’s poor driving etiquette, Simran. It’s dangerous, and it needs to stop.”

Anger flashes in her eyes. “You didn’t come here to give me driving tips on how to drive safely. You came here to protect me, not lecture me.”

“Exactly,” I say, leaning in just a little more. “Protecting you includes keeping you safe from unnecessary accidents. So, listen carefully, Simran. From tomorrow onwards, you’ll either eat your croissant in the café and then drive to work, or you have a proper breakfast at home and only grab a coffee on the way. That’s it. The choice is yours.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!” she snaps.

I don’t respond; I just calmly open the car door for her. She climbs in, still fuming. I’m not here to decide anything for her, but when it comes to her safety, I’m not backing down. I dare her to challenge me on this.

As we drive off, I catch a glimpse of the black car still parked across the street, not moving. Maybe I’m overthinking it. But every little detail is important when you have to protect someone’s life, no matter how big or small. I quickly type a message to my team, instructing them to get their hands on the CCTV footage of the café for the past month during Simran’s usual visits.

Just then, her voice breaks through my concentration. She’s muttering to herself, “He can’t even finish a croissant without letting his coffee go cold, but here he is, lecturing me on breakfast habits, huh.”

I let her blabber without responding, focusing on the task at hand. She doesn’t need to worry about me. She has enough people in her life for that—her son and his father.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the basement parking of Skyline Tower, where Simran’s boutique is located. As I park, my eyes sweep across the space, mentally noting potential security weak points here. Since this is where she spends her maximum time, this could be a prime spot for anyone wanting to keep tabs on her.

“My boutique is on the 34th floor,” she informs me as we head towards the elevator.

I instruct my guards to remain in the basement. As the elevator doors close, Simran sighs in relief.

“I’m happy at least these guards won’t be crowding me in the boutique,” she says.

“They will be,” I cut her off immediately, “from tomorrow. I’m giving you some liberty only for today.”

She’s about to argue when I put my finger on her lips to silence her.

“And stop interfering with the way I’m handling your protection. You won’t like the consequences if you don’t, Simran.”

Her brows knit together in frustration.

“What are you going to do?” She pushes my finger aside and steps closer, her eyes sparking with a challenge.

I meet her gaze head-on. We’re locked in a tense standoff. I’m not doing her any favour by protecting her. I’m doing this for me… because I can’t see her in any harm’s way. Ever. She might have lived her life recklessly so far, but that has to change from now. And I will make sure she takes this seriously.

When I hold her gaze and continue to challenge her to see what she would do, her eyes flicker to my lips for a split second. She swallows hard and quickly tries to steer the conversation back to the topic.

“What... what will you do? Go back to India?” she counters again. She tries her hand at teasing, but it falls flat.

I’m in no mood for games. She needs to understand that I’m not going anywhere. I step closer and gently push her against the elevator wall, my fingers snaking around her neck—not in a threatening way, but in a way that establishes control and reminds her who’s in charge when it comes to her safety.

“One more time you ask me to leave, I’ll make sure you’re on my radar, under my watch 24/7, for the rest of your life.”

Her eyes widen in shock, and her breath hitches as she feels the heat of my words and the weight of my intent. That warning hits its mark.

“You won’t be able to sneeze without me knowing. Your world will shrink to the space I allow. Think hard before you test me on this, Simran, because I don’t make idle threats. So, choose your next words very, very carefully,” I add, my grip on her neck firm but tender, just enough to assert dominance without fear.

The elevator doors slide open on the 34th floor, but neither of us makes a move. My thumb subconsciously traces circles on her skin to calm the frantic pulse beneath. It’s a strange contrast: my touch, often associated with fear and wrath, sparks an undeniable passion in her—only her—which invariably adds to her frustration. Her eyes, ablaze with defiance, bore into mine. She knows I’m not backing down, not when it comes to her safety.

Finally, she pushes me hard and storms out of the elevator. I barely move an inch, despite the impact and then follow in her wake, hoping my message has sunk in. One thing is certain—I won’t let her slip away, not from me and certainly not from the protection she clearly needs.

SIMRAN