The silence in the car wasn’t awkward. It was charged. The kind that crackled in the air, made her skin too warm, and her breath too shallow. Mrunal sat beside him, her hands folded tightly in her lap, trying not to glance sideways at Devraj Rathore—who was too still, too quiet, his jaw locked in unreadable tension.

He hadn’t said a word since the restaurant. But she could feel him. Like gravity. Like possession. The city lights danced across the windshield, gold and orange painting fleeting shadows on his sharp profile. He didn’t look at her as he drove, but she knew—knew—he was thinking. Burning. Wanting.