Meera's POV

The city was a sea of lights, a thousand stars scattered across the earth instead of the sky. From the penthouse windows, London seemed endless, cold and beautiful, untouchable. I pressed my hand lightly against the glass, almost as though I could absorb its brilliance into my skin. But even the glow of Canary Wharf at night couldn't compete with the heat of the man behind me.

Damien Cross.

Or the man I believed to be him.

I hadn't planned this. If I had been sensible, I would have told him goodnight at the car, left him with a polite smile and the safety of distance. Sensible women didn't follow billionaires' home after two weeks of knowing them. Sensible women didn't step into glass towers and penthouses that reeked of power and privilege. But every instinct of mine that used to lean toward sense had evaporated the moment his hand grazed mine at the gala.

And tonight... tonight, I didn't want to be sensible.

I heard him before I turned, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint clink as he set down his glass. When I finally faced him, his eyes were waiting, dark and fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"You have quite the view," I said, because it was easier than saying the truth: that it was him I couldn't stop looking at.

His lips curved into the kind of smile that was more dangerous than any sharp edge. "I was about to say the same thing."

Heat flooded my cheeks. I wanted to roll my eyes, to laugh, but I couldn't. The way he looked at me stole the ground from under my feet. I had dated before, of course. Men who were charming, some even handsome. But no one had ever looked at me like I was oxygen, like my very presence sustained them.

And I should have run from that look. But instead, I stood there, frozen, drawn deeper into his orbit.

He moved toward me, slow, deliberate, a predator unhurried by the certainty of his capture. By the time his fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face, my breath had caught in my throat.

"You don't belong in a world this cold," he murmured, his voice low, intimate. "You deserve warmth. Fire."

My lips parted. His thumb grazed my jaw, and something in me shattered.

"Damien..." The name escaped like a secret.

"Say it again," he ordered, though his tone was silk, not steel.

"Damien."

The sound of his name on my lips lit something raw in his eyes, something I didn't yet understand. But before I could, his mouth claimed mine.

The kiss wasn't tentative, it was deliberate, staking a claim I hadn't realized I had been holding open. My knees weakened, my body swayed into his as if I had no control left. His taste was intoxicating, champagne laced with hunger. His hand slid to the small of my back, pulling me against him. I felt the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire pressing into me, and the shock of it sent a thrill racing through my veins.

I should have slowed us down. But instead, my hands betrayed me, clutching his shirt, pulling him closer. The world fell away. All that existed was his mouth, his hands, his heat.

By the time my back hit the cushions of the couch, I was breathless, trembling. He hovered above me, eyes blazing, and for a moment, he just looked as though he was trying to memorize me. Then his restraint snapped.

His jacket and tie hit the floor, his shirt opening with a flick of his fingers. My eyes traced the hard lines of his chest, the play of muscle beneath his skin. I wanted to look away, to keep some shred of control, but I couldn't.

"Do you want this?" His voice was rough, edged with a hunger that made my pulse race.

"Yes," I whispered. The word was fragile but true.

And then there was no going back.

His mouth moved over me with urgency, each kiss branding me. My dress slipped down, baring my shoulders, my chest, and his lips followed, leaving fire in their wake. I arched under him, my body responding with a ferocity that startled me. I had never felt like this not this alive, not this undone.

Every movement was both demand and worship. His hands cupped me possessively, as if to remind me that in this moment, I belonged to him. But there was tenderness too, the way he slowed when I gasped, the way he kissed the hesitation from my lips.

By the time he entered me, the city outside had ceased to exist. There was only the sound of his voice whispering my name, the feel of his body moving against mine, the way pleasure rose in waves that drowned out thought.

It was raw, consuming, almost violent in its intensity. And yet, somewhere in the chaos, there was also gentleness, the brush of his hand against my cheek, the press of his lips to my temple. A contradiction I couldn't reconcile, but one I didn't want to question.

I clung to him, nails digging into his skin, every cry torn from me met with his own growl of need. We moved together as though we had always known how, as though our bodies had been waiting for this exact collision. Again and again, until the world splintered, until I forgot where I ended and he began.

When at last it was over, I lay tangled in his arms, skin slick, chest heaving, my mind a haze of sensation. The city's dawn light crept in through the glass walls, painting us in pale gold.

For a moment, I thought I might weep. Because I had never let go like that. Because I had never trusted anyone enough to break apart in their arms. And because, terrifyingly, I knew I would do it again.

I drifted into sleep against his chest, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.

When I woke, the sheets smelled of him, warm and musky. He stood by the balcony, the city spread out behind him, his body cast in silhouette. For a second, I thought I was dreaming again. He looked too perfect, too untouchable.

"Good morning," I whispered, my voice still thick with sleep.

He turned, and the rawness in his eyes struck me like a blow. He came to me, took my hand, and sat at the edge of the bed.

"Meera," he said, his voice husky, stripped bare of charm. "I have built empires. I have bought everything a man could ever want. But last night..." His throat worked as if the words cost him. "Last night was the first time I felt like I wasn't empty inside."

My chest tightened. I wasn't sure what to say. So I squeezed his hand, trying to let him feel the truth of my heart through touch alone.

He lifted my fingers to his lips, kissed them gently. Then his gaze held mine, unflinching.

"Marry me."

The words hit me like thunder.

"What?" I breathed, certain I had misheard.

"Marry me," he repeated, firmer now. "Be mine. Not for tonight, not for a season. Forever."

I stared at him, stunned. This was insane. It had been two weeks, a dizzying whirlwind of jet planes, rooftop dinners, and a night that had left me trembling in ways I didn't know I could tremble. No rational woman would say yes.

And yet... rationality seemed laughable now.

I thought of the way he had looked at me across champagne flutes, as though I was the only person in the room. The way he had held me like I was precious even in the heat of passion. The way he made me feel both weak and invincible at once.

Tears pricked my eyes, unbidden. "Yes," I whispered. My voice trembled, but the truth didn't. "Yes, Damien."

His relief was visceral, a rush of heat and joy that poured out of him as he pulled me into his arms. His mouth crashed into mine, desperate, triumphant. I laughed against his lips, breathless, lightheaded, unable to believe what I had just agreed to but too overwhelmed to regret it.

He held me like a man who had conquered the world but found his victory in a single person. And in that moment, I believed him. I believed us.

Still, as he kissed me, as his laughter filled the hollow corners of the penthouse, a faint unease curled in my chest. A prickle at the back of my neck, the sense of being watched.

I pushed it away. Told myself it was the exhaustion, the rush, the sheer insanity of it all.

But as I nestled into his arms, one thought refused to leave me:

What if the city outside wasn't celebrating us? What if, in its shadows, something darker had already begun to stir?

Meera's POV

The diamond on my finger caught the light like fire, dazzling anyone who looked. To me, it felt like a shackle.

I couldn't stop twisting it, as though turning it over might make the decision feel less insane.

Sofia's hiss snapped me out of it. "Two weeks, Meera. Two. Weeks. And now you are engaged to Damien Cross?"

Every head in the café turned. I wanted to sink under the table. "Keep your voice down..."

"No. I will not keep my voice down." Her curls bounced as she leaned across the table, stabbing her finger toward my hand. "That rock on your finger isn't proof of love, it's proof of madness. Who proposes after two weeks? Billionaires don't. They collect women like handbags, and then they move on."

Heat crawled up my neck. "He's different with me."

Sofia snorted. "That's what every woman says before she ends up in pieces. Do you even know his middle name? His family? His favorite food?"

I hesitated. And that hesitation was enough.

Her eyes softened, but only for a second. "Meera... You're smart. Smarter than anyone I know. Don't let a man with a jawline and a jet ruin you."

I wanted to argue, but my gaze slid past her to the window.

And froze.

Across the street, a man stood under a dripping awning. His coat collar was pulled high, his hat shadowed his face. But his body was too still, his head angled directly at me.

Watching.

My stomach dropped.

"Meera?" Sofia frowned, twisting in her chair. By the time she looked, a bus roared past. When it cleared, the man was gone.

I swallowed. "Nothing. Just... thought I saw someone."

Sofia sighed like she was carrying the weight of the world. "You're not listening to me. You're blinded."

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was already too far gone.

The penthouse smelled of him the moment I stepped in: smoke, cedar, something dark that curled around my senses.

He was waiting with two glasses of champagne, tie undone, shirt collar open. The picture of casual power.

"You're quiet," he said, eyes tracking every step I made.

"It's... a lot."

He handed me the glass. His gaze dipped to my hand, to the ring. "Most women would be planning their dresses already."

"I'm not most women."

That earned me a smile that wasn't polished or practiced, just sharp and a little dangerous. "No. You're not."

The warmth in his voice pulled me closer even as Sofia's warning echoed in my head. He consumes.

"Why me?" I whispered before I could stop myself. "Why so fast?"

His smile vanished. He set his glass down with a soft click, closed the distance, and caught my chin in his fingers. His eyes burned into mine. "Because I don't wait for things I want. And I want you."

My pulse hammered. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you will get." His mouth brushed mine, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me flush against the hard lines of his body.

I should have pushed him away. I should have slowed this down. But his kiss was fire, scorching through every doubt, every fear.

"Damien..." I gasped when he finally let me breathe.

"Say it again." His voice was rough, command wrapped in velvet.

"Damien."

The sound unraveled him. I know the way I say his name drives him crazy. He swept me into his arms, carried me to the wide leather couch like I weighed nothing.

His mouth found mine again, insistent, desperate. Each kiss stole reason until I was clinging to him, nails dragging across his shoulders, pulling him closer.

His jacket hit the floor. His shirt buttons popped one by one under my trembling fingers. The hard planes of his chest pressed against me, hot and solid, as though nothing outside these walls existed.

"Tell me you want this," he growled against my throat.

"Yes." My voice cracked, but it was the truth.

His lips traced fire down my neck, across my collarbone. He tugged at the straps of my dress until it slipped low, baring me to the cool air and his heated gaze.

"Beautiful," he rasped, before his mouth closed over me. I arched into him, a cry escaping before I could stop it. His hand splayed across my back, holding me in place as though he could fuse me to him.

Every touch was possession. Every kiss, a claim.

But there was tenderness too, in the way his thumb brushed circles on my skin, the way he paused when I shivered, whispering against my ear, "I'll never let you go."

We tumbled into madness together, clothes scattering, skin against skin. The city glittered beyond the glass walls, but all I could see, all I could feel, was him.

He moved inside me with a force that left me gasping, nails raking down his back as pleasure ripped through me in waves. His name tore from my lips again and again, each time answered by his low growl of need.

It was raw, consuming, too much and not enough.

When it ended, I collapsed against him, chest heaving, heart pounding like I had run for miles. He held me close, forehead pressed to mine, as though letting go would kill him.

For a moment, I believed it. That this was love. That this was forever.

Later, wrapped in his shirt, I stood at the glass wall, staring down at the city. My reflection looked different, flushed, dazed, ring sparkling on my hand.

Behind me, Damien stirred. His voice was rough with satisfaction. "You're mine now. No one will take you from me."

His words should have comforted me. Instead, they chilled me.

Because when I glanced back at the street below, I saw him again.

The man in the coat. Standing under the lamplight. Staring up at me.

This time, he didn't look away.

And then he vanished into the dark.

I couldn't help but wonder, am I imagining it? Why do I keep seeing him everywhere I go and most importantly, who is he?