The tension in the living room was a terminal, suffocating weight. Sia stood by the window, her fair-skinned face tear-stained and trembling, clutching a stack of printed photos—evidence of Rohan and the waitress from the night before.

Rohan didn't look guilty. He sat on the leather armchair, his muscular frame looking massive and indifferent, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his thick, fair-skinned forearms. The "melodrama," as he called it, was only fueling his dark, predatory adrenaline.