Chapter 6

The private terminal at Heathrow always smelled faintly of coffee.

Raiyan didn’t notice it most days. He moved through places like this the way he moved through meetings—clean lines, fast decisions, no wasted attention.

Today, the scent caught him by the throat.

He slowed without meaning to, eyes dropping to the front of his shirt like he expected a stain to bloom out of nowhere.

Nothing.

His chest still did that small, stupid tighten—the one he hated because it didn’t answer to logic.

Evan was a few steps behind, saying something about a delayed file.

Raiyan didn’t hear a word.

The terminal stayed bright and polished, people gliding past like they were born in suits. But his mind slipped, sharp and quick, back to the last time coffee had mattered.

Two months ago.

He’d been walking the same stretch of floor, phone in hand, already three meetings ahead. He wasn’t distracted often.

Until he was.

Someone collided with him hard enough to jolt his shoulder.

Cold liquid hit his chest before his brain even named it. Then his trousers. Then his shoes.

Coffee. Everywhere.

The lid clattered. Ice scattered across the stone like tiny insults.

Raiyan stopped dead.

The woman who’d run into him was still on her call.

“…I’m just—strategically behind schedule,” she said, voice calm like she wasn’t standing in a mess she’d created. “I’ll call you later.”

She ended the call and finally looked up.

His irritation rose on instinct—sharp, ready—

Then stalled.

Because she wasn’t flustered.

She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t over-apologizing the way people did when they realized who he was.

She just looked at him. Calm. Direct. Like she wasn’t intimidated—only annoyed at the inconvenience.

“Oh,” she said, blinking once. “Oh no.”

And then, like it finally registered what she’d done, she stepped closer.

Too close.

“I wasn’t watching,” she started, already reaching for her bag. “I was on the phone, Heathrow is basically a maze, and—”

That was when he properly saw her.

Not in the abstract way people noticed a beautiful woman.

In detail.

A midnight-blue trench coat—silk or something close enough that it moved differently than most fabric—settled around her like she’d thrown it on without checking a mirror and still won. Cream trousers, tailored but practical. Boots that sounded steady on the floor—no wobble, no hesitation.

Her hair was loosely tied back, dark strands escaping on purpose or refusing discipline. Sunglasses perched on her head like an afterthought. A tote on one shoulder, her bag slipping slightly as she dug through it.

Put together. Effortless. And not performing for anyone.

His temper found its voice first.

“Are you blind?”

She blinked at him like she was deciding whether he was serious.

“No,” she said evenly. “My eyes are on vacation.”

Something in Raiyan’s face almost shifted.

Almost.

It should’ve irritated him more.

It didn’t.

She flicked her gaze down at his shirt, then back up, like she was reviewing evidence.

“Also, the accident was front-facing,” she said with a small, unapologetic shrug. “So you’re at fault too.”

Raiyan stared at her, amused and irritated at the same time. He hated that he couldn’t tell which one was winning.

“And,” she added, tilting her head slightly, “your shirt consumed my coffee like it was waiting for it.”

Raiyan drew in a slow breath through his nose. Controlled.

He forced his expression back into place. “You’re enjoying this.”

Her lips curved faintly. “No. I’m impressed by your commitment to being offended.”

Then her gaze shifted again—this time the humor dimmed a fraction.

“Okay,” she said, quieter. “That part’s on me.”

She pulled out a small floral handkerchief and dabbed at his chest without hesitation.

Close.

Too close.

His hand closed around her wrist before he meant to.

Not rough.

Just… there.

“I think,” he said, voice cooler than he felt, “you’ve done enough damage.”

Zoya didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She only went very still, eyes lifting to his like she’d felt the impulse behind the control.

“…Are you always this dramatic,” she asked, “or did my coffee offend you personally?”

A smirk tugged at Raiyan’s mouth before he killed it.

Zoya noticed instantly. Her gaze dipped to his mouth, then slid back to his eyes, like she’d caught him slipping and decided not to let him recover.

He released her wrist.

“You should’ve been a lawyer,” he said.

“I’m working on it.”

Her tone was casual, like that wasn’t a flex.

He studied her for half a beat too long. “I’m trying to decide whether this was an accident… or a cry for attention.”

She blinked once.

Then smiled.

Not sweet. Not wide.

An enigmatic curve that said she wasn’t here to impress him—and she knew exactly what that did to men like him.

“You think I spilled coffee on you for attention?” she asked lightly.

“You walked into me.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding once. “With commitment.”

His jaw tightened. He hated that his mouth wanted to twitch.

Before she could shift away, he reached for the second cup in her hand—the one that had survived.

She gasped. “Absolutely not.”

“You owe me a shirt.”

“You owe me emotional damage.”

Raiyan lifted the cup like he was considering it.

Her eyes narrowed, daring him.

He tipped it—just enough to threaten.

Zoya froze, then stared at him like she’d never been insulted this creatively. “Did you just—”

“I showed restraint,” Raiyan said, voice dry.

Zoya let out a sharp, disbelieving huff. “You weaponized caffeine. That’s a crime.”

“Prove it.”

“I’m a law student.”

Raiyan exhaled, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. “That explains the ego.”

“That explains the attitude,” she shot back without missing a beat.

They stood there, closer than they needed to be, both damp—irritation crackling—

and something else sliding underneath it like heat.

Raiyan realized, with mild horror, that he was smiling.

Not the polite version. Not the controlled one he used like a shield.

A real one.

“So,” she said, glancing at his ruined shirt and then at her trousers, “we’re both having an excellent morning.”

He should’ve stepped back.

He didn’t.

“I’ll buy you a coffee,” she added.

“Out of guilt?” he asked.

“Compensation,” she said, like he was a normal man and she was doing him a favor. “For your terminal tantrum.”

No one spoke to him like that.

Not in his adult life.

“I thought it was for ruining my shirt,” he said.

Her smile returned—slow, satisfied. “Try not to assault anyone else with beverages today.”

She stepped away.

Raiyan didn’t follow.

He stood there instead, still holding the coffee she’d pressed into his hand like she’d decided the conversation was over and he didn’t get a vote.

He took a sip without thinking.

Then another.

Only then did it hit him how ridiculous he was being.

He’d been surrounded by women his whole life—family gatherings, parties, offices. Women who mistook proximity for access. Women who tried to soften him, charm him, bend him.

He’d learned early how to keep distance without explanations.

It had never been difficult.

And yet—

He was standing in the middle of Heathrow, holding a paper cup he hadn’t paid for, tasting coffee he didn’t order, feeling… amused.

Worse.

Interested.

By the time he looked up again, she was already gone.

⸻

Present day pulled him back like a snap.

Raiyan drew in a slow breath and kept walking.

His body didn’t cooperate.

The memory sat in his chest like something unfinished—the warmth of the cup in his hand, the ease in her voice, the way she’d looked at him like he wasn’t untouchable. Like he was just… there.

His throat tightened.

Not longing.

Regret—sharp and unhelpful, the kind that showed up late and stayed anyway.

Evan matched his pace. “You went quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Raiyan said, and heard how false it sounded.

His phone vibrated.

He ignored it.

It vibrated again, impatient.

Evan glanced at him. “You want me to—”

“No.”

The third vibration felt like a shove.

Raiyan stopped and checked the screen.

Elena.

His eyes darkened. His thumb hovered like he might open it out of spite—then he locked the screen instead. Like that would erase her.

Evan hesitated. “That night at the masquerade… someone spilled red wine on Zoya’s dress.”

Raiyan’s gaze shifted. “Spilled?”

Evan shook his head once. “Didn’t look accidental.”

Raiyan’s stomach dropped.

Because that meant the timing wasn’t random.

The spill.

Faiyaz stepping in.

Elena’s voice in his ear.

His anger, sharpened and pointed in the wrong direction.

A sequence.

And sequences didn’t happen by luck.

His phone buzzed again—different notification.

Raiyan glanced down.

A name on the screen.

Faiyaz.

His heart dipped once, hard enough that he felt it in his ribs.

Evan noticed. “What is it?”

Raiyan didn’t answer. He opened it.

He’s been asking about her. Quiet questions. Shared contacts. Trying to confirm where she’s staying.

For a second, Raiyan forgot to breathe.

Not because of rage.

Because of the image that came with it—Zoya walking alone, thinking she was invisible, thinking she didn’t need anyone. Like she hadn’t already been targeted once.

His jaw tightened.

If Faiyaz was searching, he wasn’t doing it for closure.

He was doing it because he thought he still had a right.

Evan’s voice dropped. “Raiyan?”

Raiyan forced his expression back into place, but his mind was already running.

He could call her.

He should.

But what did he say?

I’m sorry? I was wrong? I let them steer me?

And if she didn’t pick up—if she heard his voice and went quiet—

he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

Another buzz hit his phone.

Raiyan didn’t look away from the screen.

Because this wasn’t about his pride anymore.

It was about getting to her before Faiyaz did.

He started walking again.

Faster.

And for the first time since the masquerade, the fear in his chest wasn’t about losing control.

It was about losing her for real.

And he already knew he was late.