Taming The Charming Director

"Careful, Miss. That little thing could hurt someone."

His voice was maddeningly calm, laced with an insolent ease that didn't match the gravity of the situation. Too calm for a man who had a blade at his throat. Arnav's tone bore the audacity of someone used to control, as though the threat of death. The man sat comfortably in his leather chair, his back exposed to a woman who held his life in her trembling hand with a folding knife poised close enough to draw blood. Her palm slick with nervous sweat, trying hard not to let the tremor in her fingers betray her desperation.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Raellyn snapped, her tone cutting through the thick silence that enveloped the room.

She pushed the blade an inch closer to his neck. Her hands might have trembled, but her voice did not. It was cold, sharp-much like the weapon she wielded.

"Listen to me, Sir Arnav," she hissed. "I didn't come here for pleasantries. I came to demand justice. Your brother committed a vile act-one that destroyed me. I want full accountability. I want consequences for the sin he committed."

She glanced briefly at the nameplate on the polished desk, ensuring that the man she was threatening was indeed the rising star director who had been gracing industry headlines, just to confirm she wasn't mistaken. She wasn't. She had the right man.

The arrogance she'd imagined him to possess was not exaggerated. If anything, it was worse in person.

But Arnav remained unbothered. His posture didn't shift. He didn't flinch. His shoulders remained relaxed, as if her words were nothing more than lines from a poorly-written play. He reclining in his chair as if this were merely a negotiation, not a potential hostage situation. The more he remained silent, the deeper her fury sank into her bones. It was this exact smugness that made Raellyn's jaw clench. She would not allow him to make a mockery of her pain.

Without warning, she pressed the blade forward. The edge grazed his skin. A thin, red line appeared, slow and deliberate. His first taste of danger.

He didn't even blink.

"Justice, you say?" he said finally, his tone lazy, bored. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "Then put down the knife and take a seat."

He gestured toward a high-backed chair across from him. The gesture was almost gentlemanly-infuriatingly so. He acted like he was hosting a guest, not fending off an armed intruder. His face betrayed not a flicker of fear.

Raellyn hesitated. Her legs were trembling, and the weight of what she was doing finally started to press down on her like a crushing tide. She had never done anything like this before. This reckless act was a desperate gamble, a final card thrown in a game where she had nothing left to lose.

Carefully, cautiously, she lowered the blade but did not let go. She stepped around the desk and sank onto the edge of the chair. She kept her posture stiff and alert as if reminding him that this ceasefire was temporary. Her fingers still wrapped tightly around the handle of her only leverage. A truce granted only for the sake of conversation.

This wasn't surrender. It was strategy.

"Now then," Arnav said, folding his fingers beneath his chin, "tell me: what exactly is the horrific crime I'm accused of that would justify you barging into my office like a deranged lunatic?"

In response Raellyn didn't flinch at the insult. Instead, she reached into her coat, pulled out a folded newspaper, and slammed it down onto his pristine oak desk. The oak surface, smooth and polished, allowed the paper to slide effortlessly across to him.

"The headline," she said coldly, "details the engagement between your brother and Miss Sylvia. That's what this is about" Her lips twisted in disdain at the woman's name. Just saying it made her stomach churn. Sylvia, the woman who had stolen everything. The woman who stood smiling in the photograph next to Arsene as if she'd won a prize.

If only she could spit on the photo. If only she could tear it in half.

Hoping she had Sylvia been present, Raellyn might've spat at her feet.

After all, what woman wouldn't rage when another woman stole the man she loved-and claimed him with a wedding ring?

Arnav leaned forward, amused, predatory. His chin still rested on his fingers, and his gaze danced mockingly over her features as if studying a peculiar insect. If anything, he looked vaguely amused.

"And what about this disturbs you so deeply?" he asked smoothly.

Her fists clenched. Every muscle in her body screamed with frustration. "Because Arsene-your precious little brother-was my lover." she snarled. The words fell from her mouth like broken glass. "We were together for over a year. A week ago, he asked me to marry him."

The words erupted from her mouth like fire, her voice trembling not with fear, but fury. She rose from the chair in a snap, causing its legs to shriek against the floor. She stood, pacing now. Her legs were shaking less-adrenaline had taken over.

"And then he vanished. No messages. No calls. Nothing." Her voice cracked briefly. She swallowed it down. "And then I see this-" she gestured to the newspaper, "like everything we shared was nothing but a lie."

Arnav's gaze sharpened, and for a moment he said nothing. His voice dropped low, nearly a whisper. "Say that again."