The door clicked shut behind Armaan Khanna. The silence he left was not empty. It was charged, like the air after a lightning strike that has missed the ground by inches. Ira stood perfectly still in her consulting room, listening to the faint echo of his final words—*You already did.* He had reacted. A microscopic fracture in his composure, but a fracture nonetheless. For a man who believed himself immune, it was a fatal flaw. He would be back. Not for therapy, but for proof. Proof he could withstand her. Or proof that she was the exception.

He returned three days later, precisely at eight PM. This time, he wore no suit jacket—just a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and dark trousers. The casualness was studied, another layer of armor. The mocking glint in his grey eyes was sharper, more focused.