I Don't Do Half

The lounge of the mansion buzzed with quiet luxury. Crystal glasses clinked under warm golden lights, and low conversations drifted through the air. Some guests lounged on velvet sofas, others gathered near the bar, their laughter carefully measured.

But the room didn’t belong to them.

It shifted—subtly, almost imperceptibly—whenever he moved.

A man in a tailored black suit walked through the crowd, unhurried, composed. Conversations faltered as he passed. A few people straightened instinctively; others lowered their gaze, pretending not to notice him.

He didn’t acknowledge any of it.

He spoke briefly with a group of business associates, his voice calm, controlled. No raised tone, no visible threat—yet the tension around him was unmistakable.

Power didn’t announce itself. It followed him.

No one dared cross him. Not here. Not anywhere.

And at the center of it all stood the host of the night—

Arman Malik.

The most powerful business tycoon in the country.

Arman Malik was not a man of loud threats or careless anger.

He didn’t need to be.

He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, people remembered every word. His calm was not kindness—it was control. The kind that made others uneasy without knowing why.

He noticed everything. The hesitation in a handshake. The flicker of doubt in someone’s eyes. The slight tremor in a voice trying too hard to sound confident.

And he never forgot.

Loyalty earned his protection—absolute, unwavering. But betrayal?

That was something he handled quietly.

Permanently.

The lounge still hummed with quiet conversations and soft laughter, but Arman Malik no longer belonged to the room.

After hosting and moving through his guests with effortless authority, he finally allowed himself a moment of stillness. Seated on the sofa, one arm resting casually against the backrest, his sharp gaze drifted over the crowd—not observing but searching.

Something was missing.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

He pulled out his phone, typing a short message.

Then another.

No reply.

A faint crease appeared between his brows. His thumb stilled against the screen before he locked it, slipping it back into his pocket with controlled precision. To anyone else, he still looked composed—but the calm had shifted.

His patience was thinning.

For the first time that evening, Arman Malik looked… unsettled.

And then—

It changed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. But the air around him seemed to sharpen.

His gaze lifted toward the entrance—and stayed there.

She had arrived.

Draped in a soft, elegant saree, she stepped into the room with quiet grace. Her long, straight hair fell effortlessly over her shoulders, and a natural smile played on her lips as she spoke to the friend beside her.

She didn’t notice him at first.

But he noticed everything.

The way she walked.

The way she smiled.

The way the entire room seemed to fade behind her.

Then, as if sensing something, her smile faltered.

She felt it.

That gaze.

Slowly, she turned—and her eyes met his.

Across the room, everything else disappeared.

Arman was no longer seated.

At some point, he had stood up.

No one saw him move.

Their eyes locked, and for a brief second, the world around them stilled. His expression remained controlled, unreadable—but his eyes… they gave him away. Intense. Focused. Entirely on her.

And she felt it.

The weight of it.

The familiarity of it.

She broke eye contact first, a soft smile forming on her lips as she steadied herself. Then, without hesitation, she began walking toward him.

Arman didn’t move.

He simply waited.

When she reached him, she didn’t stop at a polite distance. Instead, she stepped closer—closer than anyone else in the room would ever dare—and wrapped her arms lightly around his neck.

“Hi, Mr Malik,” she said softly.

For the first time that night—

Arman Malik smiled.

Not the polite curve he offered to the world, but something real. The faint appearance of dimples softened the sharp edges of his face, if only for a moment.

His hands moved to her waist, pulling her just slightly closer, as if confirming she was actually there.

“You’re late,” he murmured near her ear, his voice low, controlled—but carrying something deeper beneath it.

Familiarity.

Possession.

Relief.

She could feel his breath against her skin, steady yet warm, sending an unspoken tension through her body. And yet, instead of pulling away, she relaxed.

Because, unlike everyone else in that room—

She wasn’t afraid of him.

“I missed you… Mrs Malik.”

A faint smile deepened on her lips at the name. There was something about the way he said it—low, deliberate—that made her heartbeat shift.

She was about to respond—

A soft cough interrupted them.

They both pulled back slightly, turning toward the source.

Standing there with a teasing smile was her friend.

“Guys,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “there are still other people here who would like to greet you, too.”

A hint of amusement passed between them before they stepped apart, now standing side by side.

“Hi, Nikki. Thanks for coming,” Arman said.

Nikki walked up to him and hugged him from the side. “Stop being so formal, Arman.”

A rare, easy smile crossed his face as he returned the hug.

She wasn’t just any guest—she was their closest friend. And more importantly, Sania’s best friend.

But the real question remained—

Was Sania really Mrs Malik?

Nikki pulled back and was about to say something when one of Arman’s associates approached from behind.

Arman’s expression shifted instantly.

He glanced at the man, then back at her.

“Excuse me, Mrs Malik,” he said softly, his tone polite—but warmer than it ever was with anyone else. “Something important needs my attention. I’ll be back.”

She didn’t stop him.

Just a small nod… and a smile.

That was enough.

He held her gaze for a brief second longer before turning away—his entire demeanour changing as he stepped back into his world of business. The warmth faded, replaced by the composed, untouchable man everyone else knew.

And just like that—

He was gone.

Nikki watched the whole exchange with a knowing smile.

Then she turned to Sania.

“Okay… I seriously don’t understand you two,” she said, crossing her arms. “Why does he call you Mrs Malik? I mean, I know you guys are best friends… and honestly, I think it’s more than that—but still. Why not just call you by your name?”

Sania let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

That only annoyed Nikki more.

“Sania! I’m serious. Are you even listening to me?”

Sania finally looked at her, still smiling.

“Nikki… you know how he is,” she said lightly. “He likes to tease me.”

Nikki narrowed her eyes.

“And?”

“And I don’t call him by his first name,” Sania continued. “I call him Mr. Malik. So, he does the same—just… his version of it.”

Nikki blinked.

“That’s your explanation?”

Sania laughed again, but there was something she didn’t say.

The truth was—

She liked it.

The way he said, Mrs. Malik.

The way it sounded like something more.

But she wasn’t about to admit that.

Before Nikki could question her further, Sania quickly grabbed her hand.

“Come on,” she said, pulling her toward the juice bar. “You didn’t come here to interrogate me. Let’s enjoy the party.”

Nikki sighed—but followed anyway.

Though her curiosity?

Not gone.

Not even close.