**Chapter Two: I'll Drag Them Straight to Hell - Maya's POV** With my chin defiantly lifted, I locked eyes with him, my irritation simmering just beneath the surface. "No apology after hitting me?" I challenged, my voice steady despite the tempest brewing within. He stood there like a granite statue, utterly unmoved. "Correction," he replied with an edge that sent a chilling message. "I didn't hit you; my driver nearly did. Now, get in the car." His commanding gesture toward the sleek vehicle only fueled my fire. The nerve of him! "I've told you I’m fine. No need to take me to the hospital!" My frustration clawed at me, desperation tinged with anger at his insistence. Why couldn’t he just accept my refusal? Did he think a little bump would earn him the right to play the knight in shining armor? "No, sweetheart," he drawled, the faux sweetness in his tone adding salt to my wounds. "I need confirmation that you won’t come bothering me with some fabricated injuries later." "Why would I do that? I don’t even know you!" My question was laced with disbelief, but suddenly, a thought struck me, prompting me to hold his gaze despite the icy intensity behind his dark eyes. "Were you deceived your whole life?" In that fleeting moment, I caught a flicker of something—an emotion that quickly retreated behind the high walls he had built around himself. Was he really as impenetrable as he seemed? I could almost applaud him for his emotional fortitude, unlike me, whose feelings often spilled over. "That still doesn’t change the fact that we’re headed to the hospital," he asserted, unwavering, which drew an exaggerated groan from me. A full-blown argument with him loomed large in my mind when suddenly, panic gripped me. "Oh no," I gasped, my expression shifting as the reality of my schedule dawned on me. His attention sharpened. "What’s wrong?" he asked, his tone a mix of incredulity and concern—though it was hard to tell if he truly cared or if it was merely an act to nudge me into his plans for the night. "I’m late for my boyfriend’s birthday celebration," I confessed, knowing that resistance was futile against his probing gaze. Better to get it out than let him extract it through relentless interrogation. For a split second, I felt a rush of confidence surge within me. Surely, he would tread lightly now that he knew he was keeping someone from their partner. To my dismay, he remained indifferent. "So?" he replied, unfazed. "So?" I echoed back, exasperation rising as I gestured dramatically. "You’re the reason I’m late! You’re going to have to take responsibility!" Silence settled heavily between us as we each absorbed the moment, lost in our own thoughts, though his keen eyes never left mine. There was something unsettling about him, a palpable issue with trust that loomed like a dark cloud. I almost felt pity for him. "What do you want me to do?" he finally asked, his gaze penetrating in a way that sent a shiver through me. I averted my eyes, uneasy under the weight of his stare—a look that bore into me as if I were prey to his predatory instincts. "For starters, just drive me to the hotel," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Then, my stomach dropped. "My boyfriend works there. I want to surprise him for his birthday," I confessed, a sheepish grin spreading across my face as the lewd thoughts I had pushed aside momentarily surfaced again. "What’s in it for me?" he countered, effortlessly shattering my hope for a moment of kindness without strings attached. "Seriously? Can’t you help someone in need?" I twinkled my eyes and pouted, working hard to project some semblance of sympathy. "Darling, it’s give and take," he replied coldly, and disappointment washed over me like a wave crashing on the shore. Catching a taxi at this hour was going to be an uphill battle, and given his iron grip on my freedom, I knew he wouldn’t let me go until I provided him with some assurance of my non-existent injuries. He had the audacity to remind me of a celebrity in his bubble, and I couldn’t stop myself from snorting at the thought. "Fine," I relented at last, surrendering to his terms. "I’ll write a statement saying I’m completely fine, which you can use as insurance against me in court. How’s that sound?" I said, throwing the ball into his court. His lips curled into a taut frown, and he muttered something unintelligible before finally relenting. "Fine," he finally agreed, extending a hand that didn’t invite warmth but instead offered a bargain. "Deal?" I eyed his outstretched hand with trepidation, questioning the wisdom of striking a deal with someone who radiated danger. But defiance coursed through my veins, and I clasped his large, calloused hand with determination. "Deal then," I affirmed, summoning a smile that I hoped would melt some of his icy demeanor. I couldn’t help but admire the extravagant rings that adorned his long fingers—a clear mark of wealth. This wasn’t just a man; he was someone who was well-versed in preserving his resources against threats like me. Just how much did he have to protect? Before I could delve deeper into the intrigue of our transaction, a jolt surged through me, an electric connection that made me pull my hand back instinctively. He glanced at me with an awkwardness that was a stark contrast to his usual impassive façade. Did he feel it too? If he did, he was a master at masking any signs of emotion as he returned to his cold exterior. "What are you still waiting for?" he snapped. "Get in the car." I obliged, somewhat gratefully as he opened the door for me—an unexpected gesture of chivalry from the man who had just been so domineering. "Thank you?" I questioned, half-heartedly, but his silence said enough. Lesson learned, Maya: keep your gratitude to yourself. As we settled into the car and his driver began to maneuver toward the hotel, a blanket of silence enveloped us. Minutes dragged on as neither of us made an effort to fill the air with conversation. Finally, I had enough. "So, what do you do for a living?" I ventured, hoping to glean something from him that would spark a willingness to share. "None of your business," he shot back, devoid of any hint of warmth. Second lesson learned—he was decidedly not a conversationalist. With little else to do, I began to hum a tune under my breath, only to be met with the sudden sound of his voice erupting from nowhere. "Damn you!" he cursed, anger flaring like a match struck in a dark room. "And damn you too!" I spat back, fed up with this ridiculous back-and-forth. What was his problem? Did he not acknowledge my right to voice my thoughts? I glared at him, summoning every ounce of rage within me—a glare that could light up a thousand suns. If we didn’t tear each other apart before reaching our destination, I had a feeling that a crash was inevitable. And trust me when I say, there wouldn’t be a single survivor—certainly not his chauffeur—because I would drag us all straight to hell.