I pause just long enough to share the live location. “They’re heading out toward the outskirts. I’m on my way. Don’t wait—move.”
I don’t give them time to respond. Don’t wait for questions. They’ll understand. They always do. I reach my car, barely registering the way my hands shake slightly as I unlock it, get in, start the engine. The moment the car roars to life, something inside me sharpens. I pull out fast, tires screeching slightly against the road as I follow the direction on the screen, eyes flickering between the road and the small blinking dot.
Still moving.
Stay with me, Sunshine.
Just a little longer. My grip tightens on the steering wheel. A memory hits me without warning.
Rudra. The way he had been when Shivani Bhabhi was taken.
I felt he was being so reckless. Ready to walk into anything without a second thought. I remember trying to reason with him. Trying to get him to slow down. To think. “You’re not helping her if you get yourself killed,” I had said.
He hadn’t even heard me properly. He just ended the call and walked in anyways. I didn’t understand it then. Not fully. Not like this.
Now—Now I get it. Completely. There’s a different kind of clarity that comes with this kind of fear. It strips everything down. Leaves nothing but instinct. I don’t know what I’m walking into. I don’t know how many people are involved. I don’t know what they want from her. But I know this—It doesn’t matter. If I have to walk through hell to get her back—I will. Without hesitation. Without question. My foot presses harder on the accelerator. The city lights start thinning out, buildings giving way to darker stretches of road, emptier spaces.
The engine roars in response. And I drive. Straight into whatever is waiting for me. Because there is no version of this where I turn back.
CHAPTER 59
ISHIKA
Something is definitely wrong. The first thing I notice is how heavy my body feels. Like I’ve been asleep for too long. Like I’ve been dragged out of something I wasn’t ready to leave.
My eyelids flutter, but they don’t open properly at first. Everything is dim. Blurry. Shapes instead of objects. Light that hurts more than it should.
There’s a dull ache at the back of my head but I try to focus at the voice coming from some steps away from me.
“…he better come out now.” It cuts through the fog. “I need that stupid old man here.”
My heart stutters. Old man?
What—My eyes snap open.
The world tilts violently, like someone has grabbed the edges of it and shaken it out of place. The ceiling above me swims for a second before it settles into something solid again. My breath comes in too fast and shallow. Something is wrong. I try to move. I can’t. Panic hits instantly.
My hands—my hands are pulled back, stretched behind me at an angle that already aches. There’s something tight around mywrists. Rough. Digging into my skin. Rope. The realization is immediate and suffocating.
My chest tightens.
My legs—my ankles—those too. Bound. Trapped. I shift instinctively and the chair beneath me scrapes faintly against the floor, the sound loud in the silence.
No. No, no—My mouth—There’s cloth stuffed into it. Thick. Dry. It presses against my tongue, steals my breath, turns every attempt at a sound into something broken and useless.
I choke on it, a muffled noise forcing its way out anyway.
And then I my eyes land at him.
Krishna.
For a second, nothing makes sense. Because this—this version of him doesn’t belong in my memories. The Krishna I knew was careless. Annoying. A little too full of himself, a little too selfish, yes—but familiar. Predictable in the worst way. This man—This man standing in front of me like this—He looks at me like I’m nothing. Like I’m a thing. Something to be used. My stomach drops so hard it hurts. He turns toward me, slow, like he’s not surprised at all to find me awake.
Our eyes meet and his lips curl up. “Oh,” he says, almost pleasantly, like we’ve run into each other somewhere casual. “You’re finally up, babydoll.”
The word makes my skin crawl. Something cold and sharp twists in my chest. I jerk forward instinctively, trying to scream, trying to demand answers, trying to make sense of anything—But the sound dies in my throat, swallowed by the cloth. Myhands twist behind me, desperate, nails digging into my own skin as I try to find some give in the rope.
There is none. It only tightens and my wrist burns. My shoulders scream in protest. He watches me like this is entertaining and I am performing theater for him.
