Because he never did. “He never came,” I say, louder now, the hurt spilling out raw and uncontrolled. “I waited. I looked. I tried everything. He didn’t come back.” My chest aches. “If he was alive,” I continue, voice breaking completely now, “he would have come for me.”
Wouldn’t he?
Krishna laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “But you were never in danger.” My stomach drops. “Now you are.” The words settle like something heavy pressing down on my lungs. “If he doesn’t show up,” he continues, almost bored, “I’ll kill you.”
I look at him. Really look at him. And I know. He means it. There’s no hesitation. No flicker of doubt. My breath leaves me in a shaky rush. This is real. This is happening. I am going to die if I don’t get out of this. My hands start moving again.
The rope bites into my skin, scraping, burning, but I push through it, pressing it against the edge of the chair, ignoring the sting, the wet warmth that might be blood. I don’t care. I am not dying here. I refuse. Not like this.
Not before—Aryan. His face hits me so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of me. My chest tightens painfully. I haven’t even told him I love him.
No. No. I am not leaving him with half-words. I am not becoming something unfinished in his life. My breathing steadies. I lift my head slowly, meeting Krishna’s gaze again.
“You’re insane,” I say, my voice rough, shaking—but stronger now. He smiles.
“I’ve been called worse.”
My fingers tighten again, working at the rope, ignoring everything else. Think. Survive. Hold on. Because somewhere—I know he’s coming. Aryan is coming. And I need to be alive when he finds me.
CHAPTER 60
ISHIKA
The air in the room feels wrong. Too still. Too tight. Like something is about to snap and everything is holding its breath waiting for it.
Krishna is saying something—I don’t even remember what—but I’m not listening anymore. My pulse is too loud in my ears, my thoughts tripping over each other, my wrists burning where the rope has been rubbing against my skin.
I am seconds away from doing something reckless. I know it. I can feel it.
I jump at the sudden noise. The door behind Krishna slams open. Just—one solid, heavy thump that echoes through the room like a gunshot.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Krishna turns.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Because something deep inside me already knows. Knows in that terrifying, instinctive way that doesn’t need logic or proof. My breath catches. Slowly—too slowly—I lift my eyes. And theworld stops. He stands in the doorway like something pulled out of a memory I buried too deep.
Older.
Thinner.
His hair—white now, longer than I’ve ever seen it, brushing against his shoulders in uneven strands. But his face—My chest caves in. It’s the same. Time hasn’t taken that away. The lines are sharper. The exhaustion sits heavier in his eyes. There’s something…hardened about him that wasn’t there before.
But it’s him. It’s him. I forget how to breathe. My lungs just—stop. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms as if pain will ground me, as if it will make this real in a way I can understand. His eyes find mine. And something flickers there. So brief I almost miss it. Recognition. Pain. Something dangerously close to…guilt.
My vision blurs. The memory hits me out of nowhere. That day. That stupid, ordinary day when I had opened the door to that delivery man who couldn’t even get the location right. The way I had frowned at him, annoyed, distracted, barely looking at his face—No.
My stomach twists violently. The familiarity. The way something had tugged at me then. I hadn’t imagined it. It wasn’t random. It wasn't a coincidence. It was him. It was always him.
My father.
My throat closes up so suddenly it hurts. You were there. You were right there. And you didn’t say a word.
“Leave her.” His voice cuts through everything. Not loud, not raised—but it lands like a command, like something that doesn’t expect to be disobeyed.
I flinch. Not because of the tone. Because of how familiar it feels. Because my body remembers something my mind is still trying to catch up to.
