The Deceit

CHAPTER 3

VISHNU

I stand outside Simran’s apartment door at 9:00 a.m. sharp, my finger hovering over the doorbell. Even with my jet lag from India to New York, I couldn’t sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Simran holding that baby— someone else’s baby. The image cut through my heart like a knife, reopening old wounds with every painful flashback.

But today, I have a purpose. I’m here to protect her from the threat that’s been hanging over her head. Beyond that, I’m done. My role in her life ends there!

Taking a deep breath, I finally press the doorbell. To my surprise, an elderly woman, probably in her sixties, answers the door. Before I can ask for Simran, I hear her familiar voice from inside.

“It’s okay, Claire. He’s here for me.”

The older woman—Claire, I assume—nods at me and steps aside. As she walks away, I hear her softly say, “Take care, Simran.”

And then, there she is. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the sight of her. Simran looks ready to leave and is dressed in a way that screams New York fashion designer. She’s wearing a tailored blazer in a rich emerald green, and has paired it with sleek black trousers that accentuate her figure. A silk scarf with an abstract print adds a pop of colour, tied elegantly around her neck. Her hair is swept up in an elegant updo, with a few artfully loose strands framing her face. She looks modern, sophisticated, and undeniably beautiful—enough to make my heart race as if I’m running a marathon.

For a moment, I forget everything else and simply admire her. The thought that she’s now a mother to a toddler flits through my mind, but I push it aside, unwilling to let it spoil this moment. She’s still Simran—still capable of taking my breath away with a single glance.

If only I had realised and confessed my feelings for her before she left for New York eighteen months ago.

Simran clears her throat, snapping me out of my trance. “Let’s go,” she says, her voice crisp and businesslike.

Confusion furrows my brow. “Go where?”

“You said we need to talk about the threat I received, right?” She raises an eyebrow. “So let’s go and talk about it somewhere.”

“Why not here?” I counter, gesturing towards the apartment. “In the house?”

“I have work at the boutique. We can talk there.” Her reply is firm, almost dismissive.

I can tell by her expression that she’s ready for this conversation, but not here, in her house. I wonder why?

“Until this threat is sorted, I’m not letting you step out of the house,” I say firmly. “You’re safe here, Simran. Cancel all your appointments. Work can wait.”

A spark of anger flashes in her eyes.

“You can’t house arrest me like this,” she snaps. “First of all, don’t start dictating what I need to do about my business commitments. I haven’t given that right to anyone. I’m not going to follow your every command, Vishnu. Besides, the detective and sergeant handling this case haven’t told me to stay indoors and abandon all my work until they find that ‘Masked Man.’ They’ve asked me to continue my normal routine.”

I step closer, trying to keep my frustration at bay. “There’s a difference between them and me, Simran.”

She falls silent, her eyes locked on mine as I continue.

“For them, this is just another job, another duty to perform. But you and I both know that for me, this is more than just a duty.” I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. “And you know that when I offer my protection to someone, I don’t let them decide what I need to do to protect them. Just ask my father or Meher; they’ll tell you how strict I am about these things.”

As I move to enter the apartment again, Simran blocks my way, her palms pressing against my chest. A jolt of electricity courses through me at the contact, and I feel her hands trembling. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the outside world fades away. I want to grab her wrists and pull her closer, to tangle my fingers in her hair and mess up her perfectly done hairdo, and to tilt her face and kiss her passionately, but before I can fully process that thought, she quickly pulls her hands away as if burned.

“Look, Vishnu,” she says, her voice slightly unsteady. “Yesterday, I couldn’t work and had to stay at home. But today, I have to go to the boutique. I run a business here, and I can’t just sit at home until this is sorted. I need to keep things running. So please, let’s talk there. We can multitask.”

I take a few seconds to consider her earnest request, weighing the risks in my mind.

“What about your... your baby?” I ask, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

Nervousness flickers across her face. “Claire will look after him. She’s used to taking care of the house and my son when I’m at work.”

My heart constricts at the casual way she says ‘my son,’ another reminder of the life she’s built here.

“Alright,” I concede, pushing aside the tumult of emotions. “I’ll take you to the boutique. But we’re going to have a serious discussion about your security measures after that.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she replies before making her way out to the elevator.

Unable to resist, I steal glances at her. She walks with purpose, her heels clicking against the floor, exuding an air of confidence that feels both familiar and new. This is Simran in her element—a successful businesswoman, a New Yorker, and now a mother. She’s evolved from the woman I once knew in India, and yet, underneath it all, I can still see the glimpses of her old self.

In the elevator, the tension between us escalates. Simran keeps her gaze fixed on the changing floor numbers, while I struggle to find the right words to break the silence. But the words just don’t come.

As we exit the building, I instinctively scan our surroundings, my protective instincts on high alert. I guide her towards the sleek black vehicle I’ve rented, but Simran comes to an abrupt halt.

“I have my car...” she says, hesitating for a moment. She seems ready to say more, but I interject.

“One of my men has retrieved your car from the store parking lot where you left it that night. It’s now parked at its usual parking spot here.”

She looks both relieved and surprised. “Hold on. How do you know all this? About where I left my car and all? I haven’t even shared anything about that night with you,” she remarks. “Nor have you asked me anything either.”

“I got the details from the NYPD based on your statement yesterday,” I explain. “Unless there’s something you didn’t tell them.”

I pause, studying her reaction. “Are there any secrets you’re keeping from me, Simran?” I ask.

She tenses visibly before swallowing hard, and then composes herself. “I’ve told the NYPD everything necessary about the threat. Nothing was hidden.”

“Good,” I nod tersely, hoping she’s being truthful. “So, while I’m here, you’ll travel with me wherever you need to go,” I add.

She wants to argue but, for now, she accepts it and allows me to take the lead.

As we approach my car, I notice her eyes widen in shock again. Her gaze is fixed on the four armed guards standing vigilantly beside a car parked behind mine.

“Now who are they?” Simran demands, her voice a mix of confusion and irritation.

I keep my tone matter-of-fact, hoping to diffuse her tension. “They’re your security guards from now on. They’ll be following you everywhere.”

Simran’s brow furrows, her eyes darting between me and the guards. “I’m not a VIP to warrant that level of security from the police here.”

“They’re not police,” I explain calmly. “They’re my assigned guards.”

“Your—” Her expression hardens. “This is too much, Vishnu. You’re crossing lines here. Maybe the threat isn’t even as serious as you think. I don’t need to be so heavily guarded all the time. You’re overthinking this.”

I feel my jaw clench, but I force myself to remain composed. “This is non-negotiable, Simran.”

I move to open the front passenger door for her, but I can see the frustration radiating off her in waves.

“Who’s driving?” she asks, her tone clipped.

“Me,” I reply, gesturing for her to get in.

Simran rolls her eyes—a familiar gesture that, even amid the tension, brings a flicker of warmth to my chest. She shuts the passenger door firmly and turns to face me, her chin lifted in defiance.

“If you’re going to have these guards protect me and follow me everywhere, then I get to drive the car,” she declares. “And that’s non-negotiable as well.”

Before I can object, she slips into the driver’s seat. I stand there for a moment, caught off guard by her assertiveness. It’s clear that unlike Meher and my father, whom I’ve protected in the past, Simran isn’t going to just comply with my authority. I’ve always had the final say in how to safeguard those under my protection, but with Simran, I realise I’ll have to rethink my strategy.

Suppressing a sigh, I move to the passenger side and get in. As I settle into the seat, I can’t help but feel a small sense of victory beneath my frustration. It’s a tiny step, but at least she’s allowing me to protect her in this small way.

As we begin to drive through the bustling streets of New York, my mind races back to the NYPD briefing. Simran’s statement echoes in my head—her fears of being stalked for over two weeks. The pieces of this puzzle don’t quite fit yet, but I’m determined to solve this mystery. A new strategy forms in my mind, a way to draw out this elusive shadow that’s been haunting her. It’s time to turn the hunter into the hunted.

“You’re going to keep your normal routine today,” I say, turning slightly to face her. “When you drive to the boutique, what do you usually do?”

Simran glances at me, surprise flickering across her face at my unexpected concession. “I usually grab a coffee and a croissant on my way to work,” she says after a moment. “From Bella’s Brew on 5th Avenue.”

I nod, pleased that she’s engaging. “Then that’s where we’re heading first.”

Confusion flashes across her face.

“But I already had breakfast at home today,” she protests. “Besides, I’m getting late.”

“Do as I say.” I fix her with a stern look.

She groans in frustration but ultimately complies, steering the car towards the next lane. Ten minutes later, we pull up outside Bella’s Brew. As we step out of the vehicle, my guards immediately fan out, securing the perimeter. Simran’s discomfort is back, evident in the way she glances around.

“This is a bit too much,” she hisses, her eyes darting nervously around. “This is my regular place. I come here all the time. The guards don’t need to come inside. I don’t want these people to suspect something’s wrong in my life and create a scene.”

I turn to her, my voice low and firm. “Just because this is your regular place doesn’t mean it’s safe. And a scene of your life was already created the moment you opened up about this threat to Meher - which I’m glad you did.”

Simran throws her hands up in frustration but doesn’t say anything more as she walks inside. I follow her, instructing the guards to remain outside. As she places her order, chatting amiably with a couple she seems to know, I quickly scan the café, making a mental note of the camera positions and assessing potential threats.

As I’m surveying the area, something catches my eye across the street. There’s a black car parked in the opposite lane. Even with the tinted windows, I can feel someone’s presence inside. It is positioned in a way that gives its occupant a clear view of the café’s entrance—a perfect vantage point to monitor everyone coming and going from this place.

I make a mental note to keep an eye on that vehicle to see if it follows us from here. Its presence here, coinciding with our visit to the café, feels far too perfectly timed to be a mere coincidence.

“Do you want something?” Simran’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

I shake my head, but she orders me a black coffee anyway. I don’t tell her about the suspicious car yet, not wanting to alarm her further, but I discreetly signal one of the guards outside to watch out for that vehicle.

When she returns, she hands me the coffee and a croissant.

“I assumed you needed one,” she says, gesturing to the coffee. “And the croissant’s for you too. I bet you haven’t eaten anything today.”

I’m taken aback by her perceptiveness. How did she pick up on that? Without a word, I accept the coffee and croissant, still processing her attentiveness as she checks her watch.

“We need to hurry. I don’t want to make my client wait.”

As we head back to the car, a thought strikes me. “Do you actually drive while eating a croissant?” I ask, my tone sharp.

“Yeah, big deal!” She shrugs.

I sigh, rubbing my hand over my beard, frustration building up again. Stepping closer, I lower my voice. “It is a big deal. That’s poor driving etiquette, Simran. It’s dangerous, and it needs to stop.”

Anger flashes in her eyes. “You didn’t come here to give me driving tips on how to drive safely. You came here to protect me, not lecture me.”

“Exactly,” I say, leaning in just a little more. “Protecting you includes keeping you safe from unnecessary accidents. So, listen carefully, Simran. From tomorrow onwards, you’ll either eat your croissant in the café and then drive to work, or you have a proper breakfast at home and only grab a coffee on the way. That’s it. The choice is yours.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!” she snaps.

I don’t respond; I just calmly open the car door for her. She climbs in, still fuming. I’m not here to decide anything for her, but when it comes to her safety, I’m not backing down. I dare her to challenge me on this.

As we drive off, I catch a glimpse of the black car still parked across the street, not moving. Maybe I’m overthinking it. But every little detail is important when you have to protect someone’s life, no matter how big or small. I quickly type a message to my team, instructing them to get their hands on the CCTV footage of the café for the past month during Simran’s usual visits.

Just then, her voice breaks through my concentration. She’s muttering to herself, “He can’t even finish a croissant without letting his coffee go cold, but here he is, lecturing me on breakfast habits, huh.”

I let her blabber without responding, focusing on the task at hand. She doesn’t need to worry about me. She has enough people in her life for that— her son and his father.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the basement parking of Skyline Tower, where Simran’s boutique is located. As I park, my eyes sweep across the space, mentally noting potential security weak points here. Since this is where she spends her maximum time, this could be a prime spot for anyone wanting to keep tabs on her.

“My boutique is on the 34th floor,” she informs me as we head towards the elevator.

I instruct my guards to remain in the basement. As the elevator doors close, Simran sighs in relief.

“I’m happy at least these guards won’t be crowding me in the boutique,” she says.

“They will be,” I cut her off immediately, “from tomorrow. I’m giving you some liberty only for today.”

She’s about to argue when I put my finger on her lips to silence her.

“And stop interfering with the way I’m handling your protection. You won’t like the consequences if you don’t, Simran.”

Her brows knit together in frustration.

“What are you going to do?” She pushes my finger aside and steps closer, her eyes sparking with a challenge.

I meet her gaze head-on. We’re locked in a tense standoff. I’m not doing her any favour by protecting her. I’m doing this for me… because I can’t see her in any harm’s way. Ever. She might have lived her life recklessly so far, but that has to change from now. And I will make sure she takes this seriously.

When I hold her gaze and continue to challenge her to see what she would do, her eyes flicker to my lips for a split second. She swallows hard and quickly tries to steer the conversation back to the topic.

“What... what will you do? Go back to India?” she counters again. She tries her hand at teasing, but it falls flat.

I’m in no mood for games. She needs to understand that I’m not going anywhere. I step closer and gently push her against the elevator wall, my fingers snaking around her neck—not in a threatening way, but in a way that establishes control and reminds her who’s in charge when it comes to her safety.

“One more time you ask me to leave, I’ll make sure you’re on my radar, under my watch 24/7, for the rest of your life.”

Her eyes widen in shock, and her breath hitches as she feels the heat of my words and the weight of my intent. That warning hits its mark.

“You won’t be able to sneeze without me knowing. Your world will shrink to the space I allow. Think hard before you test me on this, Simran, because I don’t make idle threats. So, choose your next words very, very carefully,” I add, my grip on her neck firm but tender, just enough to assert dominance without fear.

The elevator doors slide open on the 34th floor, but neither of us makes a move. My thumb subconsciously traces circles on her skin to calm the frantic pulse beneath. It’s a strange contrast: my touch, often associated with fear and wrath, sparks an undeniable passion in her—only her—which invariably adds to her frustration. Her eyes, ablaze with defiance, bore into mine. She knows I’m not backing down, not when it comes to her safety.

Finally, she pushes me hard and storms out of the elevator. I barely move an inch, despite the impact and then follow in her wake, hoping my message has sunk in. One thing is certain—I won’t let her slip away, not from me and certainly not from the protection she clearly needs.