Chapter 3
THREE
Greesha
TWO YEARS AFTER brEAKUP
Everything’s blurry now.
I don’t think I have enough blood left in my body to help my brain understand what’s happening. The edges of my vision pulse. The cold seeping into my bones feels... final.
And the worst part?
All of this could’ve been avoided.
If I had just stayed.
Not with Advik—but in the city. In the normalcy I built with my own hands.
Instead of running out on him. Instead of vanishing into the shadows.
Instead of spending six brutal months putting my body back through hell until it became a machine again.
Learning a new language like it was my mother tongue.
Instead of volunteering for this suicide mission I knew could end like this—
I should’ve stayed.
I should’ve broken up with him. And stayed, dammit.
But now... I won’t just be dead on paper.
I’ll be dead. Period.
A slap cracks across my face and my vision snaps back into focus. There he is.
My slimy, sadistic husband.
Karim.
I don’t know who compromised me. But when I find out, they’re dead.
I’ll claw my way out of the grave just to finish them off.
“Tell me, nafasam,” Karim croons in broken English. “You tell now, and I kill you fast.”
Nafasam. My breath.
As if calling me something sweet will erase what he’s done in the past twenty-two hours.
He isn’t a patient man.
I’ve known that since the sham of a wedding—the one where I was the only one who didn’t get a choice.
Nearly a year ago, Karim “married” me. More accurately, he bought me—under Abdul-Rashid’s command. And I was just tactfully placed at the right time.
I expected violence. Expected depravity. And he delivered.
In stages.
I expected ignorance until lust took over. I expected belts until blood took over.
Bruises. Always in places that wouldn’t show. The burqa adorning the map of my chosen torment.
Always calculated. Always just enough to make me remember who I belonged to.
But I wasn’t blind going in. I chose this.
I volunteered for the assignment. Because this was the only way to get close.
I had to wait until he trusted me—until he started spilling operational details in front of me like I was nothing. I had to be small. Quiet. Submissive. A ghost in a wife’s skin.
Karim is second-in-command to Abdul-Rashid.
Level 3 threat, per our RAW files. Dangerous, but a pawn.
Rashid? Level 2. Unhinged. Volatile. Combative. A fucking nightmare.
After the Mumbai local train blasts five years ago, RAW had tracked both men hiding in Pune. Then they vanished. Resurfaced in Afghanistan. Changed names. Changed faces.
By the time their location resurfaced, I had taken a leave from the agency.
Why?
Because I’d fallen stupidly in love with Advik Sharma.
Because I thought I could have a normal life.
What a joke. Normal’s a fucking myth.
And now, here I am.
My burqa is torn. Bloodied. Slipping off one shoulder. The rope burns on my wrists scream every time I twitch.
Karim was never this violent before. At least, not this blatantly.
But last night—he came home wearing fury.
I didn’t even get a chance to greet him, play the part.
He jabbed a needle into my neck before I could speak.
My last thought as the world went dark? Rage. I’d been compromised.
And now, 22 hours later, I’m tied to a chair. Bleeding. Weak.
But not broken. Hopefully.
“Karim...” I growl, voice thick with blood. “You know what happens if I don’t check in with my handler. They’ll find you. You and Rashid both.”
He narrows his eyes.
“So do yourself a favor,” I cough, blood dripping from the corner of my mouth. “Kill me now. And run.”
I lift my chin.
“Run before you meet your maker.”
He laughs.
A sharp, barking sound—too loud for the silence that preceded it. Then he leans in, grabs my jaw, and spits right in my face. Thick and deliberate.
My skin burns, but I don’t flinch. Won’t give him the satisfaction.
“What you tell them?” he snarls. “What you give your handler?”
I don’t answer. Just blink slowly, wipe the spit off my cheek with my shoulder, and tilt my head.
That enrages him more. He kicks the chair hard, rattling my bones. “What you know about Project Solh?”
I freeze. Just for a second.
That name. That’s what they’re calling it?
I know pieces. Fragments. Quiet whispers behind closed doors. Muted conversations over static-filled radio. Solh—Peace. That’s what it means. A poetic name for a plan so vile.
They’re planning to attack the Indian Parliament again.
Only this time, it’s not just a warning.
This time, they want aftermath.
But I don’t know what. And I don’t guess.
I smirk up at him and simply shrug.
He roars, grabs a blade off the nearby table, and presses it to my throat. The cold steel kisses my skin.
Still, I don’t move.
“Careful,” I whisper, “Eshgham.” My love.
I say it with venom. Mocking. Knowing exactly what I’m doing.
His eyes blaze. His hand jerks.
The blade slices. Once. Twice. Three times. Across my cheek.
Fuck, that’s going to leave a scar—on me or... my body. If I live through this.
Which... let’s be honest, I won’t.
I can feel the blood sliding down my face. Warm. Slow.
My vision swims.
Then—
BOOM.
The sound of the front door exploding shatters the air.
A burst of lighter-scented dust clouds the room. Splinters fly. Walls rattle. My ears ring.
I see it in his eyes.
He’s going to die.
He knows it. I know it.
But before he does... he’s going to kill me. I see the decision taking over his disgusting face.
And I welcome it.
I always knew this was a possibility. This was the price of reentry. Of getting back in the field.
But I thought I’d have more time. Just a little. Just enough to say goodbye. To him.
But now?
Now I won’t get to say it.
Karim lunges. I don’t even struggle.
The blade jams into my chest—right below the collarbone, angled toward my heart.
I gasp. The pain is hot and cold at once.
My vision starts to fade, black eating the edges.
Still... no tears. No fear. Just one final thought.
I chose this.
I close my eyes before the world forces me to.
And then—nothing.