Chapter 6
SIX
Aadya
Aadya Gupta.
Aadya.
Derived from the Sanskrit root aadi—meaning “first” or “beginning.”
How ironic.
Because I was never the first. Never the beginning.
If anything, I was the aftermath.
I still think it was a cruel joke—whoever at the agency decided to rename me from Greesha to Aadya.
Greesha meant watchfulness.
And Aadya? Aadya is what came after. Aadya is what I became when all that watchfulness failed me.
But I put myself first, didn’t I?
Even when no one else around me could.
This is the third name I’ve carried since I turned twenty.
I was born Greesha. Then came the other aliases. Then came Karim. For him, I was Marzia.
And now, once again, I’ve been rewritten. Aadya.
The first.
The only, hopefully.
But this name will always carry blood with it. It will always be the one tied to my failure. The one I wore when my vigilance slipped.
My eyes flutter halfway open.
Viraj is above me, gently wiping sweat from my forehead, eyes fixed on mine as he moves inside me with steady, practiced rhythm.
He’s been my handler for almost three years now.
But he learned to handle me in other ways, too.
After Karim—after that mission nearly ended me—Vir was the one who picked up what was left.
Karim’s knife missed my heart. Barely. But it was enough to make me flatline. Enough to scare Vir within an inch of his own life.
It’s been a year since then.
A year of brutal healing. Three months of physical therapy.
Countless nights waking up drenched in sweat, screaming Karim’s name in terror.
And Vir?
He stayed.
He was there through every minute of it.
There when I couldn’t bear the idea of anyone touching me. My fear of penetration was hard to crack.
He was there when I relearned how to let someone close. Let someone in.
In fact, he’s the one who healed me, I think.
Even now, he knows the rules.
He knows I need to keep my eyes open.
Because if I close them—if I lose focus—his body becomes someone else’s.
The thrusts become Karim’s.
The kisses blur into Advik’s.
And I can’t bear to mix those two worlds.
Not when one destroyed me, and the other... burned me alive.
So I keep my gaze on Vir.
Lock onto his face.
Even as he leans down and kisses me softly.
He watches me with that look again—the one I’ve seen a dozen times. The one that makes me almost believe it.
That he loves me.
He’s said those words more times than I can count.
I never say them back.
Not because I doubt him. Or myself.
But because I know the part of my scorched heart capable of love? It already belongs to someone else.
To Advik.
To a man who thinks I’m dead.
That half of me—the buried half—it’s his.
It always will be. And I hate it.
But I stay here. In the moment.
Vir’s hand slides between us, his fingers finding the spot that makes me unravel.
I’m close. So close that I whisper for him to go faster. Frantic.
He does.
His thrusts speed up, his fingers circling my clit with exquisite control.
And I let go—moaning into his mouth as he catches the sound like it means something.
He smiles against my lips, peppering soft, wet kisses across my face.
And I let him.
Because this?
This is the most alive I’ve felt in a long, long time.
Even if part of me knows...
I’m still chasing an idea.
“I love you, Greesha,” Vir whispers, a small smile on his face. And a flicker in his eyes knowing that I won’t say the words back.
He knows. He accepts it.
So I respond the way I always have. “I know.”
His eyes close as he rests his forehead against mine. “Someday.”
Then he gets up. Our ritual—silent, painful, familiar—is complete.
After disposing of the condom and gently cleaning me up, we lie back down, tangled together in his bed. Our bed, I guess.
And then, of course, he ruins it.
“We’ve got another assignment.”
I groan as he chuckles beside me. “What now?”
I haven’t taken on anything major since Afghanistan, but I still handle short missions here and there. Enough to stay sharp. Not enough to care.
“Jaan, it’s not a big one, I promise.” He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Remember Mohan Bedi?”
I nod against his chest. My fingers playing with the salt and pepper on his head.
That bastard was Vir’s target a few months ago—knee-deep in a child trafficking ring that spanned the northern Indian states. I hadn’t been involved in that operation, but I’d followed the reports. Vir brought it down piece by piece.
“So...” He clears his throat, tension tightening across his chest. “Apparently, we didn’t clean it up well enough. His brother, Mehul Bedi, took over shortly after.”
Of course he did. They always do. Like roaches, they scatter and rebuild.
“But the problem,” he continues, “is that Mehul already had a functioning trade business—clean on the surface, but backed by massive philanthropic funds.”
He pauses, and my stomach sinks.
I can already tell where this is going.
“Don’t tell me he owns orphanages. I swear to God—”
“I’m sorry, Jaan,” he interrupts softly. “He does. All across Punjab, Delhi, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh... you name it.”
My jaw tightens.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Tapping into the one part of me still too raw to protect—my childhood. The orphanage.
And shamefully... it’s working.
“So what’s the assignment?” I grumble, voice low, guarded.
I feel him smile against my temple. That unnerves me more than the mission.
Assignments excite him.
They always have. Action is his addiction.
“We go undercover as Mehul’s new bodyguards.
He’s planning to expand—reach further into educational security contracts.
He’s in talks with a security company that handles school surveillance, daycare protections, transport systems for vulnerable kids.
It’s the perfect setup. He’ll probably run the company dry. Maybe even acquire it.”
Of course it is.
I stiffen in his arms.
Because this is exactly how men like Mehul Bedi win—by hiding behind playground fences and “children’s charities.” By smiling for cameras while slipping kids through the back door.
By preying on the exact kind of place I once called home.
And now, I’ll have to walk right into it.
“Greesha...” Vir says, a rare hesitation coloring his voice. “The security company is GenVault.”
My entire body stills.
GenVault.
That’s where Advik works.
Fuck.
I force a shrug. A casual tone. Something resembling indifference. “And am I supposed to care?”
Vir doesn’t flinch. “He’s the senior partner who’ll be working directly with Mehul Bedi.”
I hum, squeezing him tighter against me. “Well... I’m fine with that. It honestly doesn’t matter.”
“Are you... sure?” he asks gently. “He—I don’t know—he hurt you enough to make you volunteer for the Karim operation.”
I know what he’s trying to do. I understand the concern buried beneath his calm. But after everything, after all this time... I think I’ve made peace with it. Or maybe I’ve just buried it deep enough to fake peace.
“That’s fine,” I say quietly. “The only issue is that he thinks I’m dead.”
Vir nods, his hand drifting up to trace the scar along my cheek—Karim’s legacy, etched into my face. His touch is gentle, almost reverent.
But I know what this is.
It’s a silent warning.
A reminder.
This scar will be the first thing Advik sees.
And it will be the last confirmation he needs to know: the woman he knew is gone.
Because the truth is, she is.
The fallacy of it all is that the Greesha Advik knew—the one he claimed to love, the one who stood by him despite everything—is the only version of me that ever really existed. Or wanted to exist.
The only one who still believed in softness.
In truth.
But he didn’t choose her.
He killed her.
Whether he meant to or not.