Chapter 12
TWELVE
Aadya
I used to think that because I was born Greesha, I’d die as Greesha.
It was a dream, really—a delusional little construct I clung to when I first started my relationship with Advik. Because Advik wasn’t just a boyfriend or some passing relationship. He was a reality. A fragile, human-sized life I was trying to build for myself.
Normalcy. The most dangerous kind of dream.
My first name change at twenty—from Greesha to Sanya—hurt like hell.
Sanya to Simran was easier.
Simran back to Greesha? That felt like relief.
That was me manifesting a life I needed. The quiet one. The one with grocery bills, laundry arguments, kitchen banter. It was almost funny how much I craved mundane things. With a partner who loved me. A partner I thought would remain as Advik.
It didn’t happen that way, though.
I never outran being unwanted. But needed.
But then again, it was because I was an older child in the orphanage. Almost fifteen when my parents were killed. Murdered, really. But who’s counting my trauma anymore?
Suddenly, I went from being a child to being in charge of them. Not the youngest anymore—but the oldest. The caretaker. The surrogate warden. The tired, capable one.
I was skilled enough—or maybe pliable enough—to be put to work in the kitchen at Sunrise Homes: The Refuge of Light.
Because... kids are the light, right?
What a goddamn joke.
Whoever named that place should’ve stepped inside once. I never felt safe in that building. I’d wake up to babies wailing, toddlers clinging, wardens subtly pushing me into the role of full-time nanny.
So now, as I stand in front of this hollowed shell of a building—a softer hell compared to others I’ve seen—I feel something I don’t like.
Unsettled.
The water damage on the concrete is mild compared to the moss overtaking the pillars. Even rogue blades of grass have claimed the stairs.
Mehul Bedi owns this place now.
He didn’t when I was a kid. But he does now. And I’ve seen the records.
Back then, I used to be jealous of the infants. The toddlers. They were adoptable. Us older kids? No one wanted us. The weekly showings were always for the ones who couldn’t yet form opinions.
Now I’m not jealous. I’m horrified.
Because just like every other orphanage Mehul has taken over, he’s been lifting the older ones. The ones who wouldn’t be missed if they were gone. The ones the system already gave up on.
Sold.
Most likely trafficked.
I’ve seen the stats. Read the reports. Since he took over, adoption rates have soared.
And 76% of those adoptions? Kids aged 4 to 15.
I would’ve just made the cut. If I’d grown up under his system, I’d have had a fucking price tag.
I let out a slow breath and turn back toward my bike. Delhi always does this to me.
Everything terrible that’s ever happened in my life—happened here.
My parents’ murder.
This goddamn orphanage.
My run-in with that motherfucking RAW agent.
The implosion with Advik.
Sometimes I wonder if all of it was pre-written. If my entire trajectory was fucked from birth.
My parents were runaways from some small village. They defied their rival families to be together, to make the radical, unforgivable mistake of loving each other.
They paid for it. With their lives.
I don’t remember them mentioning their extended family. They never came to claim me after the funeral. At the shamshaan ghaat.
I figured they hated me too. And I was right.
Turns out, they were the ones who had my parents killed. Because they dared to have a meager daughter who still had the audacity to carry their ‘sacred’ family name. Pathan.
But I didn’t carry that name for long. I changed it at 18 to Greesha Das.
And with that paperwork—they found me.
It wasn’t even their first attempt, I realized later. So many strange “accidents” in my childhood made sense after that.
The gas leak when I was four.
The nearly fatal car accident when I was seven.
That stranger at the market who grabbed me when I was eleven.
All recontextualized.
Eventually, they got tired of subtlety and sent a man with a gun. And that’s when I learned something:
Bullets don’t need consent. They just need aim.
My family is all dead now. Funny? Or coincidence?
I should feel something about that, I suppose. Sadness. Maybe pity. But all I feel is the ghost of a burn in my hips from when I stayed crouched on a ledge for hours, a few years ago—rifle scope slipping slightly in the rain—waiting for the perfect moment.
They never stood a chance. Not against a fully-trained me.
It wasn’t about being abandoned. It wasn’t revenge for a childhood left unclaimed. It wasn’t even about how they killed my parents—their own children.
It was because they couldn’t let go of control. They couldn’t let two rival bloodlines breed.
My parents were never allowed to simply live.
I found out both families had their hands in petty black-market criminal networks. Pathetic stuff. But it gave me leverage.
Killing them was easy.
Their kids? Fatherless now.
Their wives? Grieving oblivious widows.
Their businesses? Liquidated.
I track them sometimes. Just to be sure that they’re not inclining toward stupidity again.
And that’s one good thing I can say about myself.
I finish what I start.
Even when it starts with a name. And ends with blood.
I’m just about to reach my bike—parked in the shadow of an unfinished building, tucked where no one should be—when I see him.
Walking slowly. Grimly. Eyes on the empty road, shoulders tense under the orange glaze of streetlights. The glow softens his face, makes him look almost... sad.
Why does he look sad?
Fuck, wait! More importantly—why the hell is he here?
Advik doesn’t see me until he’s almost at the front gates of Sunrise. His head lifts, and I see the moment his expression flickers.
Recognition.
Confusion.
Relief?
“Gree—uh—I mean... Aadya?” he stammers, brows crashing together.
I cross my arms and steel my voice. “What are you doing here?”
I sound calm. I’m anything but. My fingers twitch near the hem of my jacket.
Why is he here? Of all fucking places. Teetering near my past like he belongs in it.
“I was...” He clears his throat and shifts awkwardly, as if only just realizing how strange this is. “I usually volunteer here. Weekly. At the orphanage.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. Guilt tugs at the edges of his voice.
“Since I... found out...” he trails off.
“That I was dead?” I finish, expression blank. Or at least I hope it looks blank. Because inside, I’m burning. My pulse hasn’t slowed once since he walked into my frame.
He nods slowly, gaze dropping. “They’ve... actually been doing pretty well. With adoptions.”
And just like that, my stomach drops.
He doesn’t even know.
He has no fucking idea what that actually means.
I stay silent, watching his mouth move like a man who thinks he’s sharing good news.
“So I—I teach the older kids sometimes. You know, just basic stuff. Tech. Online safety. How to manage life after here.”
He says it like it’s no big deal. But my chest clenches. Because if he’s doing that, and the kids are learning—even a little—that might actually be giving some of them a fighting chance.
To survive.
To escape.
I take an unconscious step toward him before I realize it. “What specifically do you teach?”
His lips curve up slightly, and that tells me everything. He noticed my step. And he thinks it means something. Fuck.
“It’s nothing too advanced,” he says softly. “Just... how the internet works. What networks are. Where to find help if things go wrong.”
I frown. “Help? With what?”
There’s something in his tone. He knows. Not everything. But something.
“You know... if the families they end up with aren’t great.” He swallows hard. “Just giving them tools to... reach out. Escape, maybe.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He knows something.
Shit. I can’t ignore this now. If there are random dots to connect, I need them. No matter who’s holding them. Even him.
I exhale, frustrated. “We need to talk.”
His eyes widen like I just dropped a grenade between us. He thinks I mean us. The past. The ruin. The grief.
So I clarify, tone flat. “About your clear distrust of the system. I’m guessing you’ve seen something? Suspect something?”
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean... could be nothing. But it’s been weird. Is this about Mehul Bedi?”
Bingo.
I nod once. “Meet me tomorrow. Outside your apartment. Nine a.m.”
He nods without hesitation. “Yeah. Whatever you need.”
I move past him toward my bike, heart hammering. My skin buzzes with the kind of anxiety I usually reserve for ambush zones. But the real threat is more subtle.
I can feel his eyes on my back. Still watching. Still wondering.
I sigh.
I need to stop overanalyzing everything when it comes to him.
I don’t do this with anyone else. Not this obsessively. Not this... emotionally.
He can’t be special. He shouldn’t be.
But he is.
And that’s going to be a fucking problem.