Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Aadya
“It’s because of him, isn’t it?”
Vir’s voice cuts through the quiet, just as Advik disappears through the door.
I don’t answer immediately. My body’s still buzzing from when Vir casually dropped Jaan into the conversation like it meant nothing. Or was supposed to mean something.
I slowly turn toward him. His hand is still loosely wrapped around my waist. My instinct is to step back—and this time, I listen to it.
“What do you mean?”
He frowns. That controlled edge creeping into his voice. “It’s been a month since you saw him again. And it’s been a month since we’ve done anything beyond kissing.”
My heart stutters.
“It’s because of him, right?”
Of course it is. But not for the reasons he thinks.
I let out a dry laugh. “Calling me Jaan during an active op isn’t your style either, Viraj.”
His eyes flicker at the use of his full name. I haven’t called him that in... almost a year. It lands like a slap.
“We’re not on duty right now,” he replies coolly, raising a brow.
I smirk, but it’s bitter. “We always are.”
The words hang between us—and the weight of them hits me in the gut.
He and I are always on duty. Always planning, coordinating, pivoting.
My mind flickers back to every moment we were intimate... followed immediately by logistics. Debriefs. Assignments.
And now I can’t stop thinking: is there ever an off switch with us?
I exhale and pivot, keeping my voice even. “There’s some unresolved stuff between Advik and me. He’s been persistent about having a conversation. And I think... I think I need to let him. Close that chapter properly.”
Vir’s jaw tightens. His eyes dim just slightly.
“And what about our chapter?” he asks, voice quieter now. “Why is that on hold?”
I circle around him and gesture vaguely toward the building exit. “Every fucking thing is on hold. We’re in the middle of an assignment.”
“We never hit pause before,” he says, following me out the main door. “Not during other ops. Not even during extraction week in Jammu. And now we’re just... not going to make love?”
“Fuck,” I say, whirling on him. “We fuck, Vir. That’s all it is.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts his hands in surrender.
“You fuck me,” he says calmly. “But I make love to you. Every single time. You know that.”
I let out a groan of frustration, dragging a hand through my hair. “I told you what this was. From day one. No promises. No ties.”
He’s steps away. Hands on his hips when he lets out a heavy sigh. “You don’t see it, do you?”
“What don’t I see?” I snap.
“No.” Vir steps closer, his voice softer now. “You do see it. You just don’t trust it. Or believe it.”
Before I can stop him, he cups my face in both hands—like I’ll shatter if he squeezes too hard. His forehead presses gently against mine.
“I love you, Greesha,” he whispers. “I love you.”
My breath stumbles out of me.
I want to push him away. Scream. Run. Anything to stop the ache forming in my chest. Apparently my limit is one vulnerable moron a day.
But I don’t. I just whisper, almost rehearsed. “I know.”
He lets out a sigh. “Someday.”
Then he leans in and kisses me—soft, reverent. No tongue. No pressure.
Just... pause. For now.
When he steps back, his voice is back to business. “You bring your bike?”
I nod mutely. “Near that pole.”
“Good. Follow me. We’re headed to the warehouse where Mehul’s been keeping that new smart furniture shipment.”
I frown. The shift is so abrupt it almost gives me whiplash. There it is again. Vulnerability, then mission mode. It’s always been this with him, hasn’t it? And I’m just discovering this pattern.
“Right,” I murmur. “What are we looking for?”
“He’s bringing GenVault on a walkthrough next week,” Vir says. “Want to make sure there’s nothing in that facility that could blow our cover or compromise the op.”
Not ‘keep the team safe.’ Not ‘get us in and out clean.’
Just the op.
I nod tightly and walk toward my bike. But my eyes drift back to the mirror windows of the GenVault building.
Advik’s still in there. Somewhere behind all that glass. And once again—without meaning to—I’m walking away.
Again.
??????
Three days later and I’m still seething.
Not irritated. Not miffed. Seething.
My mood has plummeted so deep it’s probably drilling tunnels through the Mariana Trench. And nothing—nothing—can dig me out of this funk.
It’s not just Vir or Advik. It’s the damn op.
Because now? It’s a full-blown mess. Someone took a shot at Mehul yesterday.
No one got hurt, thank god. Vir managed to shove him into the car before the bullet hit anyone. But it happened right outside GenVault.
My stomach flips just thinking about it.
Because I wasn’t there.
And Mehul—the bastard that he is—is now convinced I had something to do with the whole damn thing. Not explicitly, of course. No, he’s smarter than that. He just throws digs about my incompetent long-range surveillance and failure to detect basic threats.
Sorry, Mehul. I wasn’t too busy missing the shooter—I was busy plotting ways to trap your ass, not assassinate it. You’re welcome.
I groan into my palms, still planted at my desk in GenVault office—aka Ground Zero of my current nightmare. I practically live here now. Between tailing Mehul, coordinating tech ops, and pretending to be his guard dog, I’ve forgotten what daylight looks like.
And to top it all off?
He’s started noticing me. Like, noticing. Thanks to the attempt on his life, his paranoia has turned me into some kind of personal target. Every time I breathe too loud, he glances over like I might turn traitor or savior.
I push off my chair and head toward Advik’s office. My boots echo through the corridor as I pass a couple of engineers who wave timidly. I give a stiff nod. Not in the mood.
His office door is ajar. I move closer—and freeze.
I hear him. His voice is low. Talking to someone on the phone, I assume.
“It’s not that... Khushi’s death has nothing to do with it... okay, maybe something. But—”
I go still.
What the hell?
My mind races. Why is he talking about that case? Who the hell is on the other side of that line?
“But trust me,” he continues. “The problem is much larger than that.”
That’s fucking it.
I shove the door open, expression calm, but my pulse hammering. He jumps, startled, phone still in hand.
“I... I’ll call you back, Ishika.”
Ishika?
He’s talking about a confidential murder case with his sister-in-law?
I shut the door behind me—quietly this time. My hand is already resting on the butt of my gun as I face him.
“Aady—”
“Why would you share confidential case information with civilians?” My voice is sharp. Clipped. “With your family?”
His brows pull together and he stiffens when he sees where my hand is. “What?”
“Don’t act dumb.” I take a step forward. “You were talking about Khushi Joshi’s case. I heard you.”
Something shifts in his face—confusion melting into slow realization. And then relief.
He exhales hard and lifts his hands in surrender.
“Aadya... I wasn’t talking about that Khushi.”
I stare. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t talking about Khushi Joshi, Aadya,” he says softly. “I was talking about... Khushi Sharma. My little sister.”
I blink and snap. “You don’t have a sister.”
“I did,” he says. “She was four months old when she died. I was six years old. Vicky was eight.”
His voice lowers, quieter. “It’s... resurfacing now. Some stuff with my parents. They didn’t talk about her growing up. There was—anyway. Ishika and I were just... processing. That’s all.”
My hand falls away from my holster, shame creeping up my spine like a rash.
“You have a sister,” I murmur.
“Had,” he corrects me, giving me a small, broken smile. “Khushi.”
I exhale, the tension draining all at once. Dots suddenly connecting.
“So... that’s why you were so invested in the Joshi case?” I ask gently. “Because of the name?”
He nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat of silence. No more tension. Just something heavy and quiet hanging between us.
“You had a sister,” I mutter.
He shrugs like it’s fine. But his eyes are far away.
I blink. Once. Twice.
How the hell did I not know?
I mean, obviously I didn’t run background checks on him when we were dating. I wasn’t that paranoid. Given that I’d already taken care of all personal threats—including my parents’ families by that point.
And Sahil—the PI I hired—only focused on present-day surveillance. Just those two years after I left Advik. Nothing beyond that.
Still... how did I never notice?
And why does my chest ache knowing he kept something like this from me?
God, how hypocritical is that? I’ve hidden so much more. So many darker things I simply couldn’t share.
“The problem is much larger than that.”
My ears replay the sentence like a warning bell.
“What problem?” I blurt out.
He blinks. “What?”
“You said, ‘the problem is much larger than that.’ What problem?”
There’s a sudden pressure in my lungs, like if I don’t get an answer right now, I might implode. I need to know.
Why, though?
His expression tightens. “Uh... you want to know about Khushi?” he asks cautiously.
“Yes,” I say. “And the problem.”
The edge in my voice surprises even me. I’ve stopped filtering. The usual calculations—the ones that weigh each word before I speak—are gone. Just... gone. Fuck.
And I know exactly what this means.
The last time I felt the filter slip was years ago, when I first met him. When we used to speak in fragments of truth and unfinished thoughts and somehow still understood each other. Before everything went to shit.
This is bad.
“Why now?” he asks gently. “Are we... on one of those talking days?”
I force a smile. It probably looks more like a grimace.
“I’m in a listening mood,” I say. “Let’s not waste that.”
His shoulders relax slightly, and he gives me one of those boyish smiles—the kind that used to melt me. Not because it was charming, but because it was reverent.
“Have a seat, Greesha.”
And just like that, I know what he’s doing.
He wants her to listen. Not Aadya the soldier. Not Aadya the agent.
Greesha.
And stupidly, for the first time in a long time, she’s actually in the room.