Chapter 30
THIRTY
Advik
I’m not sure if I’m terrified or relieved that Greesha has broken down so brutally. I think I’m a bit of both.
The raw painful outpouring of her finally giving up the mask—or maybe giving in to her actual self—was something I’d never thought I’d be grateful for.
There were moments these past few months—after we met again—that I hoped she’d let it all go. But I didn’t know she’d take me with her when she shattered.
She’s still curled up against me. My good shoulder is her pillow for now. She hasn’t stirred at all in the past three hours. It’s almost evening now.
Neither of us have eaten anything since breakfast this morning. And I think she’d need some sustenance when she wakes up.
I want to untangle and cook her something, but I’m almost terrified to leave. Fuck.
My eyes are dazedly locked at the ceiling fan, moving slowly at a low speed.
I still can’t believe I saw the woman I love break so disastrously. Something tells me she wasn’t expecting it. Otherwise she never would’ve actually let herself start to feel. Not in front of me.
I swallow hard. Hoping—praying—that there’s some semblance of relief from her recent pain. That her episode was something of a beginning for her healing.
“You’re thinking too hard...” I hear her soft rumble against my neck. Her breath warm.
She’s awake. And I don’t know how long she’s been up but I’m glad I have her breath fanning my throat and not her knife.
“Maybe,” I whisper quietly.
She hums before she croaks. “This has never happened before.”
She’s stiff against me, but she doesn’t move. It’s almost as if she’s trying hard to keep herself balanced between being strong and seeking comfort. From me.
I nod and turn my head slightly toward her. Her eyes are back. Not guarded, but still a bit tormented. A heavier version of what I once saw when she told me she needed to prepare herself before talking about what had happened after she left.
God! She needed to prepare herself for the horror I saw reflecting in her beautiful eyes.
“It was... difficult,” I say softly. “To watch you burning like that. I felt helpless before I could even... begin to be helpful.”
Her throat clears. “I don’t need help, Advik.”
She begins to inch away, but I hold her tighter. Not caging her, but conveying a silent plea to not leave—not just yet.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice is hoarse, a blend of caution and fear.
“Depends,” she whispers. “Is it about what happened after I left you?”
“It’s... maybe,” I concede. “It’s about what happened a few hours ago. When you... when you were not here.”
“Just... a nightmare come to life. Nothing I don’t think about anyway.”
She says it so casually that my heart hurts.
“But you felt trapped. I could see it. It didn’t feel like a nightmare. It felt like... you were reliving it.”
She moves away and this time I let her. Grabbing her precious dagger from under the pillow, she uses it as a fidget tool. As though she’s deciding what to share and what not to.
I watch her as she tactfully moves it through her fingers—her motion fluid, practiced.
Her gaze is fixed on the ceiling, her head resting on her pillow. “It was when Karim... took me for the first time. It wasn’t very... husbandly.”
Her choice of words is so careful that I realize she’s holding the real, horrific truth back. But I think she’s also hoping I’d read between the lines.
And fucking hell, I do.
I exhale sharply, my brain unwillingly concocting the gap she’s left open with her statement. I blink rapidly to banish the images.
I force out the words. “How long were you... were you m-married to—”
“One year, two months, twelve days, and...” she says numbly, “...maybe one hour. Or it could be twenty-three hours—if you include the time my jig was up. And I was tied up in that house.”
Air leaves my lungs. Tears coming back with a vengeance. I let out a strangled sigh that sounds more like a sob.
“It wasn’t all bad,” she says, almost soothingly. “He didn’t fuck me all the time.”
“He didn’t fuck you at all,” I snap. “What he did was ra—”
“I consented to it, Vik,” she says wearily.
The intimate nickname hits different this time. Accompanied with a sliver of surrender. Her calling me Vik is why I’ve been taking small liberties with calling her baby. I probably shouldn’t.
She gets up then, her feet landing on the floor with a quiet thud. Her movements are almost mechanical, tired. She pauses for a few seconds before letting out a heavy sigh.
Then almost in an instant, she squares her shoulders, nods to herself, and is out the door. Leaving me alone with the mess that is my mind.
I spend a few minutes letting it out. Grieving the woman who died every day for one year, two months, twelve days, and twenty-three hours.
My sobs are muted, muffled against my palms. I run a shaky hand over my face once I calm down. Then I force myself to get up and join her.
She’s in the kitchen, her back to me, staring into the fridge like it’s a puzzle she needs to solve.
Then—she picks up the tomatoes.
My heart lurches.
We’ve only been ordering takeout the past week. Since she got here, there hasn’t been a single meal cooked at home except for breakfast. And now... now she’s reaching for tomatoes?
I blink hard—wondering if I’m hallucinating yet again. Is she planning to cook?
I don’t even have fresh produce beyond some sad onions and a few bulbs of garlic.
But this? This is Greesha, isn’t it?
Fuck. This is my Greesha. The one who used to hum to herself while dicing.
My brain stutters at her sudden shift. Just moments ago, she was flipping a knife between her fingers. And now... she plans to slice the fucking tomatoes with it?
She turns, startled for a second when she sees me just stupidly gaping at her.
“Good, you’re here,” she says, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world. “Where’s your phone?”
My brows twitch in surprise. “Uh... in the room. Your room.”
She doesn’t answer. Just circles around me and disappears down the hall.
A moment later, she returns—my phone already in her hand, her thumbs flying over the screen like she owns it. Which, for all intents and purposes, she kind of does.
She knew the passcode. Of course she did. I had to tell her the day she agreed to be my bodyguard. She’d asked for it with a smirk. I think she was fucking with me.
I hadn’t minded then. I sure as hell don’t mind now.
She sets the phone down on the kitchen counter. I grab it the moment she lets go.
And when I look at the screen—my throat closes. A grocery delivery app. A fresh order already placed.
Lauki (bottle gourd). Carrots. Fresh curd. Bananas. Cream. Estimated arrival: 32 minutes.
I sniff. Quietly. Hoping she doesn’t hear it.
I clear my throat—almost letting out a wet cough. It takes effort to look at her. I don’t know what I expect. Anger? Tears? Maybe indifference?
What I get is... a smile. Small. Fleeting. But real. Painted softly across her scarred, ravaged, beautiful face.
“You’re—”
“I’m making malai kofta,” she cuts me off.
She swiftly turns away, without sparing me another glance. And then starts rummaging through the pots and pans. Like muscle memory.
She’s making malai kofta. My favorite. What the fuck?
I’m mid-whiplash when I walk to the counter and take the stool.
My knees buckle slightly, but I sit. Watch her. In silence. Watching her prep the kitchen before the groceries even arrive. I stay quiet. Trying like hell not to do something—say something—that might accidentally force this moment to dissipate into a puff of smoke.
But somehow... somehow...
The ache in my chest hurts a little less.
The kitchen doesn’t feel haunted anymore. It feels like something out of the old pages of our book.