Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Greesha
Anger.
An emotion I’ve known since I was fifteen. It carved its way into my bones, settled there. Familiar enough to fuel my reflexes, guide my fists, make decisions my heart couldn’t.
Resilience.
The bow I wrapped around that anger. A cocoon I built, pretty enough to pass for strength—weak enough to hold the anger in. It carried me through RAW, through the blood and the training and the grief. It carried me through the silence. The silence of life lost. Family lost.
Love.
That was different. It didn’t come armed.
It came soft. Gentle. Washed over everything like it had the ability to overshadow everything else.
It brought back the girl I used to be—before the violence, before the masks.
But it was an illusion. It never matured with me.
It never learned to carry the weight of the woman I was and the one I wanted to become. And so, it cracked.
Fear.
That one? That one was a fucking demolition crew.
It tore through everything I thought made me.
.. me. Shattered every layer of identity I’d worn like armor.
There was a moment—after Afghanistan, after the marriage, after the return—where I was certain: Greesha was gone.
Every version—erased. Buried beneath what I survived.
But I was wrong.
Because all of it—every last thing—came rushing back. The moment fear took over in the dimly lit hallway of Advik’s apartment...
I relived the horror.
And I realized something that struck like a quiet truth:
I can’t anchor myself in any one of these emotions. Not the presence of them. Not their absence either.
Because when I feel nothing—I am Aadya.
When I clutch desperately to only one—I am Greesha Das.
But who I really am?
She’s somewhere in between. A fierce, fractured, unfiltered combination of the fearless and the fearful.
And she—whoever she is—loves the broken man sitting on that barstool. The one who hasn’t moved since I surprised him with a grocery order.
God, the look on his face.
I don’t even know why I’m making fucking malai kofta. I haven’t cooked in years. But the moment I opened the fridge and saw those damn tomatoes, something clicked.
Maybe I just... wanted to remember what it felt like to do something ordinary. To choose softness. To choose comfort. To choose this amalgamation of everything I was. So I went with the first instinct and grabbed those tomatoes.
Not for Advik. For me.
My temples still throb with anger. My throat pulses with an echo of fear. My chest is still caving in with anxiety of never summoning the resilience. And there’s a weight that feels like love—or maybe worse. Maybe it’s hope. A new emotion. And I don’t want to give that to him.
But I’ve come to accept something tonight. I can love him. Even if I never let him have me again.
And maybe that’s okay.
I think back to those three months of mandatory therapy after Afghanistan. I treated it like a roadblock. Something to just get through so I could say yes, I’m fine now. So I could return to the resilience I wore so proudly.
But I don’t want that anymore.
I want to feel it all. Every jagged emotion. Every messy, contradictory, human thing. I want to be a woman who doesn’t hide behind names or aliases or defense mechanisms.
A woman who doesn’t filter people out before letting them in.
A woman who can give her whole self—to be loved. Not just the curated, calculable, manageable pieces.
And that realization brings dread.
Because maybe I never really let Advik love me. And maybe... I couldn’t either. Not completely. Not while I kept parts of me locked away. Not when those parts never surfaced.
Not while I let my fear of him seeing the ugly, broken, betrayed version of me—dictate everything.
And that’s why I ran, isn’t it?
Not just because he thought of another woman. But because I couldn’t bear to let him see a version of me that was destroyed by him.
I couldn’t show him how deep that pain went.
So I did what I knew best. I put on the strongest mask I owned. The mask of the untouchable operative. The mask of resilience. And I wore it like a fuck-you crown.
But I fucked it all up, didn’t I?
Because when I saw him again, all those masks started disintegrating. One by one.
Not by force. Not by manipulation. But just... by his existence. By the man he is. The man who apparently never stopped loving me. The man he became.
And now I’m here. In his kitchen. Hiding behind the fucking lauki because all my masks have spectacularly malfunctioned.
He doesn’t say anything. And I know why. He doesn’t want to disturb this little bubble of the past being reflected in my actions.
I want to tell him it’s not the past. It’s probably my future. Maybe not with him. But still mine.
So I let it happen. Which creates the rhythm for the upcoming weeks. Because I’m not capable of disturbing this either.
I need this time to fully understand how I function as an active operative, while still having the masks withdrawn.
So for the next three weeks, we create a routine of polite conversations. No rehashing the past.
Simply us, existing between the Mehul mission and the fragile sanctity of truce. That’s what I think he believes this is. A truce.
I call it hibernation. A cleansing of sorts. Where I’m letting the emotions come as is.
Mehul and his people have been awfully silent. They’ve tried accessing the GenVault client accounts—but failed miserably.
In terms of actual operational timeline—it’s not alarming. But the problems are closing in. We’ve captured two more undocumented boats in the past weeks after the Sunrise Home kids rescue.
And God knows how many we’ve missed. The adoption rates are still high. And so far his operation is contained to the orphanages. Not ideal. But at least he hasn’t spread further. Infected further.
The silent, watchful game is getting tiring for Advik and Dev. They’re on tenterhooks—agitated to get the ball rolling. I once heard Dev suggesting they let Mehul’s team hack into one of the client systems. The ones with the lowest stakes and highest physical security.
But Advik rejected it, saying it would look too much like a trap. I agree.
So now we’re in the trapping phase. Figuring out the best way to do it. So far... nothing.
Viraj has been getting more antsy about building a trap that has fatal consequences for Mehul and his team. But then again... killing Mehul won’t solve the issue. Just like executing his brother, Mohan, didn’t achieve anything.
It’s 7 a.m. And I’m still in bed contemplating ways to make Advik’s attendance at Aarohi’s wedding in two weeks happen.
Vikram and his wife Ishika are adamant that he should be there.
Given that their parents haven’t physically met Advik in more than a month now.
And that’s apparently unusual for their family.
It’s also the only place I can think of having Advik out and about. Connecting with his family. Crowded event. Outside of Delhi. Anything else is too isolated and dangerous. Also, I’m slightly curious about how he’ll react to her getting married.
I throw the covers back and freshen up for the day.
The moment I step into the living room, I’m expecting Advik—wearing sweats—cooking us something. Breakfast is his territory.
But for the first time in weeks he’s not there. The lights are off. Curtains drawn. My anxiety rises.
I run back to his room. Only to find it empty. Bed properly made. He’s not in the apartment.
What the fuck?
Where is he?
A few seconds pass with me on the verge of hyperventilating. My fingers furiously opening up the tracking app to find the stupid man.
The main door clicks quietly. I watch him carefully—oh so gingerly—close the door behind him. Trying to make minimal sound as he does.
I watch him give the best performance of his life, covering his tracks like he wasn’t just endangering himself by going out without informing me.
I wonder how many times he’s done this stupid stunt.
The moment he crosses the kitchen and spots me glaring, I hear an honest to God yelp. A girlie one at that.
“Madarch—” he gasps. “You scared me.”
His silhouette is partially golden against the sun streaming through the windows. His chest moving at an unnatural pace.
Good. Be scared, my little sneaky shit.
“Where were you?” I ask calmly.
“Uh...” He gathers himself. “The café down the street actually. I wanted coffee. The pods were finished.”
The excuse is brilliant. The pods are indeed finished. I drank them all since he wouldn’t drink much caffeine.
I also realized over time that he avoids coffee—given his heart condition since the overdose.
My blood ices over. The overdose. This man fucking tried to kill himself. Has zero survival instincts. Took a damn bullet to his shoulder.
And now—he just left the safety of our apartment to randomly stroll about.
I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d come back and found out he was actually dead.
But I don’t let myself dwell on that thought for too long—because when I do, I can’t fucking breathe.
And right now? This stupid, suicidal moron had just waltzed out of the apartment like his life wasn’t hanging by a thread. Like his fucking heart hadn’t already flatlined once.
“Where...” I step closer, my voice deadly calm. “Were you?”
He sighs, already defeated, knowing there’s no escape from this little interrogation. “Dev. I really was at the coffee shop. But Dev and I met up before he headed to work. We... I don’t know...”
He rakes a frustrated hand through his overgrown hair. “I needed to do something. Dev has some ideas—”
“And you couldn’t do it from our apartment?” I snap.
His frustration fades instantly—replaced by something far more dangerous. A smirk?
I frown in confusion. This self-sacrificing moron is itching for a bullet again, huh? But his smirk still doesn’t fade.
What the hell is he—?
Oh.
My brain catches up a second too late. I called it our apartment.
Fucking hell. Maybe I’m the one who should be eating a bullet.
I force my fury to sour into something softer. Something heavier.
I sigh, eyes dropping to the floor. “I called it... shit. I called it our apartment, didn’t I?”
He nods, the damn smirk still stamped on his face like he’s just won some private war.
I slump my shoulders. “I was... worried,” I admit, voice quieter now.
I force myself to meet his eyes. Trying—begging—to convey just a sliver of the fear that still claws at my ribs when I think about what happened to his heart.
“You can’t randomly go out,” I whisper. “Not without... p-protection.”
He sobers instantly, stepping closer.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Dev and I have been feeling... restless. It’s been weeks, and nothing’s moved. I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m sorry.”
“Vik...” I sigh. “You need to tell me. I would’ve come with you.”
I rest both palms on his chest, staring up at him, letting that fear show. Letting him see what he almost put me through again.
His expression softens and gives me a sad smile. “I’m so sorry, baby. I won’t do it agai—glrghhhh—”
THWACK.
Aaaand he’s choking.
Choking before he even finishes his stupid sentence, gasping for nonexistent air as my knuckles connect with his throat in one fluid, glorious motion.
I step back as he bends over, clutching his neck like it personally betrayed him.
My punch was a masterpiece. I should be impressed. Hell, he should be impressed.
Instead, he looks... turned on?
For fuck’s sake.
“Ai—why ‘id you do tha’?” he croaks, wheezing.
“Hain?” I grimace, not even trying to hide the smugness on my face.
“Fuuuuck...” he wheezes dramatically, sucking in ragged breaths like he’s just escaped drowning.
I cross my arms, watching him with equal parts amusement and boredom.
This is what you get for trying to die on me, you reckless dumbass.
“Sorry, Gree,” he gasps again, hands on his knees. “I know you love me too damn much and you were scared.”
Oh, this motherfucker.
I stalk closer, jabbing a finger at his forehead. “You can’t step out of this apartment without my permission. Get that through your thin, bulletless skull. Otherwise—next time—it won’t be bullet...less.”
My chest heaves. I glare at him, daring him to laugh.
He breathes easier. Too easy. And then—of course—his smirk returns.
He steps in, again, voice low and stupidly fond. “I won’t die that easily, baby.”
I growl—actually growl. “You stupid moron! I can’t protect you if I’m not with you!”
He chuckles like this whole thing hasn’t shaved a year off my life.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, this time genuinely. Still wheezing a little. Still smirking a lot.
And then he’s grinning. Like I didn’t just almost crush his windpipe.
“God, you’re such a dumbass,” I snap.
He wheezes but that damn glint doesn’t leave his eyes. “Maybe I wanted to get punched by you.”
I blink. “What?”
“I mean,” he rasps, his voice cracking, “you always look like you wanna do it—but you never do.”
Then I explode. “Oh, fuck you, Vik! You want to keep testing me, be my fucking guest! But you do not get to be reckless on my watch!”
He raises his hands in surrender, that smirk morphing into something softer—too soft.
Too... tender.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers.
And it pisses me off—the damn baby. His apologies piss me off. He pisses me off.
I hate that I care. I hate that he’s breathing in front of me. I hate that I’m relieved yet again. That I want to grab him and shake him and shove him into a fucking iron cage so he can’t go off pulling these stunts again.
The anger coils in my chest, mixing violently with something else. Something molten and carnal and dangerous. All those feelings rapidly fading and igniting and I can’t seem to figure out which one will win this time.
Then I feel it before I even realize what I’m doing.
My blood buzzing. My throat burning. My palms shaking.
“You—”
I start but stop abruptly—my chest heaving. He opens his mouth to say something else—
But I launch.
I grab this moronic lamebrain, yank him down, and crush my mouth to his.
No hesitation. Just raw, reckless anger.
I feel him stiffen. Then freeze.
And then—