CHAPTER 59
ISHIKA
Something is definitely wrong. The first thing I notice is how heavy my body feels. Like I’ve been asleep for too long. Like I’ve been dragged out of something I wasn’t ready to leave.
My eyelids flutter, but they don’t open properly at first. Everything is dim. Blurry. Shapes instead of objects. Light that hurts more than it should.
There’s a dull ache at the back of my head but I try to focus at the voice coming from some steps away from me.
“…he better come out now.” It cuts through the fog. “I need that stupid old man here.”
My heart stutters. Old man?
What—My eyes snap open.
The world tilts violently, like someone has grabbed the edges of it and shaken it out of place. The ceiling above me swims for a second before it settles into something solid again. My breath comes in too fast and shallow. Something is wrong. I try to move. I can’t. Panic hits instantly.
My hands—my hands are pulled back, stretched behind me at an angle that already aches. There’s something tight around my wrists. Rough. Digging into my skin. Rope. The realization is immediate and suffocating.
My chest tightens.
My legs—my ankles—those too. Bound. Trapped. I shift instinctively and the chair beneath me scrapes faintly against the floor, the sound loud in the silence.
No. No, no—My mouth—There’s cloth stuffed into it. Thick. Dry. It presses against my tongue, steals my breath, turns every attempt at a sound into something broken and useless.
I choke on it, a muffled noise forcing its way out anyway.
And then I my eyes land at him.
Krishna.
For a second, nothing makes sense. Because this—this version of him doesn’t belong in my memories.
The Krishna I knew was careless. Annoying.
A little too full of himself, a little too selfish, yes—but familiar.
Predictable in the worst way. This man—This man standing in front of me like this—He looks at me like I’m nothing.
Like I’m a thing. Something to be used. My stomach drops so hard it hurts.
He turns toward me, slow, like he’s not surprised at all to find me awake.
Our eyes meet and his lips curl up. “Oh,” he says, almost pleasantly, like we’ve run into each other somewhere casual. “You’re finally up, babydoll.”
The word makes my skin crawl. Something cold and sharp twists in my chest. I jerk forward instinctively, trying to scream, trying to demand answers, trying to make sense of anything—But the sound dies in my throat, swallowed by the cloth.
My hands twist behind me, desperate, nails digging into my own skin as I try to find some give in the rope.
There is none. It only tightens and my wrist burns. My shoulders scream in protest. He watches me like this is entertaining and I am performing theater for him.
“You always had a lot to say,” he muses, stepping closer, his shoes echoing faintly against the floor. “Nice to see that hasn’t changed.”
My breath comes faster, panic clawing its way up my throat. Think. Think. Where am I?
The room is small. Dim. There’s a single bulb overhead casting a harsh yellow light that makes everything look older than it is. The walls are bare. Stained. There’s a faint smell—dampness, maybe, or something metallic underneath it.
No windows. Or none that I can see. The door—behind him is closed, obviously.
I force myself to stop struggling. Just for a second.
Just to think. My chest rises and falls too quickly, but I try to steady it.
Don’t panic. Don’t give him that. He sighs, like I’m tiring him out.
“Alright,” he mutters, stepping closer again. “This is getting annoying.”
Before I can react, his hand grips the cloth in my mouth and yanks it out. Air rushes in so fast it burns. I cough, choking on it, my throat raw. “What do you want from me?” The words tear out of me, hoarse but sharp. “What is this? Why am I here?”
My voice echoes slightly. Too loud in this small space. Too desperate. He grins. “There she is.”
My jaw tightens. “I asked you something.”
“I know,” he replies, unbothered. My wrists shift again behind me, slower this time. Careful. The rope scrapes against the back of the chair, maybe if I try slowly, without him noticing, I can cut off the ropes around my hand.
“I have nothing you could possibly want,” I say, forcing each word out steadily, even as my pulse hammers against my ribs. “You’re wasting your time.”
He laughs. “Oh, I know,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Trust me, I know.” Something in his tone makes my stomach twist. “Poor, abandoned child,” he adds, almost casually. The words hit harder than they should. My breath stutters. My hands pause. Just for a second.
“But that’s not why you’re here.”
My throat goes dry. “What do you mean?”
He steps closer. I can see the details now. The way his eyes don’t soften. The way there’s no hesitation in him at all. “All I want,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make the air feel heavier, “is your father.”
Everything inside me stops. No. No. My head shakes before I even realize it. “He’s dead.” The words come out fast. Immediate. Like a reflex. “I saw the reports. I tried to find him. There’s nothing—”
“On paper?” Krishna interrupts, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah.” My chest tightens. “But in reality…” His lips curl. “He’s very much alive.” The world doesn’t tilt this time. It drops. Like something solid beneath me has just…given way.
“No,” I whisper, my voice small now, shaking in a way I can’t control. “No, you’re lying.”
Because he has to be. Because if he’s not—If he’s not—Then everything I’ve lived with—Everything I’ve believed—It all breaks.
“My father is dead,” I say again, louder this time, like I can force the truth back into place if I say it enough.
“He didn’t come back. He didn’t—” My voice cracks.
I swallow hard. He didn’t come for me. Krishna watches me unravel like it’s interesting.
“See,” he says lightly, crouching slightly so we’re eye level, “that’s the thing.” His gaze locks onto mine. “If there’s anyone who can bring him out…” My heart pounds so hard it hurts. “…it’s you.” My hands go still behind me.
“What?” The word barely forms.
“That’s the mission, babydoll.”
Mission. The word echoes. Mission. Was I—I feel sick. Is that why he vanished without a word?
“I was your mission?” I ask, the realization hitting too slowly, too sharply.
He smiles. “Yeah.” Something inside me splinters. Every memory of him twists. Rewrites itself into something uglier.
“You’re lying,” I say, but it sounds hollow now.
“Am I?”
I shake my head, tears spilling before I can stop them. “This doesn’t make sense,” I whisper. “Why would my father—why would anyone—”
“Because he has something I need,” Krishna says, his tone shifting. Colder now. More real. “And he’s not stupid enough to show himself unless he has to.” My breath trembles.
“And you,” he adds, gesturing lazily toward me, “are perfect leverage.”
Leverage. Not even a person. Just—Useful.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head again. “He won’t come.”
Because he never did. “He never came,” I say, louder now, the hurt spilling out raw and uncontrolled. “I waited. I looked. I tried everything. He didn’t come back.” My chest aches. “If he was alive,” I continue, voice breaking completely now, “he would have come for me.”
Wouldn’t he?
Krishna laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “But you were never in danger.” My stomach drops. “Now you are.” The words settle like something heavy pressing down on my lungs. “If he doesn’t show up,” he continues, almost bored, “I’ll kill you.”
I look at him. Really look at him. And I know. He means it. There’s no hesitation. No flicker of doubt. My breath leaves me in a shaky rush. This is real. This is happening. I am going to die if I don’t get out of this. My hands start moving again.
The rope bites into my skin, scraping, burning, but I push through it, pressing it against the edge of the chair, ignoring the sting, the wet warmth that might be blood. I don’t care. I am not dying here. I refuse. Not like this.
Not before—Aryan. His face hits me so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of me. My chest tightens painfully. I haven’t even told him I love him.
No. No. I am not leaving him with half-words. I am not becoming something unfinished in his life. My breathing steadies. I lift my head slowly, meeting Krishna’s gaze again.
“You’re insane,” I say, my voice rough, shaking—but stronger now. He smiles.
“I’ve been called worse.”
My fingers tighten again, working at the rope, ignoring everything else. Think. Survive. Hold on. Because somewhere—I know he’s coming. Aryan is coming. And I need to be alive when he finds me.