CHAPTER 60
ISHIKA
The air in the room feels wrong. Too still. Too tight. Like something is about to snap and everything is holding its breath waiting for it.
Krishna is saying something—I don’t even remember what—but I’m not listening anymore. My pulse is too loud in my ears, my thoughts tripping over each other, my wrists burning where the rope has been rubbing against my skin.
I am seconds away from doing something reckless. I know it. I can feel it.
I jump at the sudden noise. The door behind Krishna slams open. Just—one solid, heavy thump that echoes through the room like a gunshot.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Krishna turns.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Because something deep inside me already knows. Knows in that terrifying, instinctive way that doesn’t need logic or proof. My breath catches. Slowly—too slowly—I lift my eyes. And the world stops. He stands in the doorway like something pulled out of a memory I buried too deep.
Older.
Thinner.
His hair—white now, longer than I’ve ever seen it, brushing against his shoulders in uneven strands.
But his face—My chest caves in. It’s the same.
Time hasn’t taken that away. The lines are sharper.
The exhaustion sits heavier in his eyes.
There’s something…hardened about him that wasn’t there before.
But it’s him. It’s him. I forget how to breathe.
My lungs just—stop. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms as if pain will ground me, as if it will make this real in a way I can understand.
His eyes find mine. And something flickers there.
So brief I almost miss it. Recognition. Pain. Something dangerously close to…guilt.
My vision blurs. The memory hits me out of nowhere. That day. That stupid, ordinary day when I had opened the door to that delivery man who couldn’t even get the location right. The way I had frowned at him, annoyed, distracted, barely looking at his face—No.
My stomach twists violently. The familiarity. The way something had tugged at me then. I hadn’t imagined it. It wasn’t random. It wasn't a coincidence. It was him. It was always him.
My father.
My throat closes up so suddenly it hurts. You were there. You were right there. And you didn’t say a word.
“Leave her.” His voice cuts through everything. Not loud, not raised—but it lands like a command, like something that doesn’t expect to be disobeyed.
I flinch. Not because of the tone. Because of how familiar it feels. Because my body remembers something my mind is still trying to catch up to.
This can’t be real. It can’t. I had begged for it. God, I had begged. Nights where I stared at the ceiling and whispered into the dark like a child again, asking for something I knew I wouldn’t get.
Bring him back.
Just once.
Just let me see him again.
And all this time—All this time he was alive. Breathing. Existing. Knowing exactly where I was. And he never came.
Something inside my chest cracks so loudly I swear I can hear it. I want to scream. I want to ask him why. I want to hit him, to shove him, to make him feel even a fraction of what I have lived with all these years. But I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.
Krishna laughs. The sound feels obscene in the middle of this. “See?” he says, glancing at me with that same twisted amusement. “I told you he’d come.”
I don’t look at him. I can’t. My eyes are locked on the man in the doorway. On my father. My father. The word doesn’t fit in my head anymore. Not after everything. His gaze shifts from me to Krishna, and whatever softness had flickered there vanishes completely.
He becomes…something else.
Cold.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
“Let her go,” he says again, quieter this time—but there’s an edge to it now, something that curls underneath the words like a threat. “You wanted me,” he adds. “I’m here.”
I swallow hard. My throat burns.
What is happening?
Why is he here?
Why does Krishna want him?
“I need the information, Kaal.”
The name lands wrong. My brows knit together, confusion slicing through everything else.
Kaal?
Who—My gaze snaps back to my father. His jaw tightens. Enough to tell me that name means something. “No,” I whisper, shaking my head instinctively. “No, that’s not—”
My voice sounds small.
Lost.
“My father is Dheer,” I say, louder now, like I can anchor him back to who he was, who he’s supposed to be. “What are you talking about?”
No one answers me. Krishna just smirks. And my father—He doesn’t deny it. The silence is worse than anything he could have said.
“What is going on?” I finally ask, my voice breaking under the weight of it.
Krishna exhales like he’s bored. “Your father,” he says casually, like he’s discussing something mundane, “was an assassin.”
The word hits me like a slap. I stare at him. Then at my father. Then back at Krishna.
“No.” It comes out automatically. “That’s bullshit,” I say, shaking my head harder now. “My father was a salesman.”
He sold things. He traveled. He came home with stories and tired smiles and hands that smelled faintly of paper and dust. He—“Was he?” Krishna raises a brow.
My stomach drops. Something cold creeps up my spine.
“Because from where I’m standing,” he continues, “he’s been hiding underground for years hiding something that doesn’t belong to him.”
“I don’t have anything you want,” my father says quietly.
Krishna ignores him.
“I need that information,” he says, his tone sharpening. “Now.”
Something shifts. The rope around my wrists loosens.
I don’t even register how. One second it’s there, biting into my skin.
The next—it isn’t. My hands fall forward, numb, tingling painfully as blood rushes back into them.
Krishna’s attention is on my father. Not me and I will take that opportunity.
I don’t think. I move. I push myself up from the chair, legs unsteady but holding, my body running on something far stronger than fear.
“Stop,” I say, my voice louder now, sharper. “This is insane—”
“Sit down,” Krishna snaps.
I don’t. I’ve spent too many years learning how to survive to freeze now.
One of the men moves. Fast. He’s on me before I can react properly, his hand wrapping around my arm, yanking me back with enough force to knock the air out of me.
I twist, shove, elbow him hard in the ribs.
He grunts. I don’t stop. I kick, scratch, fight like hell because I am not going down quietly, not after everything—But he’s bigger.
Stronger. His grip tightens, his hand sliding up to my throat, fingers pressing just enough to make my breath hitch.
“Enough,” Krishna says.
And then—I see the gun. Black. Steady. Pointed at me. Everything freezes.
“You have five seconds,” Krishna says calmly, looking at my father.
“Her,” he tilts the gun slightly toward me, “or the information.”
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts.
No.
No.
“Put the gun down, Krishna,” my father says. His voice doesn’t change.
Not even a little. Tears spill over before I can stop them.
“Don’t—” I whisper, shaking my head. “Don’t do this—”
“One,” Krishna starts.
My breath stutters.
“Two.”
My vision blurs.
“Three.”
I close my eyes. I can’t watch this. I can’t—
A gunshot cracks through the air. My body jerks. For a second, I don’t feel anything.
No pain.
No impact.
Just ringing.
Then—I hear a thud near me. My eyes fly open. And the world shatters. Aryan is on his knees. Right in front of me. His hand pressed to his stomach. Blood. So much blood. It spreads through his shirt, dark and wet, seeping through his fingers like it doesn’t know how to stop.
“No—” The sound tears out of me before I can stop it.
“No!” Everything else disappears.
Krishna.
My father.
The room.
All of it fades into nothing.
There is only him. Only Aryan. He looks up at me. And he smiles. He’s bleeding. He’s on his knees. And he’s smiling. “You’re okay,” he says, like that’s the only thing that matters.
Like nothing else exists.
My chest caves in.
“No, no, no—” I choke out, trying to move, trying to get to him, but the man behind me tightens his grip, his arm locking around me again.
“Let me go!” I scream, thrashing against him. “Let me go!”
He doesn’t. Aryan shifts, trying to stand. He can’t. His body gives, dropping back down, a sharp breath escaping him as pain cuts through him.
And then—The man holding me kicks him. Right where he’s hurt. The sound that leaves Aryan’s mouth—It destroys something inside me. “Stop!” I scream, my voice breaking completely. “Stop, please!”
I can’t reach him. I can’t touch him. I can’t do anything.
This can’t be how it ends. Not like this. Not when I finally—“I love you.” His voice is softer now but I can hear the strain in his voice. “I probably fell in love with you…when you so boldly insulted me the first time,” he adds, a weak laugh escaping him that turns into a wince.
My vision blurs completely. “Don’t—” I sob, shaking my head violently. “Don’t talk like that—please—”
“Please don’t leave me,” I beg, the words tearing out of me, raw and desperate. “Aryan, please—”
Two more gunshots ring out behind me. The grip around me loosens.
The man holding me collapses, his weight dropping away.
I don’t wait. I run. I drop to my knees in front of Aryan, my hands immediately going to him, pressing against his wound without thinking, trying to stop the blood, trying to fix something I don’t know how to fix.
He gasps. “Hey—hey—easy,” he murmurs, like he’s comforting me.
Like he’s not the one bleeding out in front of me.
I hate him for that. I love him for that. I press harder. My hands shake.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, even though I don’t. “I’ve got you, okay? You’re fine—you’re fine—”
He looks at me like he doesn’t believe me. But he wants to. Behind him, my father appears. “Get up, son,” he says, crouching beside him, his voice urgent but controlled.
Aryan tries but fails badly. His body trembles, giving out under him. I look up at my father and everything crashes together at once. I feel all the emotions together. Anger. Pain. Confusion.
And something I never thought I’d feel again—Hope.
“Please,” I whisper. My voice breaks completely.
“I have never…gotten anything I asked for,” I say, the words falling apart as they leave me.
Tears stream down my face, blurring everything.
“If you are going to give me one thing…in this lifetime…” My hands tighten on Aryan, like I can hold him here, like I can keep him from slipping away. “Save him.”
My voice cracks. “Please.”
For the first time—I am not asking for answers. I am not asking for the past. I am not asking for anything except this. Him. Just him. And I don’t think I have ever been more afraid of not being heard.