CHAPTER 65
ISHIKA
I haven’t slept properly since Aryan got shot.
Not really.
I close my eyes sometimes. Drift in and out for an hour maybe.
But real sleep—the kind where your body actually lets go—hasn’t happened in days.
Because every time I do fall asleep, I see him again.
Falling to his knees. Blood on his shirt.
That smile on his face while I was breaking apart.
You’re okay. Like that was the only thing that mattered.
Maybe it was. Maybe that’s what terrifies me the most.
I stand in front of Aryan’s bedroom mirror longer than necessary, fingers lingering against the chain around my neck. The pendant rests against my skin, cool and familiar.
My last birthday gift from my parents. Back when I still thought I understood my life.
I let out a slow breath.
The room behind me is quiet except for the faint rustle of sheets. Aryan is sitting on the bed, watching me with the kind of focus that makes me feel seen even when I don’t want to be.
“You’re overthinking,” he says gently.
I glance at him through the mirror. “I’m meeting my father after believing he was dead for years. I think I’ve earned the right.”
His mouth twitches slightly, but there’s no amusement in it. Just softness. Concern. Always concern when it comes to me. “I still don’t like this,” he mutters, adjusting carefully against the headboard.
“You don’t like anything involving danger anymore.”
“I didn’t exactly enjoy it before either, Sunshine.”
Despite everything, my lips almost smile.
Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since the shooting. Two weeks since I watched him bleed in front of me. The wound is healing, according to the doctors. He’s moving around more now, pretending he’s perfectly fine until someone catches him wincing.
Mostly me.
And somehow, getting shot has only made him more protective. Which feels unfair considering I’m already barely functioning around him. “You don’t have to do this today,” he says quietly after a moment. I turn around fully then, leaning back against the dresser.
“Yes, I do.” Because if I don’t…this thing between me and my father will keep growing claws inside me. Questions already live there. Anger too.
And underneath all of that—Something worse.
Hope.
I hate that part the most. Aryan studies me for a second before nodding slowly. “Okay.”
That’s another thing about him. He doesn’t push when he realizes something matters to me. Even when it scares him. The bell rings downstairs. My stomach drops instantly.
He’s here.
I don’t move.
Neither does Aryan. For a second the room feels strangely smaller, the air heavier somehow. Then Aryan pushes himself up carefully from the bed.
Immediately, I glare at him. “Why are you standing?”
“Because your father is here and I’d rather not greet him lying down.”
“You literally got shot.”
“And I’m still hot, thank you for noticing.”
I stare at him flatly. He grins. Idiot. He walks toward me slowly, one hand brushing against my waist when he reaches me.
“You want me to stay?” he asks softly.
There’s no pressure in it. No expectation. Just a question. And suddenly the answer feels terrifyingly easy.
“Yes.” His expression changes instantly.
“I’ll stay,” he says quietly. Downstairs, the house feels unnaturally silent.
Ma had taken Radhika out hours ago after practically threatening Aryan not to “stress his stitches trying to act macho.” Which means it’s just us now. Me. Aryan. And the man sitting in the living room. My father.
The second I see him properly again, my chest tightens so hard it physically hurts. Because he still looks like him.
Older, yes.
His hair is longer now, streaked white near the temples. Lines around his eyes I don’t remember. But still him.
Still Papa.
And my stupid heart recognizes him instantly. It makes me angry. I hate that some part of me still reaches for him automatically. He stands the moment I enter the room.
His eyes land on me and everything in his face softens so quickly it almost feels unbearable to look at.
“Ishu.” My throat closes at the familiar nickname.
Aryan’s hand brushes lightly against my lower back. Grounding. Papa notices it too.
His gaze flickers to Aryan briefly. Something unreadable passes through his expression before he looks back at me.
“I can leave you two alone,” Aryan says quietly.
“No.” The answer comes too fast. Both of them look at me. I swallow hard. “I want him here.”
Papa’s eyes lower slightly at that. Not hurt exactly. More like…accepting. He deserves it. Aryan doesn’t say anything. He just moves beside me instead, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
And somehow that tiny distance feels important. For a few seconds nobody speaks. Then finally, my father exhales slowly and sits back down.
“I don’t know where to begin.” I laugh softly. The sound cracks in the middle.
“Maybe start with why my dead father is sitting in front of me.”
The words hit harder than I intended. I see it in his face instantly. But something ugly has been living inside me for years now and I don’t know how to soften it. He nods once slowly.
“I was never a salesman, Ishu.” The room goes still. “I worked for people…dangerous people.” His voice remains calm but there’s exhaustion underneath it. “Not willingly at first. But once you enter that world, leaving isn’t simple.”
I cross my arms tightly against myself.
“Mafia,” I say flatly.
He looks at me for a long second before nodding. “Yes.”
The word settles heavily in the room. Beside me, Aryan’s jaw tightens slightly but he stays silent.
Papa rubs a tired hand over his face before continuing.
“A few years before…before I disappeared, I got access to something important. Documents. Information powerful enough to destroy a lot of people.”
“That’s what Krishna was talking about,” I whisper. His eyes lift to mine immediately.
“Yes.” I shake my head slowly, trying to process everything and failing.
“So you just…left?” His face twists slightly then, in pain.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
Something inside me snaps at that. “You thought disappearing without a word was protecting me?” My voice shakes now. “Do you know what that did to me?” I ask, tears burning my eyes already. “Do you know what it feels like waiting for someone who never comes back?”
“Ishu—”
“No.” I step back before he can reach for me.
“No, you don’t get to interrupt this.”
Years.
Years of loneliness suddenly rise inside me all at once.
“I grew up thinking nobody stays,” I whisper harshly. “That needing people is dangerous because they leave anyway.”
My chest hurts now.
Actually hurts.
“I spent years convincing myself I didn’t need anyone because every single person I ever depended on disappeared.”
My father closes his eyes briefly. And somehow that makes me angrier. “You saved my life maybe,” I say, voice trembling harder now, “but you ruined it too.”
The silence afterward feels enormous. I can hear myself breathing. Hear the faint ticking of the clock somewhere behind us.
“I know.” I look at him. Really look at him. And for the first time since all this started, he doesn’t look dangerous. Doesn’t look mysterious. He just looks…tired. Broken in places too.
“There wasn’t a single day I didn’t watch over you,” he says softly.
I freeze. “What?”
“I was there more times than you know.”
I sit down abruptly because my knees suddenly don’t feel steady anymore. “All these years…” My voice cracks completely now. “You were alive.”
“I couldn’t come near you,” he says hoarsely. “Every person connected to me became a target. If they knew about you—”
“They did know about me.”
That lands between us brutally. Because it’s true. I got kidnapped anyway. Aryan got shot anyway. Papa looks shattered at that.
“I failed,” he whispers.
And strangely—That hurts too. Because despite everything, some childish part of me still hates seeing him look like this. I wipe my face angrily.
“I don’t know what you want me to do with all this.”
“You don’t have to do anything.” His voice breaks slightly now too. “I just needed you to know I never stopped loving you.”
My breath catches painfully. Damn him. Damn him for still sounding like home. Beside me, Aryan’s fingers brush mine quietly. Not interrupting. Just there.
And suddenly I realize something that makes my chest ache even worse.
If Aryan hadn’t survived—I would have shattered completely. My eyes move toward him instinctively. He’s already looking at me. Always looking at me like I matter. I inhale shakily. “You saved his life.”
Both men go still.
I look back at my father slowly.
“If something happened to him…” My throat closes for a second. “I don’t know how I would’ve survived that.”
Aryan’s hand tightens around mine. “I’m grateful for that,” I whisper. “More than anything else.”
Papa’s eyes close briefly like the words physically hit him. “But I don’t know how to forgive you right now.”
The honesty in my own voice surprises me. Because I want to forgive him. I think some part of me always will. But forgiveness isn’t a switch. It’s grief with somewhere to go. “I don’t know how to look at you and forget everything.”
“You don’t have to,” he says immediately.
Tears slide down my face again. “But…I want to try someday,” I whisper.
And that—That finally breaks him.
Completely. His face crumples in a way I’ve never seen before. And suddenly he’s kneeling in front of me. Not intimidating.
“My Ishu,” he whispers shakily. I start crying harder the second his arms wrap around me.
Because they still feel the same. That’s the cruelest part.
His embrace still feels like childhood. Like safety.
Like the man who used to carry me on his shoulders and buy me orange candy and pretend badly drawn stick figures belonged in museums.
I clutch his shirt tightly despite myself. “I hated you,” I sob into his shoulder.
“I know.”
“I missed you.”
His breath breaks completely then. “I know, baby.”
“You left me.”
“I know.”
And somehow him not defending himself makes it worse. I cry harder. Years of grief pouring out ugly and messy and unfinished. Behind us, I hear movement. Aryan quietly leaves the room. Giving us this. Of course he does. Of course he understands without needing to be told.
My father strokes my hair carefully, trembling through it himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over again. “I’m so sorry, Ishu.”