"Every day is a sunshine and sunset."
Cold wind. Wet streets. The kind of morning that feels like a quiet refuge for a tired, unraveling soul.
Yet today, it offered Nafisa only a thin, fleeting comfort.
She walked slowly along the rain-drenched concrete, her steps dragging ever so slightly, as if each one demanded more strength than she had left. When she looked up, the sky was beginning to clear. Pale sunlight filtered through the thinning clouds, soft and hesitant, like it wasn't sure it belonged there.
She closed her umbrella.
A small metal chair stood by the roadside, damp and forgotten. She sat down anyway. The chill bit through her clothes instantly, but she welcomed it. It was something real. Something she could feel.
A long sigh slipped out of her, quiet but heavy, before she lowered her head, letting the weight inside her settle.
Dempsey had been lenient. Uncharacteristically so. He hadn't pressed her, hadn't questioned the truth behind her injury. Maybe he understood. Maybe he just chose not to.
Either way, it changed nothing.
Because what she needed… wasn't time.
It was Vikram.
The thought lingered, sharper in the stillness of the morning.
She took out her phone, her fingers slow, almost reluctant. The screen lit up. Names. Numbers. A whole world within reach.
And yet—
not one she could turn to.
Not one that would stay if she fell apart.
Family.
A word that, for Nafisa, carried more sorrow than solace. More ache than warmth.
She tried to remember what it once looked like.
A father who spoiled her in small, silent ways.
A mother who stood between her and every hurt the world could throw.
A little brother who annoyed her endlessly… yet loved her with a fierce, uncomplicated loyalty.
Now, it was all fading.
A memory so distant it felt less like the past and more like something she had imagined on a kinder day.
She never wanted to sever those ties.
She only wanted more.
More people. More life. More air to breathe.
To see the world. To make friends. To find love.
She was young.
She was naïve.
Maybe even foolish.
But she was never wrong.
Because life in a war-torn land was not life. It was survival dressed up as routine. Curfews. Bans. Fear stitched into every ordinary day until brutality felt normal… and happiness felt like a luxury reserved for someone else.
Women were not people there.
They were currency.
Traded. Promised. Owned.
Nafisa saw her future early. Too early. And she refused to walk into it with her eyes closed.
Hope in her chest and fracture in her heart, she made the most dangerous choice of her life.
She ran.
Not just from her home… but from everything waiting to consume her.
An enticing stranger. A whisper of a better life. That was all it took.
It led her to a crowded platform at Hyderabad railway station… and nowhere beyond it.
The stranger remained exactly that.
A stranger.
Hope slipped through her fingers, leaving her with nothing but two cruel choices:
Beg.
Or disappear.
Fate, however, had a darker sense of imagination.
Another broken soul found her. Another hand reached out.
And she took it.
Because what else could she do?
Only this time, the fall was deeper.
Colder.
Crueler.
Now she lay on a drenched bench in a country that felt utterly devoid of warmth. The cold felt kinder, but the chill lingered, clinging to her skin like a second truth.
A faint chuckle escaped her lips.
Not joy.
Not even irony.
Just the hollow sound of someone who had run out of ways to break.
She stretched out on the cold bench, staring at nothing.
She wanted to cry.
To let it all spill out… the loss, the betrayal, the unbearable weight of every wrong turn.
But her eyes—
had already forgotten how.
A black Mercedes rolled to a stop beside her, its engine humming low, like it knew secrets.
The tinted window slid down.
"Aren't you Nafisa?"
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing through the dull light.
"…Garbett?"
He stepped out, immaculate in his jade blue Armani suit, as if the rain had signed a pact not to touch him. He opened the rear door.
"Please," he said smoothly. "It's a pity to leave a beautiful lady out here in the rain."
Nafisa didn't move.
"What do you want?"
Garbett didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his inner pocket and flicked an envelope onto the bench beside her.
That was his answer.
Nafisa picked it up, slow, cautious. The paper was thick. Expensive. The kind that carried decisions, not words.
She opened it.
Her eyes moved across the lines.
And then—quietly, almost mockingly—she read aloud:
"It is a very good time that we join forces, you and I. I hope the request is mutual."
A faint smirk touched her lips.
"I don't care much for cordiality, nor do I pretend to. I am a straightforward man… I trust you are the same."
Her voice hardened just a little.
"I will be in London in a few days. Most likely next weekend. Your presence is expected at my penthouse."
She paused, glancing up briefly at Garbett, then continued.
"It is not in my name… but I assume you are clever enough to find it."
A beat.
Then, softer. Sharper.
"Love… Ricardo Martinez."
Silence settled after the name, heavy as iron.
Nafisa let out a short, dry chuckle and lowered the paper.
"Your master is calling you."
Garbett remained still. Silent. Loyal in the way shadows are loyal to darkness.
He closed the car door gently.
"Time," he said, "is a very expensive habit, Ms. Nafisa. If you wish to waste yours here, I won't interfere."
A pause.
"But I still believe there's something left in you worth investing in."
He pulled out another envelope and tossed it. It struck her cheek before falling into her lap.
"I'll expect you tomorrow. Seven in the morning."
His tone sharpened just a fraction.
"Mr. Dempsey and Mr. Arthur are… not the right people to meet Mr. Martinez right now."
He turned back toward the car.
"And do try to look like a lady."
The window slid up. The car glided away.
Gone.
Nafisa stared at the envelope in her hand.
Then crushed it.
And threw it into the dustbin.
She stood up slowly, the quiet inside her no longer empty… but coiled.
Waiting.
She raised her hand and signaled for a taxi.
The room was eerily quiet.
Not the kind of silence that soothes… but the kind that listens.
Minimal furniture. Clean lines. Too clean. A few strange paintings clung to the walls, abstract and unsettling, as if they were trying to say something but chose not to.
Nafisa sat on a grey sofa, her posture stiff, her hands restless in her lap.
Waiting.
Sweat gathered at her temple. She wiped it away quickly, almost irritably, as if her own body had betrayed her. Her eyes flicked to her watch.
Still time.
Too much time.
Meeting Ricardo Martinez felt less like an appointment… and more like stepping into open water with something circling beneath.
She tried to keep her face still. Controlled. Unreadable.
But her heartbeat had other plans.
It quickened.
Then raced.
Then pounded like it was trying to escape her chest.
She reached for the glass of water in front of her, her fingers slightly unsteady. In one motion, she drank it all, desperate, careless. Water spilled over, soaking into her brassiere, the cold spreading across her skin.
She didn't react.
Didn't care.
Her eyes closed.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to pretend she was somewhere else.
The ticking of the clock behind her grew louder with every passing second.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Her heel tapped against the floor, fast, uneven, uncontrollable.
Tick. Tap. Tick. Tap.
Together, they formed a rhythm.
Soft.
Persistent.
Unsettling.
Like a countdown no one had announced… but everyone could feel.
The door jerked open.
Shoes clicked against the floor, slow and measured, each step echoing like a countdown. Nafisa squeezed her eyes shut, as if darkness could shield her from Ricardo Martinez.
It didn't.
The scent reached her first—cigar smoke tangled with whiskey, wrapped in something sharp and expensive. It filled her lungs before she could resist.
She opened her eyes.
Shoes. Polished. Unforgiving.
Knees. Still. Controlled.
Then—his face.
Not a man. A predator in tailored blue. Orange beneath, like a warning flame. His smile stretched just enough to reveal the lines carved by time and cruelty. The moustache shifted with every word he hadn't yet spoken.
His eyes—blue. Not sky-like. No. Too cold for that. More like something that watched the sky burn and felt nothing.
His hair moved slightly, as if even the air around him obeyed.
Nafisa extended her hand.
It trembled. Weak. Treacherous.
Ricardo looked at it, amused. Then he took it.
Firm. Unyielding.
A sharp tingling shot through her arm, like her nerves had been briefly hijacked.
She pulled back abruptly and, without thinking, brought her hand to her nose.
Garbett frowned. "What are you doing?"
"I…" Nafisa whispered, unsettled. "I don't know. It's like my body isn't mine."
Her fingers moved again—this time to Garbett's face. She pressed her thumb against his lips.
He recoiled instantly, grabbing her wrist. "Control yourself, Ms. Nafisa. People are watching."
A pause.
Then—
Ricardo stood.
"I don't have much time," he said, his voice calm but edged with something lethal. "We should begin."
Garbett forced a smile, tight and artificial. He guided Nafisa back into her seat, his grip firmer than before.
Ricardo watched them.
His eyes didn't shift. Not even a flicker.
"I don't like beating around the bush," he said, his voice low, deliberate. "When I speak, I'm clear. VPS is a problem. For all of us."
A pause. Heavy.
"Right now, he's occupied. Distracted. This is the moment to strike. He won't even know what hit him. And by the time he does…"
A faint smile touched his lips.
"There'll be nothing left for him to protect."
Garbett leaned back slightly, a careful smile forming. "It's a strong plan. No doubt."
He folded his hands. "But VPS isn't careless. He may be engaged elsewhere, yes—but underestimating him?"
A small shake of the head. "That's expensive."
Ricardo's gaze hardened.
"If you have a problem," he said flatly, "say it. I don't like mazes."
Silence flickered between them.
Garbett hesitated.
Nafisa stepped in.
"What Mr. Garbett means," she said calmly, "is that a direct attack may not be…wise."
Her eyes briefly met Ricardo's.
"The High Table is still forming. Many members aren't against VPS yet. Funding a full-scale move right now…"
She let the sentence hang.
"…comes at a cost."
Ricardo chuckled. Soft. Dangerous.
"Money?" he said. "Money is never the problem."
He stepped forward slightly.
"I'll deal with the so-called 'members.'" His tone sharpened. "I don't have patience—but I have ambition. And VPS…"
His smile thinned.
"…doesn't fit into it."
Nafisa glanced at Garbett.
Garbett exhaled slowly. "Fine."
He nodded. "You have our support."
A brief pause.
"Some of my men are already in India," he added. "If needed, we can stir things up there. Create…distractions. Soften the ground."
Ricardo's lips curled, amused but unimpressed.
"I don't like indirect strategies," he said. "But this is war."
A beat.
"And as someone once said…"
His eyes glinted.
"Everything is fair in love and war."
Garbett stood, extending his hand.
Ricardo didn't take it.
Instead, he waved it off casually.
"Take care of your girlfriend, Mr. Garbett," he said, glancing at Nafisa. "She's…interesting."
A smile. Brief. Unreadable.
Then he turned and walked out, his footsteps fading like a storm moving to its next victim.
Garbett turned on her the moment the door clicked shut.
"What the hell was that?" His voice dropped, controlled but simmering. "Cutting me off mid-conversation?"
Nafisa didn't flinch. "Conversation?" she shot back. "You were stuttering like a child discovering language."
Garbett's jaw tightened. "You don't understand rooms like that. Silence carries weight. Words don't."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And Ricardo Martinez isn't some street fool you can charm with theatrics. He's been playing this game longer than we've been breathing."
Nafisa sighed, almost bored. "Then why are you explaining it to me?"
That landed.
Garbett looked away, irritated, and moved to the drawer. He pulled out a stack of papers, slid them into his pocket with practiced ease.
Nafisa's eyes narrowed. "What are those?"
"Not for you."
A beat.
He turned back, studying her now. "What happened to you in there?"
Nafisa shrugged lightly. "No idea."
Her lips curved faintly. "I'm a woman. Sometimes the body decides to write its own script."
Garbett didn't smile.
He pulled something from his coat and tossed it at her.
"Then learn to control it."
Nafisa caught it mid-air. A passport.
She flipped it open, brows knitting. "Am I going somewhere?"
Garbett let out a dry laugh. "Not you. Us."
He adjusted his cuffs. "We're going to India."
Nafisa looked up slowly. "Why?"
"Because relying on Dempsey is like trusting a broken clock to tell time," Garbett muttered. "Useless. Can't handle a simple task."
Nafisa placed a hand on her waist. "And I'm part of this little rescue mission… why?"
Garbett smirked. "Because Dempsey thinks you're fragile. His words, not mine. Said you'd probably end up dead in a ditch if left alone."
A pause.
"So congratulations," he added. "You're my responsibility."
Nafisa let out a sharp raspberry. "I don't need your responsibility. Or your presence. So you can—"
"Yes, yes," Garbett waved it off. "Charming as always."
He stepped past her, already thinking ahead.
"India is happening. Whether you like it or not."
He glanced back briefly.
"Dempsey and Arthur will keep Ricardo entertained for now. I've already got men on the ground." His tone shifted, quieter, more focused. "They're watching your… former lover."
That word lingered.
"Seems he's busy. Something 'exclusive.'"
Nafisa's expression tightened just a fraction. Barely noticeable.
"Which means," Garbett continued, a slow grin forming, "it's time I collect something that belongs to me."
Nafisa raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly is that?"
Garbett's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You'll see."
Nafisa exhaled, flicking the passport in her hand like it had personally offended her.
"Wonderful," she muttered. "A forced trip with a man I can't stand."
Garbett smirked without turning. "The feeling's mutual.".....