She stood frozen, watching the ambulance disappear.

Before she fully understood the decision, she was following it to the hospital.

The room smelled of antiseptic and quiet urgency. The girl lay unmoving - too small under the white sheets, lashes resting against pale skin, chest rising faintly with each breath.

Vartika sat in the chair beside the bed and didn't move for a long time.

There was nothing extraordinary about the girl at first glance. Just a young woman, unconscious, fragile in a way that made Vartika's chest tighten for reasons she couldn't explain.

Her gaze traced the girl's face slowly - like her mind was searching for something it had lost long ago.

Why do you feel like this?

Not sadness. Not fear.

Something unresolved. Something unfinished.

She squeezed the girl's hand once, firm but gentle.

"You're safe," she said softly. "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

__________________

A phone rang unanswered.

Once. Twice. Again.

He stood in the middle of a glass-walled office, city spread beneath him. The screen in his hand glowed with her name. Still no response.

"Try again," he said sharply.

"It's still unreachable, sir."

His jaw tightened. The composed, almost cold authority he was known for fractured at the edges.

She was never late. Never careless. Never unreachable.

"Her route?" he asked.

"She should've crossed the Rudrakot highway by now."

His chest constricted.

He grabbed his jacket. "Get the driver. Now."

His phone buzzed - a news alert. Traffic disruption. Minor accident. Ring Road.

The world narrowed.

He didn't wait for details.

"Find her," he said into the phone, voice low, dangerous. "I don't care how. CCTV. Traffic police. Hospitals. Every single one."

The car door shut behind him with a finality that echoed too loudly.

As the convoy surged forward, one thought hammered relentlessly.

Where are you?

He didn't know yet that she lay unconscious in a hospital bed.

He didn't know about the woman who had knelt beside her on the road.

He didn't know that two lives had already brushed past each other, close enough to leave a mark.

All he knew was that his sister was missing.

And the fear clawing its way up his spine felt nothing like weakness. It felt like the beginning of something far more dangerous.

__________________

Vartika walked back into the house later that evening, the familiar smell of spice and incense wrapping around her.

Kalyani stepped in. "Beta, I wanted to tell you - there's a programme next week. One of my oldest friends is celebrating their wedding anniversary, and they're hoping we'll attend."

Vartika looked up, still half in thought. "A programme?"

"It's just a gathering. Nothing too formal. But they've specifically asked for our presence. Just for a week."

"I'm not really... social," Vartika murmured.

"I know. But sometimes showing up isn't about being the life of the party. It's about presence. About honouring relationships." Kalyani's eyes twinkled faintly. "And maybe a little lightness for the soul."

"Fine," she said at last. "Next week. We'll go."

Kalyani's face brightened. "You'll see - it won't be as bad as you think. Maybe even enjoyable."

Vartika allowed herself a faint smile. "We'll see."

The next morning crept in quietly.

Vartika was already at the hospital.

She sat beside the bed, coat folded on her lap. The girl lay still, a faint bandage at her temple, the IV line pulsing steadily.

Vartika adjusted the blanket where it had slipped from her shoulder - a habitual gesture, protective, intimate - and reached for a damp cloth to gently wipe her forehead.

"Good morning," she said softly. "You missed quite a bit of drama yesterday."

The monitor answered in steady beeps.

A nurse entered. "You're here so early?"

"Any change?"

"Vitals stable. No response yet."

"Call me before the doctor reassesses," Vartika said without hesitation.

The nurse raised an eyebrow but made a note. By now, the staff had stopped questioning why this woman - not family, not officially - was always there.

When the room quieted again, Vartika sat back.

"You don't even know me," she murmured, almost amused.

"And here I am, hovering like a worried relative."

She studied the girl again - the faint calluses on her fingers, the simple ring she hadn't removed, the way her breathing shifted slightly whenever someone passed the door.

She hears, Vartika thought. Some part of her does.

"I don't know who you are," she said, voice low. "But whoever's looking for you - I hope they find you soon. Until then, I'm here." A pause. "I can't understand this pull. Why you feel so familiar. Like I should take care of you - not just out of duty, but -" She stopped. Not quite understanding her own words.

Outside, somewhere in the city, frantic searches continued. Names spoken into phones. Doors knocked on.

Inside the room, time slowed.

And Vartika stayed.

Her phone vibrated.

Nisha.

She answered. "Maari nahi hun -" [I haven't been killed -]

"Oh please," Nisha cut in, voice sharp with fake outrage. "I had to threaten three nurses and one security guard just to confirm you're still alive. Do you live there now?"

"Good morning to you too."

"Don't 'good morning' me. You sneaked out the whole night, didn't you?"

Silence.

Nisha gasped theatrically. "You did. Oh my God. You're a lawyer, not a martyr in a serial."

"She needed someone," Vartika said evenly.

"And you need sleep. Food. A bed that isn't plastic and judgmental."

"I'm fine."

"That's lawyer-speak for 'I'm running on caffeine and guilt.'" Nisha said. "You are coming home. For a few hours. You will nap. You will eat something that did not come in a hospital wrapper."

Vartika hesitated.

"She's stable. The doctors are there. You won't abandon her by resting. You'll just be less likely to collapse dramatically in the corridor."

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely. Home. I'll drag you myself if I have to."

Vartika glanced back at the girl one last time, adjusting the blanket. "I'll come back," she whispered. More promise than plan.

"Two hours," she said into the phone.

"Three," Nisha bargained.

"Two."

"Fine. Two and fifty-nine minutes. I'm watching the clock."

She reached out once more - fingers brushing gently over the girl's hand.

"Rest," she murmured. "I'll be back."

Vartika stepped into the house like someone returning from a long, unnecessary war.

"Oh look," Nisha's voice floated from the kitchen, dripping with delight, "the hospital's honorary night-duty nurse has finally returned."

"I was gone for less than five hours."

"Sit. Eat." Kalyani gestured toward a plate still warm on the table.

"I'm not hungry."

Nisha snorted. "She says, wearing the face of someone who's survived solely on vending machine coffee and moral responsibility."

Vartika sat, defeated.

"That's why you forgot to text, forgot to sleep, and adopted a mysterious unconscious stranger overnight," Nisha said.

"Adopted?" Kalyani raised an eyebrow.

"Emotionally," Nisha clarified. "Stage one."

"I did not adopt anyone."

"You stayed the night. That's stage one."

Kalyani placed food in front of her. "Beta, kindness is beautiful. But even kindness needs limits."

"She had no one."

The room softened. Just for a second.

"Ah. There it is," Nisha said. "The hero complex."

"You once argued a case with a fever of 102," Nisha continued. "And refused painkillers because 'clarity of mind is sacred.'"

Kalyani sighed. "I raised a stubborn woman."

"Very stubborn," Nisha agreed.

"I'll go back in a few hours," Vartika said.

"No." Kalyani, firm but gentle.

"Nope." Nisha, popping the 'p'.

"Don't argue," Nisha warned. "United front."

"You two are unbearable."

"And yet, loved," Kalyani said, smiling.

Nisha raised her mug. "To Vartika Singh - saving the world, one unconscious stranger at a time."

Vartika groaned. But the corner of her mouth curved upward anyway.

The front door opened again.

"And why," a calm, amused voice said, "does this house sound like a courtroom where my daughter is clearly losing?"

Lavanya. Saree perfectly draped. Handbag tucked like punctuation.

"Oh," Nisha muttered. "Reinforcements."

Lavanya raised an eyebrow. "I am defence counsel today."

Vartika looked up, genuinely relieved. "Aunty."

Lavanya rested a hand on her shoulder. "I heard you stayed back at the hospital with that girl."

"All night," Kalyani said.

"Good," Lavanya said.

Nisha choked on her tea. "Good?! Ma!"

"Compassion doesn't operate on schedules."

"I'm not saying what she did was wrong," Kalyani said. "I'm saying she forgets herself."

"Some people are built that way," Lavanya replied. "They see responsibility where others see inconvenience."

She squeezed Vartika's shoulder. "You did what your heart told you. That matters."

"Betrayal. Absolute betrayal," Nisha muttered.

"Oh hush. You'd have done the same. You just like pretending you wouldn't."

"I would've at least slept first."

"Rest now," Lavanya told Vartika. "Then go back when you're stronger. Helping doesn't mean exhausting yourself to nothing."

"Fine. But I still reserve the right to roast her later," Nisha said.

"Naturally. That's your birthright," Lavanya laughed.

Kalyani shook her head. "This house has too many strong women."

"That's why it works," Lavanya said.

Vartika sat there, surrounded by all of it - love, concern, teasing, defence - and felt something settle deep inside her.

For all the chaos outside, this was home.

The hospital corridor was quieter than it should have been.

Vartika stood near the window at the end of the floor, eyes fixed on the city below. Morning traffic crawled like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong.

Her phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

She rarely answered those. But something in her gut tightened - sharp, familiar. Instinct overrode habit.

"Hello?"

Static. Then a voice. Calm. Measured. Too controlled to be accidental.

"You were difficult to reach."

Vartika straightened instantly. Her eyes moved across her surroundings without appearing to. Reflexes sliding into place. The lawyer stepping aside. Something older stepping forward.

"I don't recall sharing this number," she said evenly.

"You weren't meant to recall. Not consciously."

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

"Who is this?"

A pause - longer this time. Assessing.

"Did you forget your own agency?" the voice said instead.

Her heart skipped. Just once. Enough.

Slowly - "No."

"Good," the voice said softly. "You still remember."

Cold spread through her veins. Not fear. Awareness.

"I think you have the wrong number," she said. Tone neutral. Public-safe.

A faint sound - almost a chuckle.

"You always say that," he replied. "And you always listen anyway."

She turned away from the window, lowering her voice. "If this is some kind of test -"

"It's a notification," he cut in. "Not a briefing. Not yet."

"Notification of what?"

"Movement. Cross-border. Corporate shells. A leak where there shouldn't be one." A beat. "And a player who shouldn't exist anymore."

Vartika's mind raced - files she hadn't opened in months, names she had buried, instincts she'd been forcing herself to quiet.

"I'm inactive," she said firmly. "I wasn't assigned anything."

"You were never inactive," the voice corrected. "Just... dormant."

Silence.

Then, quieter, deliberate - "Stay exactly where you are. Do not investigate. Do not interfere."

"That's it?"

"For now."

"And if I don't?"

A breath. Slow. Almost amused.

"Then you'll do what you always do," he said. "And we'll pretend we didn't warn you."

The call disconnected.

Vartika stared at her phone long after the screen went dark.

Somewhere down the corridor, a machine beeped steadily - from the room where the unconscious girl lay.

Two separate worlds.

Two separate warnings.

And somehow - she knew they weren't separate at all.

_________________________

The private jet touched down on the tarmac, sleek and silent, as if descended from another world. A convoy of black luxury cars waited below, engines humming like restrained beasts.

The man stepped out first.

Tall. Impeccably dressed. Every movement radiating the specific authority of someone who had never once needed to announce himself.

He lifted his chin slightly, voice low, carried over the quiet night air.

"I promise," he said, "to take everything back I once lost."

The guards acknowledged him. The convoy moved out onto the streets - sleek, silent, inevitable - leaving behind a trail of murmurs and awed stares.

Wherever he went, it was clear.

This was a man accustomed to power. Accustomed to command.

And willing to reclaim what was once his at any cost.

________________________

The café Vartika had chosen was quiet - warm lights, the smell of coffee, the comfortable hum of ordinary life. She needed twenty minutes of normal. Just twenty.

She didn't get them.

She collided with someone at the entrance before she'd even ordered.

"Watch where you're going-"

She looked up.

And froze.

Neil.

Tall, sharply dressed, that infuriating calm expression she had seen too many times across courtroom floors. Green eyes. A smirk that seemed permanently installed.

"Vartika Singh," he said smoothly, almost amused. "Still making enemies wherever you go."

"Neil." Her hands tightened on her bag. "Still appearing everywhere aapna sada muh utha ke." [Still turning up everywhere with that face of yours.]

"I enjoy coincidence," he replied lightly, stepping aside to give her a narrow path. "Though I must admit, seeing you outside the courtroom is... refreshing."

"Refreshing?" She raised an eyebrow. "That's one way to describe someone who has spent the last three trials making my life miserable. Aur main isse refreshing nahi, mere dimaag ka dahi karna bolungi." [And I wouldn't call it refreshing - I'd call it curdling my brain.]

He chuckled - that low, amused sound that grated under her skin. "Miserable? I prefer... challenged. You rise to the occasion. Admirable."

"I don't have time for compliments, Neil," she said, stepping around him.

"Time," he said softly, "is something we never really control."

She kept walking. He followed at a measured pace - never too close, never leaving her periphery.

"You always look the same in court," he said, settling uninvited into a nearby seat. "Focused. Sharp. Untouchable. Out here... a little less predictable."

"This isn't small talk," she said flatly. "What do you want?"

"Observation." He tilted his head. "You seem on edge. Hospitals? Missions? Someone you care about?"

Her pulse quickened. He knows nothing. Or too much.

"That's none of your concern."

"Oh, but it is," he said lightly. "I observe. I learn. You fascinate me, Vartika Singh. Like a predator who doesn't know there's someone watching."

"You're ridiculous."

He laughed softly. "Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoy seeing how people react when they realize someone's always one step ahead." The smirk widened. "The question is - are you ready for it?"

She stood. "Leave."

"Of course," he said, rising unhurried, straightening his jacket with deliberate slowness. "But remember - I don't disappear quietly. I watch. And I wait."

He turned and walked toward the exit, effortless, calculated, leaving the faint trace of cologne and something colder behind him.

Vartika stared after him.

He's dangerous. Calculated. And he knows more than he should.

She picked up her coffee. It had gone cold.

Later that evening, Nisha's office.

Vartika sank into the chair across from Nisha's desk and allowed herself to breathe.

"So," Nisha said, raising an eyebrow playfully. "Neither of our mothers is telling us who's hosting this event next week?"

Vartika shook her head. "Like a vault. Just 'dress appropriately and don't ask questions.' Jaise main toh koi joker ka costume pahun lungi Mickey Mouse waale headband ke saath." [As if I'd show up wearing a clown costume with Mickey Mouse ears.]

Nisha grinned. "Haan aur main koi neon colour ka kaftan." [And I'd wear a neon kaftan.]

Vartika added, deadpan - "Sach mein pahan lein kya? Phir jo bhi dekhega wesa sa scene hojayega jo books mein hota hai - 'his breath hitched and eyes widened' - bus thode different way mein nahi?" [Should we actually wear that? Then everyone who sees us would react like those book descriptions - 'his breath hitched and eyes widened' - just not quite in the right way.]

Both women laughed - a shared frustration bonding them briefly.

"I have a feeling there's more to this than they're letting on," Nisha said, lowering her voice. "They're deliberately keeping us in the dark."

Vartika shook her head, half amused, half irritated. "For what? To test whether we can survive a room full of influential people without losing our heads?"

"Exactly," Nisha said with a grin. "And honestly - I kind of like the suspense."

Vartika smirked, though her thoughts were already drifting back - the girl, Neil, the phone call, the pieces moving just out of sight.

"Fine," she said finally. "But if anyone springs a surprise on me -"

"You'll handle it like you always do," Nisha said, cutting her off with a knowing look. "Cool, collected, and completely untouchable."

Vartika let out a short laugh, though the shadow in her eyes remained.

"Yeah," she said. "Untouchable. For now."

_____________________

The room was dim, heavy with unease. Two men stood near the window, voices barely above a whisper.

"She's in that hospital," the first said, fingers drumming on the table. "We have to get her out. Before something happens."

The second ran a hand through his hair. "Are we sure it's safe? No one can know who she is. Every shadow that falls on her is going to try to hurt her."

"She's alone and vulnerable," the first said, voice low but urgent. "If we hesitate, we lose her."

A heavy pause.

"We move tonight," the second said finally. "Guards in place. Exit covered. We do this carefully." He added, with a faint smirk - "And someone perfect for this job has just entered his territory."

The first nodded. "No mistakes. He doesn't need to be guided. Let him do it his way."

Silence fell between them - heavy with the weight of what was riding on this.

The black luxury cars pulled up to the hospital entrance. The man stepped out, flanked by guards, eyes scanning the building with precise intensity.

"No mistakes," he said, voice low. "She comes with us safely."

They moved through the hospital like shadows - calm, controlled, efficient. Security cameras. Protocols. Staff quietly redirected. Every detail neutralised.

They reached the room.

She lay there - small, still, fragile. The man's expression shifted. His jaw tightened. Something flickered in his eyes - not coldness. Guilt. The specific guilt of someone who had been away too long.

He knelt beside the bed.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice barely above a breath. Fingers brushing lightly over her hand. "I know you don't understand any of this. But I won't let anything happen to you." A pause, heavier than the room itself. "Sorry maine tumhe akela chod diya, princess." [I'm sorry I left you alone, princess.] "Par aab main tumpe ek kharoch bhi nahi aane dunga." [But now I won't let a single scratch come to you.]

He lifted her carefully - every movement deliberate, tender, cautious - and held her like something he had nearly lost and could not afford to lose again.

"You'll be safe soon," he said softly. "I promise."

The convoy moved out under the cover of night, merging silently into the city's darkness.

Inside the lead car, the girl lay unconscious in his arms.

Outside, the city moved on - unaware.

Inside, the weight of a promise pressed on him with every passing mile.

__________________________

Chalo my darlings Khush ho jao, I'm giving chapters regularly for now, until we reach where I left this.

But you need to vote anyways to support me.

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