It’shim. It has to beAnil.
I don’t have proof. Not yet. But I know. The laptop didn’t just auto-format itself. That’s not how things work, not even with the most broken software or the cheapest hardware. It’s too clean. Too timed. Too… deliberate.
And the only one who knew the files she had—who needed to know—washim.
He must’ve sent someone to her apartment. Someone skilled enough to bypass any lock without leaving a trace. Someone who walked into her place like a shadow and got out the same way. And while Aditi—damn her for being so reckless with her own safety—slept.
My jaw clenches.
I know she doesn’t sleep well. She’s the kind of person who curls up on one side and wakes up somehow tangled in the sheets facing the other. She talks in her sleep sometimes—I’ve heard it during her stay at my house. She says random things like “don’t put ketchup on that” or “you don’t even like mushrooms” with that furrow between her brows.
She’s a chaotic sleeper. Vulnerable. Unaware. And now the image of someone, some stranger, being in her space while she was like that…
It does something terrible to me.
I dig my nails into my palm just to stay grounded. I’ve seen things. Been through worse. Survived corners of this world where laws didn’t reach and morality didn’t exist. But this—her—this is the first time I feel truly helpless. And furious.
My eyes find her across the glass walls of my cabin.
She’s at her desk, shoulders hunched, typing furiously, her mouth slightly open as she yawns between two thoughts. There’s a stain on her kurti sleeve—I don’t know if it’s chai or ink—and her hair’s pulled into a messy bun that keeps threatening to fall apart. I can’t stop watching her.
Because no matter how dangerous things get… I can’t let anything happen to her.
Even if it’s my fault. Especially because it’s my fault.
I reach for the intercom and press the button. “Come in,” I say.
I don’t wait for her to respond before I disconnect.
Through the glass, I see her pick up the phone, scowl at it, and then roll her eyes. There’s the faintest twitch of a smile on her lips, like she’s silently swearing at me. And, God help me, I smile back before I can stop myself.
I cough. Loudly. Because that’s what men like me do when emotions show up—we pretend they didn’t.
The door opens. She walks in, the laptop clutched tightly to her chest like it’s her lifeline. Her brows are scrunched, andthere’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. She shuts the door softly behind her and stands awkwardly, like she’s waiting for judgment.
“The laptop auto-formatted itself,” I inform her.
She frowns. “Is that a thing? How is that possible? Should I file a complaint with the service?”
“There’s no need to do that,” I interrupt. She’s always so ready to fight.
“Oh,” she says, “Okay, so you are not mad?” She asks, her brows furrowed.
I shrug. “Why would I be mad?”
She frowns. “Because all the files are gone.”
“They’ll try to recover it,” I say simply. “Not your fault.”
Not entirely a lie. But not the truth either.
Because I know exactly whose fault it is. And exactly why he did it.
“Okay,” she murmurs, chewing on her lower lip.
“We have to go to Jaipur tomorrow,” I add, casually, like I’m asking her to pass the salt.
Her head snaps up. “What?”
