December 20th, 2029. Mumbai.
The door stayed locked.
Morning arrived like a gray sigh across the city, and Aanya Rathore watched it from the same place she'd been standing for the last hour—by the glass wall of her penthouse, staring at the city below like it owed her answers.
She hadn't slept. Hadn't tried.
Dev's words echoed in the silence:
"If the door's locked, I'll understand. If not…"
And she didn't know which terrified her more—that he'd show up, or that he wouldn't.
She told herself it didn't matter. That he meant nothing. That this was just an echo of the past trying to dress itself as relevance.
But somewhere between 3 and 4 a.m., she had written one line in her notebook:
"Some men vanish. Some return. And some… never leave."
She closed the notebook after that. But the words stayed open in her mind.
At 10:17 AM, she entered her office building like she did every day—with focus, grace, and complete detachment. But this morning, her assistant noticed the absence of her usual verbal frost. The usual pace was half a beat off. And her gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary on the street below before she stepped into the private elevator.
By noon, Aanya had cleared five meetings and canceled two. She told herself she needed time for due diligence on a new acquisition. But in reality, she just needed space to breathe.
Because everything felt too close.
She kept remembering the way Dev looked at her—not with challenge, not with pity. But with knowledge.
He knew something. Something about her. Something she had forgotten, maybe even buried.
And that made him more dangerous than any boardroom rival ever could.
That evening, she walked into the Rathore family estate in Powai for dinner. Her grandfather was in the garden, tending to his bonsai trees. Always quiet work. Always slow.
He looked up when she approached but said nothing.
Aanya sat on the bench beside him and waited.
"You didn't lock the door," he said finally.
"No," she admitted.
"You thought about it though."
She looked down at the grass. "I don't trust him."
Her grandfather smiled faintly. "You don't trust anyone."
"That's not a flaw."
"It is when it becomes your armor."
They sat in silence for a while. The wind rustled the trees. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
"He said someone's looking for him," Aanya said. "Someone dangerous."
Her grandfather's hands stilled.
"I know."
"You knew and you still sent him to me."
He nodded slowly. "Because I trust you more than he does himself."
Aanya turned to him, expression cold. "That's not fair."
"No," he said, "but it's true."
Back at the penthouse, night fell heavy. The rain returned—more confident this time, more insistent. The city turned to glimmering shadows behind the droplets on the glass.
Aanya changed into something comfortable, poured herself a cup of black tea, and sat on the edge of her couch. She stared at the front door.
7:00 PM passed.
Then 7:10.
7:15.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe too loudly. Didn't blink more than once.
At 7:17 PM, the doorbell rang.
She rose.
Walked to the door.
Paused.
Then unlocked it.
Dev stood on the other side.
His shirt was damp from the rain, his hair slightly tousled. But he didn't seem cold.
"You left it open," he said quietly.
"I didn't say yes."
"I didn't ask."
He stepped inside. She closed the door.
This time, the click didn't echo. It landed softly.
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then he handed her something.
A folded piece of paper.
She opened it. A grainy black-and-white photograph. Two boys. One older, one younger. Standing in front of a fire-damaged orphanage gate. Her grandfather beside them.
"That's me," Dev said. "And the other one is dead."
She stared at the picture.
"His name was Aryan. He died because I lived."
She looked up. "What do you mean?"
Dev sat on the couch. "We were test subjects. Not legally. Not officially. Just two kids without a surname. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared."
Aanya joined him slowly.
"Your grandfather pulled me out. Gave me a name. A bank account. A guardian on paper. And one rule: stay invisible."
"And you broke it."
"I told you. You broke it for me."
"You could have left the city."
"I tried. But something kept me here."
She didn't ask what. She already knew.
Her grandfather.
And maybe now… something more.
Dev looked at her with a tired smile.
"You want the whole truth?"
"I want to know what's coming."
"There's a man. Goes by many names. But he remembers me. And he doesn't forget debts."
"And you think he'll come after me?"
"I think he'll use anyone he can to hurt me."
Aanya leaned back. "I don't need protection."
"I'm not offering protection. I'm asking for position."
She raised an eyebrow. "You want to work for me?"
"No," he said. "I want to stand beside you. So when the storm hits, we're not on opposite sides."
The rain outside grew louder.
And inside, something settled between them.
Not trust.
But recognition.
Aanya reached for her notebook.
Wrote one line:
"Storms don't ask permission. They just arrive."
Then she looked at him and said:
"You can stay. For now."
Dev didn't thank her. He just nodded.
Because gratitude wasn't currency between them.
Not anymore.