Midnight.
Rajan's estate.
Twenty-one hours left.
And two people who didn't trust each other anymore trying to pull off the impossible.
The estate sat in Juhu like a fortress—twelve-foot walls, security cameras, guards with actual guns. Old money. Temple money. The kind that bought silence and bodies with equal ease.
Bharat and Mira crouched in the shadows outside the east wall, rain turning the ground to mud beneath their feet. Peacock's voice crackled in their earpieces:
"Security rotation in three minutes. You'll have ninety seconds to get over the wall and reach the main house. After that, you're in a kill zone."
"Comforting," Bharat muttered.
"I aim to comfort."
Mira didn't speak.
Hadn't spoken since they'd left the car.
Just moved with cold precision—checking equipment, adjusting her black clothes, becoming someone Bharat didn't quite recognize.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Mira—"
"Save it. Let's just do this."
They went over the wall like ghosts.
Silent.
Fast.
Mira first, Bharat following, both of them moving with the kind of desperate efficiency that comes from knowing there's no second chance.
The grounds were manicured—perfect grass, sculpted hedges, fountains that probably cost more than most people's houses. The main house loomed ahead: three stories of white stone and colonial arrogance.
"Ledgers are in the study," Peacock's voice guided. "Second floor. East wing. Window should be unlocked—I hacked the security system to register it as closed even when it's not."
"Should be?"
"Ninety percent confidence."
"And the other ten percent?"
"You die. Obviously."
"Obviously."
They reached the house. Mira went up first—scaling the decorative lattice like she'd done this before. Maybe she had. Bharat was learning there were a lot of things about his wife he didn't know.
A lot of things she'd never told him.
A lot of things he'd never asked.
The window was unlocked.
Thank god for small mercies.
They slipped inside.
The study was dark.
Leather and wood and the smell of expensive cigars.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
A desk the size of a small car.
And somewhere in here: ledgers that could destroy Rajan's entire operation.
"Where?" Mira whispered.
"Safe behind the painting," Peacock's voice crackled. "Code is 7-3-9-2. Don't ask how I know."
"Wasn't going to."
Bharat moved to the painting—some colonial-era portrait of a man who probably made his fortune on other people's suffering. He lifted it off the wall. Found the safe. Spun the dial.
7.
3.
9.
2.
Click.
The safe opened.
Inside: ledgers. Three of them. Black leather. Gold edges. The kind of books that recorded sins too expensive to forget.
And sitting on top—
A bracelet.
Gold.
Set with a single stone.
The ring.
Disguised.
Hidden in plain sight.
"Peacock," Bharat breathed. "The ring. It's here."
"What? That's impossible. Kavita should be wearing—"
Footsteps.
In the hallway.
Close.
"HIDE," Peacock hissed. "NOW."
They moved.
No thought.
Pure instinct.
Into the only hiding place available:
A walk-in closet adjacent to the study.
Massive.
Full of suits that probably cost more than Bharat's education.
But not big enough.
Not nearly big enough for two people trying not to touch.
The door swung open.
Light flooded the study.
"—don't care what the priest says," Rajan's voice. "The harvest schedule is accelerating. We need three more by the end of the week."
Another voice. Female. Cold.
"The protocols don't allow for acceleration without council approval."
"Then get me approval."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is. That's why I pay you to make it simple."
Footsteps crossing the study.
Closer to the closet.
Bharat held his breath.
Mira pressed against him in the darkness—
So close he could feel her heartbeat.
Feel her breathing.
Feel every point where their bodies touched.
And despite everything—
Despite the danger.
Despite the anger.
Despite the conversation they hadn't finished—
He was aware of her.
Painfully aware.
"The bracelet's gone," Rajan said suddenly.
Silence.
"What?"
"The bracelet. The one I told you to keep in the safe. It's gone."
"You said Kavita was wearing it."
"I lied. I never let it leave the estate. And now it's GONE."
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
"Check the security footage," Rajan commanded. "Now. Find out who was in here."
"Sir, the system shows no unauthorized—"
"I DON'T CARE WHAT THE SYSTEM SHOWS. SOMEONE TOOK IT."
Footsteps.
Rushing out.
Voices fading.
But not gone.
Not yet.
In the closet, in the dark, pressed against each other like they were trying to occupy the same space:
Mira's hand found Bharat's.
Squeezed.
Warning or comfort.
He couldn't tell.
"We need to wait," she breathed against his ear. Barely audible. "Until they clear the floor."
"Peacock—"
"Can't hear us. Too much interference."
"So we're trapped."
"For now."
Silence.
Just their breathing.
Synchronized.
Intimate in a way that felt both familiar and completely foreign.
"Bharat," Mira whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I need to tell you something."
"Now?"
"Especially now."
Pause.
Then:
"I knew."
"Knew what?"
"That you'd be chosen. For the curse."
The words hit him like a physical blow.
"What?"
"The night before the ceremony. The temple sent a list. Five candidates. You were on it."
"And you didn't tell me."
"No."
"Why?"
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then:
"Because I thought you'd run. And I needed you to stay."
"Needed me for what?"
"To break the curse. You were the only one who could. The only one desperate enough. Smart enough. Reckless enough."
"So you let them choose me. Knowing what it would cost."
"Yes."
"You let them put me on that altar."
"Yes."
"You pushed me into this."
"YES."
The word hung between them like a confession and an accusation at once.
"Why?" Bharat asked. His voice barely worked. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I was tired of being a victim. Tired of watching the temple destroy everyone I loved. Tired of waiting for someone to save me."
"So you made me the sacrifice."
"I made you the weapon."
Silence.
Footsteps in the hallway—guards checking rooms.
Getting closer.
"Do you regret it?" Bharat whispered.
"Marrying you?"
"Condemning me."
Long pause.
Then:
"Every day."
"But you'd do it again."
"Yes."
"Even knowing I might die?"
"Especially knowing you might die. Because at least you'd die fighting. At least you'd have a chance. That's more than anyone else got."
"That's fucked up."
"I know."
"That's really, really fucked up."
"I know."
The footsteps were right outside now.
A guard's voice:
"Check the closets."
Mira's hand tightened on his.
"Bharat," she breathed. "If we get out of this—if we survive—I need you to know something."
"What?"
"I didn't marry you for the curse. I married you because I wanted to. Because in a world that gave me no choices, you felt like the one thing I got to choose."
"Even though you were sending me to die?"
"Even though. Maybe because. I don't know anymore."
The closet door started to open—
Light spilling in—
A guard's face appearing—
And Mira moved.
Fast.
Brutal.
**Her hand shot out—grabbed the guard's wrist, twisted, yanked him into the closet. Her other hand found his throat. Squeezed. The guard's eyes went wide. He tried to yell.
Couldn't.
Mira held him until he stopped struggling.
Until he went limp.
Unconscious.
Maybe dead.
Bharat couldn't tell.
She let him drop.
"We need to move," she whispered. "Now."
They ran.
Through the study.
Down the hallway.
Alarms starting to wail.
Guards shouting.
The whole estate waking up.
Peacock's voice crackled back to life:
"What the HELL did you do?"
"Long story. Get us out."
"East window. Jump. I've got a car."
"How far's the drop?"
"Don't think about it."
They reached the window.
Two stories up.
Concrete below.
Definitely going to hurt.
"Together?" Mira asked.
"Together."
They jumped.
They landed hard.
Rolled.
Bharat felt something in his shoulder crack—not break, but definitely not good.
Mira was already up.
Pulling him.
Running.
Car headlights ahead—Peacock's van, engine running, back door open.
They dove in.
Peacock floored it.
Tires screaming.
Gates crashing open behind them.
Gunshots.
Glass shattering.
And then—
Clear.
Free.
Alive.
Inside the van, gasping, bleeding, adrenaline crashing:
Bharat looked at the bracelet in his hand.
The ring.
One of three.
And at Mira beside him.
Face cut.
Knuckles raw.
Eyes dark and unreadable.
"Did you kill him?" Bharat asked quietly. "The guard."
"I don't know."
"Mira—"
"I don't KNOW. And I don't care. He was in our way. I moved him."
Peacock glanced back from the driver's seat.
"You two okay?"
"Define okay," Bharat said.
"Alive. Conscious. Not actively bleeding out."
"Then yes."
"Good. Because we've got a problem."
"What now?"
"Rajan knows the ring's gone. Which means he's going to lock down the bell. Tighten security on the sanctum. Everything just got ten times harder."
"Great."
"But you got the ledgers. Which means we have leverage."
Bharat looked at the three black books in Mira's lap.
At the ring in his hand.
At the countdown on his phone:
19:23:47
Less than twenty hours.
"Mira," he said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Are you a victim or a villain?"
She looked at him.
Really looked.
"I don't know anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"I know."
"So which is it?"
She touched his face—gentle, almost tender.
"Whichever one keeps you alive."