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I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. I can’t let my wounded heart interfere with Simran’s safety. That’s why I’m here, after all. To protect her, nothing more. I grab my phone and quickly type a message to my father, offering a vague reassurance that I’ve arrived in New York and will explain everything soon. It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do for now.

As I set the phone down, a thought strikes me. There’s someone else I need to call, someone whose skills I trust implicitly when it comes to ensuring safety. My fingers move of their own accord, dialling a number I know by heart.

Abhayanswers on the second ring. My most trusted associate and my go-to guy, he’s been by my side through countless political cleanups and delicate situations I had to handle for my father’s political career. If anyone can help me steer this minefield, it’s him.

“I’ve got a job for you,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Where?” Abhay’s voice crackles through the line.

“New York,” I reply, pacing the length of the hotel room. “I need you here. Tomorrow.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end. “Must be serious if you’re calling me all the way out there. What’s the situation?”

I hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. “Someone needs to be protected here with my life…” I trail off, the words caught in my throat.

Abhay picks up on my hesitation. “Another one from the Walia family?”

“She’snota Walia,” I say, closing my eyes at the admission.

There’s a long pause before he speaks again.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks. “Protecting someone with your life, someone who isn’t even a Walia? Has to be special.”

“Just get on the next flight here,” I command, clenching my jaw, not wanting to answer his queries at the moment.

“Yes, Boss,” he assures me.

As I hang up, a mix of relief and determination washes over me. With Abhay by my side, I can focus on what truly matters—keeping Simran safe. My personal feelings, the ache in my chest, the burning questions about her child and his father—all of that has to take a backseat.

I walk over to the window and look out at the glittering New York skyline. Just a block away, Simran is living her new life, unaware of the storm brewing inside me. I press my forehead against the cool glass, allowing myself a fleeting moment of weakness.

“I will protect you, Simran,” I whisper into the night. “Even if it breaks me in the process.”

CHAPTER 3

VISHNU

I stand outside Simran’s apartment door at 9:00 a.m. sharp, my finger hovering over the doorbell. Even with my jet lag from India to New York, I couldn’t sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Simran holding that baby—someone else’s baby.The image cut through my heart like a knife, reopening old wounds with every painful flashback.

But today, I have a purpose. I’m here to protect her from the threat that’s been hanging over her head. Beyond that, I’m done. My role in her life ends there!

Taking a deep breath, I finally press the doorbell. To my surprise, an elderly woman, probably in her sixties, answers the door. Before I can ask for Simran, I hear her familiar voice from inside.

“It’s okay, Claire. He’s here for me.”

The older woman—Claire, I assume—nods at me and steps aside. As she walks away, I hear her softly say, “Take care, Simran.”

And then, there she is. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the sight of her. Simran looks ready to leave and is dressed in a way that screams New York fashion designer. She’s wearing a tailored blazer in a rich emerald green, and has paired it with sleek black trousers that accentuate her figure. A silk scarf with an abstract print adds a pop of colour, tied elegantly around her neck. Her hair is swept up in an elegant updo, with a few artfully loose strands framing her face. She looks modern, sophisticated, and undeniably beautiful—enough to make my heart race as if I’m running a marathon.

For a moment, I forget everything else and simply admire her. The thought that she’s now a mother to a toddler flits through my mind, but I push it aside, unwilling to let it spoil this moment. She’s still Simran—still capable of taking my breath away with a single glance.

If only I had realised and confessed my feelings for her before she left for New York eighteen months ago.

Simran clears her throat, snapping me out of my trance. “Let’s go,” she says, her voice crisp and businesslike.

Confusion furrows my brow. “Go where?”

“You said we need to talk about the threat I received, right?” She raises an eyebrow. “So let’s go and talk about it somewhere.”