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I nod, feeling nervous again. “Yes. She’s wonderful with him. I couldn’t ask for better help.”

Satisfied for the moment, he leans against the counter as I hand him a sandwich.

“Thank you,” he says in his usual gruff manner. Still, my heart flutters unexpectedly.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, trying to ignore the intimacy and the spark of tension between us as we eat in the small cosy kitchen.In silence.Despite the gravity of the situation, this moment feels strangely normal, as if sharing a simple meal can bridge the distance between our vastly different worlds.

Throughout our meal, Vishnu’s eyes never leave mine. I can feel the unspoken questions lingering between us, the unaddressed elephant in the room—that about the father of my son. It’s a topic I know we’ll eventually have to face, but not now.

VISHNU

I stand in Simran’s kitchen, sandwich in hand, but my mind is elsewhere. She’s hiding something. I’m sure of it. The way she tried to keep me out of her home—it felt too deliberate. But why?

Simran sits across from me, picking at her own sandwich. “I never thought I’d see the day you joined politics,” she says, breaking the silence. There’s a teasing lilt in her voice, but her eyes are wary.

“Eventually, I had to step into my father’s legacy,” I reply in a clipped tone. “I always kind of knew that, ever since he publicly acknowledged me as his son before the world.”

She nods, an understanding look in her eyes, but I don’t want to delve into my past. I’m here to uncover hers. I notice her glance at the clock on the wall, tension flitting across her face.

What’s making her so uneasy around me?It’s clear she wants me gone, but I’m not leaving until I get my answers.

“What is it you’re not telling me, Simran?” I ask, moving closer.

She blinks, looking genuinely puzzled. “I’ve already told you everything you’ve asked. I even gave you the details of my clients, my work, my projects—things I shouldn’t have revealed to anyone.”

“I’m not talking about your business,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m talking about your personal life.”

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t like discussing personal stuff, Vishnu,” she retorts, a defiant edge to her words.

I narrow my eyes, unconvinced. I still ask her the things I need to know. “How many friends do you have here in New York?”

“Just a few,” she answers quickly, avoiding my gaze.

“How often do you meet them? And how is your relationship with each of them?”

“Everything is fine. I meet them occasionally, and we get along well.”

“Any recent arguments or fights with anyone? At work or with your friends?”

“No,” she replies indignantly. “I can be bossy at work, sure, but I’m good with my staff. They respect me, and my clients are happy too. As for my friends, I told you we are fine. I never fight with anyone.”

I can feel her frustration building, but I press on. “What about your boyfriend?”

Now she freezes, her expression shifting from annoyance to something more guarded.

“When did you meet him?” I ask, knowing I’m pushing into the territory she’d rather keep hidden.

“What does that have to do with the threat?” she shoots back, her eyes flashing with irritation.

“Everyone connected to you is a suspect. When was the last time you met him?”

She tries to look away, but I step closer, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Don’t even think of lying, Simran. I’ll know.”

She steps back, her voice rising with anger. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“How long?” I push, dying to hear her answer.

She hesitates, confusion clouding her features. “Too long.”