Page 102 of Wasted Grace

I slide a plate of onion omelette across it. Her favorite, as far as I remember—still spicy enough to make her nose twitch.

I turn to grab the sugar for her coffee, but her voice stops me. Flat.

“I’m fine without it.”

I pause, fingers on the sugar jar. Then I place it back without a word. Watch her sip her sugar-less coffee, just like she used to.

And for one fucking second—my idiot heart flickers.

She’s here. She’s drinking the same type of coffee from years ago. Maybe she’s coming back to me?

But I don’t let myself hope. Not again. The glimmers won’t help when I know I don’t deserve this.

We eat in silence. She clears the plates when we’re done, and grabs mine too like it’s nothing.

“Thank you,” I murmur, not thinking.

She freezes.

The tension cuts through the kitchen like a wire pulled too tight.

Her back is still to me when she speaks, voice low. “I’m going to need you to not...thankme. For a few days.”

She turns slightly, her jaw locked. “Just... don’t say the word. At all. Got it?”

I frown, but nod still.

Half an hour later, we’re walking into the conference room to meet Dev. He’s holding some reports he compiled over the weekend.

He spots me and immediately breaks into a relieved, brotherly smile. “You’re okay?”

Before I can even answer, he rushes toward me and pulls me into a careful hug. “Advik,bhai, thank god, you’re okay. I’m so glad.”

I chuckle and pat his back. “I’m fine, Devendra.”

Greesha skirts around us and sits at the head of the table, straight-backed and all business. That’s our cue.

The meeting is grim. Dev goes over Mehul’s account activity. It’s not him directly, obviously—it’s his team, more tech-savvy than he is, and far more dangerous.

He’s targeting education portals. Medical and engineering exam prep institutions for young kids.

And suddenly it clicks.

Dev’s daughter just enrolled in one of those academies.Of course he’s been panicking.

These centers are barely protected—ripe for manipulation. Kids aged fourteen to seventeen, under immense pressure, often emotionally isolated.

Suicide rates are high.

And if Mehul gains access, he won’t just exploit those statistics—he’llengineerthem. He’ll make disappearances look natural. Like stress-induced tragedies.

By the time we close the meeting, we’ve built in a few more security barriers and decided to wait. Mehul hasn’t breached the systems yet, but if he does, he’ll have a goldmine of vulnerable data. The students’ personal information, along with their academic performance. He’ll connect the damn dots and know exactly which students to frame for disappearance.

Dev seems particularly unhappy about things not moving forward. I know he wants this to end. I also know he’s been told that he has to run point in this account because apparently Mehul Bedi doesn’ttrust me.

I sigh as we leave the conference room—only to be nearly tackled by an overzealous figure at the door.

A soft chest collides with mine. My one good arm wraps around instinctively. A dull ache shooting through my shoulder.