Page 51 of Wasted Grace

THIRTEEN

Advik

She’s leaning against her bike, clad in matte black biker gear, fingers moving over her phone like she doesn’t feel the weight of me staring at her.

She looks... lethal.

And fuckingirresistible.

My mouth goes dry at the realization. Yes—I want her. But I can’t have her. Not really. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

I finally start walking over, my boots crunching against gravel. I’m still a solid ten feet away when she speaks without looking up.

“You’re late. It’s 9:03.”

Her tone is cool. Neutral. But it prickles something in my chest.

I sigh, already bracing myself for how stupid I’m about to sound. The truth is embarrassing, but lying to her? That would feel worse.

“I couldn’t stop staring at you long enough to walk over.”

Her head snaps up, a frown tugging at her brows. “You’re choosing to say this... why?”

I give a half shrug, trying to play it off, even though my pulse is hammering. “You just looked badass. I wanted to take it in. The whole picture.”

I wave a hand over her whole body.

She pushes off the bike and closes the distance between us by a step—enough to make it feel deliberate. Measured. “I will give you permission one day, Vik. One day, I’ll want to hear everything you’ve been holding back. AndI’lldo the same. But today isnotthat day.”

My chest tightens. I blink at her. She wants to hear it? One day?

“I’m ready when you are, Greesha.”

Her expression hardens, but her mouth twitches faintly at the corners. “Aadya. Don’t keep slipping.”

I meet her gaze, soft but steady. “It’s Greesha I wronged. And Greesha I need to talk to.”

Her brows knit tighter. “Yeah? You believe you wronged me?”

“I wronged myself,” I say quietly, without a beat of hesitation.

She snorts. “You’re deluded.”

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I let the silence stretch before offering, “You still talk like you did when you were pissed at thedhabauncle for shortchanging you by ten rupees.”

Her expression falters.

A flash in her eyes.

I press gently, “You remember? You stood on your toes, pointed at him with your samosa still in your hand. You sounded so downright lethal when you said—”

“‘Mera paisa wapas kar, saale chutiye!’”she finishes the line before I can. (Return my money, you cunt!)

Her face sunlit, fire in her voice, samosa in hand like a weapon. She was fearless. And weirdly polite about her rage. That was the moment I first thought:God, I want to watch her win everything.

Her face darkens.

“Maybe I was pitiful that day or that uncle wouldn’t be alive today,” she says, voice even. Cold.