Chapter 9

  Ashwin Nair scans the room inside the warehouse, his sharp eyes taking in the disorder. Stacks of crates sit haphazardly, labels peeling, the smell of damp wood and oil filling the air. He despises places like this—messy, chaotic, everything he’s worked so hard to avoid in his carefully constructed life.

  “Move faster,” he orders, his voice cold and sharp. The men hesitate for a moment, then scramble to obey.

  Ashwin is here to ensure a shipment leaves on time—a critical deal that cannot afford mistakes. But his mind isn’t fully here. It drifts back to Alya, the woman whose words had silenced him.

  How much does she know?

  The question gnaws at him. He doesn’t know the extent of her knowledge, but what little she revealed was enough to unsettle him. Those memories—ones he had buried deep, smothered with years of ambition and silence—were never meant to resurface. And yet, here he was. One wrong move and everything he had built would crumble. Alya had promised silence in exchange for compliance, but trust was a currency Ashwin no longer dealt in.

  He clenches his fist, he doesn’t want to remember what he left behind. He can’t.

  A faint sound draws his attention. Outside, through the cracked warehouse window, he notices movement—a woman holding a camera.

  “Who’s that?” he asks.

  One of Vikram’s men glances lazily out the window and shrugs. “Just some photographer. Probably a tourist.”

  Ashwin’s jaw tightens. Tourists don’t hang around places like this.

  In the heart of the bustling Byculla district, Ayesha Sharma sits at a rickety tea stall, pretending to sip her lukewarm tea, her camera hanging casually around her neck. To any passerby, she’s just another amateur photographer, blending seamlessly into the chaos of Mumbai’s streets. The tea stall owner, an old man with a wrinkled brow, mutters about the rising cost of sugar as he pours another round of tea. A group of boys plays cricket nearby, their laughter ringing out with every hit. The air smells of ginger, dust, and the faint saltiness of the sea.

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  Across the street, a dilapidated warehouse crouches behind rusted gates. Its faded walls might seem ordinary, but Ayesha knows better. Vikram’s men operate this warehouse, moving stolen goods, contraband, and sometimes, people.

  She raises her camera, pretending to capture the lively views of the street. But her lens zooms in on the warehouse entrance where men are standing around, smoking, laughing. She snaps their faces, her heartbeat steady, her movements precise.

  Amidst these, she captured a shadow of a person crossing the street. She lowers her camera.

  It’s him.

  She recognizes him instantly—Ashwin Nair, the untouchable CEO with ties to Mumbai’s darkest secrets. Her stomach twists, why was he here?

  Ashwin approaches, his steps deliberate and fast. He stops just short of her table, his gaze lingering on her longer than expected.

  “Interesting place to take pictures,miss” he says.

  Ayesha doesn’t flinch. “Mumbai is full of stories. I capture the ones people overlook.”

  Ashwin glances at her camera, and then at the warehouse. “The ones people overlook? And that's a rundown warehouse?”

  “Life,” she interjects, forcing calm into her tone. “The rawness of the city.”

  “Rawness, huh? Do you mind if I see your camera?” he asks, stepping closer. His smile is polite, but his eyes are betrayed.

  Ayesha’s grip on the camera tightens. “It’s private,” she says firmly.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Ashwin says, his smile fading. “Hand it over.”

  Ayesha forces a nervous laugh, as she picks up a half-empty cup of tea from her table and thrusts it toward Ashwin.

  “Tea?” she says with exaggerated cheer, sloshing the lukewarm liquid dangerously close to his pristine suit.

  Ashwin instinctively steps back, his brows knitting in disbelief. “What—”

  Before he can finish, Ayesha seizes the moment. She shoves the tea stall’s rickety table into his path and bolts, her camera swinging wildly as she sprints toward the narrow lanes behind the market.

  For a split second, Ashwin just stands there, caught off guard.

  “Seriously? Did she just run?” he mutters, exasperated, before turning to Vikram’s men.

  “Well, don’t just stand there like statues—get her!”

  He takes off after her, muttering, “Of all the days to play cat and mouse, she picks today. Brilliant.”

  Her boots slap against the wet pavement, her heart pounding. She weaves through the alleyways, dodging vendors and startled shoppers, while Ashwin, in his pristine loafers, curses every puddle he steps into.

  Behind her, she hears footsteps—close, too close.