"The most felt feelings are left unfelt."
Nafisa sat alone in the corner booth of the café, idly stirring her coffee as she scanned the newspaper.
"Notorious criminal and mafia head, VPS escapes from London."
A dry chuckle escaped her.
"Can't keep a man like him in a cage for long," she murmured.
The rhythmic click of approaching shoes made her lower the paper. Dempsey stood before her, flanked by Arthur and a stranger with sharp, observant eyes.
"Meet Mr. Garbett," Dempsey said. "He's been helping us in… many ways."
Garbett extended a polite hand. "It's a pleasure meeting you."
Nafisa shook it gently, flashing the faintest smile. "Likewise."
Arthur's gaze drifted to the headline on her newspaper.
"So, you've read the news."
Nafisa folded the paper closed. "Are you worried?"
Arthur exhaled through a tight lip curl. "Alerted. A man like VPS isn't to be taken lightly."
Dempsey scoffed, waving dismissively.
"It doesn't matter. VPS has bigger problems than chasing us halfway across the map."
Nafisa took a quiet sip of coffee.
"And Masud? His father doesn't seem very cooperative."
Dempsey's expression darkened.
"Farooque's playing politics. Most likely he'll ask VPS to intervene."
Gabertt's gaze flicked toward Nafisa, a little too curious. It made her skin prickle.
"What's VPS like?" he asked suddenly.
Nafisa blinked. "Pardon?"
"I mean personally," Garbett clarified. "Whatever I've heard about him… I don't imagine him as vicious or barbaric like the others of his… contemporaries."
"Contemporaries?" Nafisa burst into amused laughter.
When she composed herself, she said, "He's… surprisingly compassionate for someone in his position. He doesn't act out of rage. But he can be selfish. Very selfish."
Dempsey slammed his palm on the table, irritation spilling over.
"Enough! Every time we meet, it becomes all about VPS. Let's avoid him today."
He turned to Garbett. "Tell her about your interest in India."
Garbett's jaw tightened. "I don't enjoy reciting anecdotes."
Dempsey sighed and began narrating the story—Francis Dortmund, old debts, and the shadows of history. Nafisa listened, then pressed her lips together thoughtfully.
"It's not simple," she finally said. "India isn't small, and it'll be almost impossible to keep greedy politicians away from any treasure. Don't underestimate how deep corruption runs."
Garbett gave a thin, humorless smile.
"I'm not interested in treasure. This is… about sending a message."
Nafisa narrowed her eyes. "Sending a message to whom? Ghosts?"
Garbett hesitated. "It's an itch that needs scratching."
Nafisa rose from her seat, slipping the newspaper under her arm.
"I'll see what I can do. No promises."
She picked up her purse, tossed the bill onto Garbett's side of the table, and flashed him a wide, unapologetic smile.
"Thank you."
Without waiting for a reply, she strode out of the café, her heels tapping with quiet confidence.
Garbett watched her leave, chuckling under his breath.
"She's feisty."
Dempsey rolled his eyes, while Arthur gave a small, knowing smile.
Garbett drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly as he hummed an old tune. Dempsey sat beside him, brooding, while Arthur sat in the back, seat-belt strapped tight, watching the world blur past the window.
"It was your job to handle the India operation," Garbett said finally. "I paid good money for that. Nafisa's involvement was… uninvited."
Dempsey exhaled sharply. "She's been bossy lately. Needs to understand that just because we need her doesn't mean we'll dance to her tunes. She's supposed to work, not command."
Arthur let out a low grunt. "She is working. More than us, honestly. She did what we couldn't in years—brought VPS to his knees. And don't forget, she's feeding us intel on him."
"Valuable intel, my foot," Dempsey snapped. "All she keeps saying is that VPS is irrelevant and we shouldn't bother about him. She's just pretending to help while acting like queen of the room."
Garbett's lips curled into a faint smile. "Let her be. She isn't our priority. India is VPS's soil. Doesn't matter how long he's been away—one call from him and people will rise. The man has roots. If we want that treasure without him meddling, Nafisa becomes our shield."
Dempsey rolled his eyes. "Arthur, what's the status with the Chinese?"
Arthur rubbed his temples. "Xi Shiang was ready. But his superiors froze the deal. Shinzo's gaining power in Southeast Asia, and they want to observe the situation."
"What is there to observe?" Dempsey barked. "Are we making noodles here? Tell Xi Shiang we don't have time for tantrums. If they don't trust us, they can join the other side. We're taking massive risks while they won't even speak about it openly."
Garbett flicked his lighter, lit a cigarette, and lowered the window. Smoke drifted into the cold air.
"The winds are shifting, Dempsey. Francis always said winter teaches patience. The Chinese-Japanese feud keeps our pockets warm, yes—but my contacts say Mr. Feng is under heavy pressure to wipe any trace of dealings with the likes of us. Shinzo and VPS played brilliantly introducing Shinzo into politics. Now they're beating us not just in the underworld… but in geopolitics too."
Dempsey snatched the cigarette from him. "I don't understand these discreet games. The High Table is finally rising—I won't let anyone derail that."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Once the Belgians sign, the rise becomes inevitable."
Dempsey groaned. "And again—VPS enters the damn equation."
Garbett and Arthur exchanged a quiet, knowing smile.
Nafisa stood by the window, staring out into the night, smoke slipping lazily from her lips. She took another drag from the cigarette and sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. Pulling out her phone, she let her thumb scroll aimlessly—until VPS's number flashed on the screen.
Her finger hovered.
Her heart urged her to press it. Her mind held her back.
Logically, she knew VPS wouldn't be receiving calls on that number anymore. And yet, a fragile hope lingered in her chest. What if he does? The thought made her smile weakly at her own helplessness. After a moment, reason won. She slid the phone back into the pocket of her thick overcoat.
She pushed the window open. A gust of icy wind slammed into her face, sharp and unforgiving. Nafisa filled her mouth with smoke and exhaled slowly, watching it dissolve into the night, hoping her pain would lift with it. It didn't.
She flicked the cigarette away and sank onto the cold floor. Above her, trees swayed and dark clouds loomed, swollen with unspoken grief. She wanted to see VPS—touch him, if only once. Or at least hear his voice again, even if it came wrapped in scolding or disdain.
The news of his escape from prison had been the only spark of happiness she'd felt in a long time.
Masud's eyes—and perhaps his words—had only forced her to question herself. Had it been worth fighting with VPS? The man who had rescued her, yet never made her feel indebted to him. Still, anger simmered beneath her longing. VPS had always looked at her like a child, and that gaze had fueled her resentment more than anything else.
The clouds began to roar. Then the sky wept.
Nafisa closed her eyes and let herself drown in the sound of the rain.
The shrill ring of the phone shattered the fragile peace and cut through Nafisa's weary senses. She opened her eyes slowly. Rain and tears blurred her vision; she brushed them away with the back of her hand. Another moment of quiet sorrow.
Shalini.
With a tired groan, Nafisa pushed herself up and walked inside.
"Why are you calling?" she muttered.
Shalini's voice burst through the speaker. "Have you seen the news? That monster—VPS—has escaped! And Andrich is nowhere to be found."
Nafisa dragged a hand through her damp hair. "He isn't dead. If he were, it would be all over the news." She paused, her tone flattening. "And don't call this number again."
She ended the call before Shalini could respond and went into the bathroom. Minutes later, she returned and collapsed onto the bed. Her phone lit up again—three missed calls and a string of messages from Shalini, sharp and unpleasant.
Nafisa smiled faintly.
She scrolled and tapped Dempsey's number.
"Where are you?" she asked, her voice drained.
Dempsey sounded equally uninterested. "No idea. Garbett's party. He knows." A pause. "Don't wait up. I'm not coming tonight."
Nafisa scoffed. "I don't care whether you come or not."
"Then why did you call?" Dempsey snapped.
She smiled to herself. "Just checking if you're still that German's dog."
The line went dead.
Nafisa set the phone aside, closed her eyes, and let sleep take her.
Nafisa woke up, her head heavy and her vision blurred. Still groggy, she dragged herself toward the kitchen, searching for something to cool the fire burning in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she pulled open the refrigerator door.
The stench of alcohol hit her like a blow.
Her stomach lurched. She slammed the door shut and collapsed forward, vomiting onto the cold floor.
"Shit… who's going to clean that now?" she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
She turned away, her legs barely obeying her, and stumbled toward the bedroom.
"Vikram… why?" she whispered. "Why did you have to anger me? Couldn't you—just once—not be selfish? Why don't you understand my feelings?"
Her voice cracked.
"I love you. But this arrogance of yours… it's built walls between us."
Her foot caught the edge of the carpet. She fell hard, the impact knocking the breath out of her. A sharp pain shot through her head. She reached up, her fingers brushing her forehead—burning hot.
A weak smile crept onto her lips.
Then darkness took her, as blood slowly soaked into her hair.
Nafisa slowly opened her eyes.
A sharp white light stabbed her vision, staining everything in a blinding haze. She blinked repeatedly, her eyes twitching in protest.
"Could someone… please… turn the lights off?" she murmured.
The brightness softened, fading into a tolerable dimness. She inhaled slowly and tried to rise, her body protesting every movement.
"Where am I?" she whispered to herself.
Her gaze drifted across the room.
On a sofa a little distance away lay Dempsey. His shirt was crumpled and drenched in crimson, the fabric stiff with dried blood. His hair was a mess, his face unguarded. He was lightly snoring—exhausted, spent—like someone who had fought time itself and barely won.
Nafisa's head throbbed. She lifted her hand and felt the tight wrap of a bandage around her skull. Beside her bed hung a saline bottle, its slow drip marking each passing second. A syringe was fixed into the back of her hand.
She smiled faintly.
For the first time—perhaps the only time—Dempsey did not seem menacing.
The bloodstained shirt, the uneven breathing, the careless sprawl of his body, and the quiet, invisible care that lingered in the room made him feel achingly real. More real than Vikram—the man her heart still ached for, despite everything.
An impulse rose within her: to reach out, to hold that tired body, to feel warmth instead of pain. For a fleeting moment, even desire brushed her thoughts.
But her body was weak, and her heart weaker still.
She turned her face away, burying her emotions where they would not betray her.
A nurse entered the room, pushing a metal cart laden with medicines, bandages, and other medical supplies. The wheels squeaked softly against the marble floor as she nudged the lights a little brighter to examine Nafisa.
The sound stirred Dempsey awake.
He rubbed his eyes, squinting at the nurse as she offered him a stiff, professional smile. He returned it without warmth. For a moment, both of them stood there, looking at the woman who had dragged them through chaos and fear—now lying unnervingly peaceful on the bed.
They moved closer.
Nafisa kept her eyes shut, her breathing steady, though she could feel their presence—heavy, watchful, judgmental.
The nurse carefully unwound the bandage and poured a sharp-smelling antiseptic over the wound. The sting shot through Nafisa's skull. She twitched, but her face betrayed nothing.
Silence stretched.
Dempsey broke it.
"When will she regain consciousness?"
The nurse replied flatly, as though reading from memory.
"The doctor can say better."
Dempsey exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His frustration simmered, then boiled over.
"If something happens to her," he said coldly, "I'll burn this hospital to the ground—and take you and your doctor with it."
The nurse stiffened for a fraction of a second. Then her composure returned. She had heard worse, often from men like him.
"The doctor can say better," she repeated.
She pushed the cart out of the room, leaving behind a fuming Dempsey—and a Nafisa who lay perfectly still, her pulse betraying her calm.
Dempsey stepped closer to the bed. He brushed his fingers gently against her cheek, then lingered at her lips, almost absentmindedly.
"She looks harmless when she's asleep," he murmured. "No wonder VPS is tearing the world apart for her."
A faint smile touched his face. He bent and pressed a soft kiss to her bandaged forehead.
Straightening, he stretched and let out a tired yawn. Picking up his coat, he walked toward the door and closed it behind him as quietly as possible.
"Why did he have to mention Vikram's name?" Nafisa thought bitterly. "Why can't he be romantic—for once?"
Pragmatism, she felt, was a quiet assassin of romance. Would it have killed him to touch her hand and say something—anything—like Why are you so beautiful? or Why do I keep falling for you?
Hell, even a simple I care for you would have been enough.
But no. Mr. Pragmatic had to drown the moment in cold reason, spewing logic where tenderness was needed.
She muttered under her breath, anger simmering low and sharp. Slowly, the edges of her thoughts began to blur. The medicine pressed against her forehead did its work, pulling her downward. Her eyelids grew heavy, her breaths longer, softer.
And before she could protest, Nafisa slipped into a deep, somber sleep...