The café was quiet. Too quiet for Delhi.
Meher entered alone, coat draped over her silk kurta, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Her gun pressed cold against her thigh.
The note had come with no signature.
“Meet me where the old city ends. Come alone, if you want truth.”
She spotted him instantly.
Rehan.
Same sharp jawline. Same cruel smile as Kabir. But colder. Emptier.
He stood as she approached, pulling out a chair with mock politeness. “So you’re the wife.”
Meher sat, not blinking. “You don’t look dead.”
He chuckled. “Neither do you. But give Kabir time.”
She stayed still. Calculated. Controlled. “Why now?”
Rehan leaned in. “Because I’ve waited ten years to watch him lose something real. And you, my dear, are very real.”
Meher’s nails bit into her palm. “If you want a war, just start it.”
“Oh, I already have,” he said softly. “You just don’t know which side you’re on yet.”
He slid a photograph across the table.
Meher’s heart stopped.
It was Kabir. Years ago. Standing beside a burning building. Blood down his shirt. Holding a girl who looked too much like her.
“Who is she?” Meher whispered.
Rehan smiled.
“Ask him.”
And with that, he vanished into the crowd—
A ghost in daylight.
Leaving Meher alone, with a photograph,
And a thousand questions
That might burn her whole world down.
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