What followed was not quick.
Kabir confessed everything—the obsession that had started the first time he'd seen her at a family dinner, the gifts, the surveillance, the plan. The location he'd had prepared. The timeline he'd constructed. The private thoughts he'd had about what he would do once he had her somewhere no one would find her.
Every word made the temperature in Samarth's chest drop another degree.
By the time Kabir finished, there was nothing left in Samarth that resembled hesitation.
Bruno, who had followed them in and been sitting quietly against the far wall, watched the proceedings with his ancient eyes and his still, patient presence.
When it was done, Samarth straightened and looked at his dog.
Bruno's expression was the same it always was—composed, intelligent, unmoved.
Good,it seemed to say.Now it's done.
Abhay handed him a cloth.
"Tanisha?" Abhay asked, as he always asked the practical question.
"The note is ready?"
"In his handwriting. Processed through his home printer. It'll hold."
"Then she gets the note." Samarth cleaned his hands methodically. "He left because he couldn't handle the family's scrutiny. That's the story."
"She'll be devastated."
"She'll survive it." He handed back the cloth. "She wouldn't survive the truth."
He looked around the warehouse one last time, then walked toward the door with Bruno at his side.
He needed to go home.
Master Bedroom - 7:23 PM
Nimisha was at the window when he arrived, her knees drawn to her chest in the armchair, looking out at the garden where the evening light was going gold and slow.
She heard the door and turned.
Her eyes went to his hands first. Then his face.
He hadn't cleaned up fully—there were things you missed, even when you were careful.
She looked at him for a long moment.
"Is it done?" she asked.
"Yes."
She held his gaze. "Good."
No flinching. No horror. No questions about what he'd done or how.
Just that one word, carrying everything—relief and understanding and the absolute trust of a woman who had been frightened for months and was finally allowed to stop.
She uncurled herself from the chair and crossed to him.
She took his hands—both of them—and held them in hers. She looked down at them with the focused attention she usually gave her manuscripts, examining carefully, her thumbs moving gently over his knuckles.
