Shriya kept her eyes on the road, but she wasn't really seeing it.
The city lights blurred past her windshield, long streaks of white and gold cutting through the dark, and for the first time in a long while, she felt the weight of time pressing down on her chest. She wanted—desperately—to turn the wheel the other way. Toward MK's apartment. Toward the mess they had left unfinished. Toward the apology that deserved eye contact, trembling hands, and honesty.
But the call had changed everything.
Family calls were never casual.
They were never requests.
They were summons.
"If I don't make it in time…" Shriya exhaled sharply. She didn't finish the thought. With her family, consequences were never spoken aloud—they were simply enforced.
"I'm sorry, MK," she whispered to the empty car. "I have to deal with this first."
She reached for her phone, fingers tightening around it as if it might resist. Writing the message felt like betrayal, even though it wasn't. It felt like choosing distance when all she wanted was closeness.
> Hey, MK. I'm sorry—for doing things behind your back. I wanted to apologize in person, but my family called me home. I don't know how long I'll be gone. Please… stay safe.
She hovered over the screen for a second longer, then sent it.
The silence afterward was unbearable.
Shriya took the next exit and turned hard, tires protesting as she redirected toward the port. Her mind shifted instantly—cold, sharp, calculating.
Two hours.
The island lay beyond the city, separated by water and guarded by isolation. The port alone would take at least two and a half hours in normal traffic. The boat ride—another hour. Even with shortcuts, even with reckless driving, she was looking at three hours minimum.
Impossible.
Her mind began running scenarios like a war room simulation.
Port is out.
A boat won't make it.
A chopper—
She exhaled sharply.
"If I can get to the city center, get someone airborne… I could shave off time."
Barely.
She checked the clock again.
Less than two hours now.
Shriya worked best under pressure. Fear sharpened her. Panic focused her. It was something her family had beaten into her long before she had words for it.
Because Shriya White did not come from an ordinary family.
She came from a lineage carved out of discipline, command, and obedience.
The White family was old—older than its wealth, older than its influence. Generations of soldiers, strategists, and generals. Her great-great-great-grandfather had been a general. Then his son. Then his son after that. Every man before her had worn medals like second skins, had learned to command before they learned to ask.
Her father had been no different.
A retired general now, but retirement hadn't softened him. Men like him never really left the battlefield—they just carried it into their homes.
Her brothers followed the path without question. One a major. The other a commander. They spoke the same language her father did: orders, precision, sacrifice.
Shriya had grown up inside that world.
She had trained alongside her brothers from the time she could stand straight. Weapons, endurance, combat drills—nothing was off-limits. And the worst part? She was good at it. Better than most. Her body learned quickly. Her instincts were sharp.
But somewhere along the way, the desire died.
By sixteen, the uniform felt like a cage.
She began skipping training, faking injuries, dragging out recovery times. Not because she was weak—but because she was tired of being shaped into something she hadn't chosen.
She didn't know what she wanted.
Only that it wasn't this.
Her mother had noticed first.
Quiet, observant, softer than the rest of them, her mother had gone to her father one night and begged him to let their daughter breathe. To let her experience something normal—school, friends, life beyond drills and commands.
Her father had agreed.
But only with conditions.
Shriya would leave the island. She would attend a normal school. But she would remain bound to the family. No disobedience. No shame. No actions that reflected weakness.
Shriya had agreed.
And left.
But training doesn't disappear just because you stop wearing the uniform.
Her strength, her composure, the way she carried herself—it drew attention. The wrong kind. Gang groups saw potential. Muscle. Leadership. She refused every offer.
That refusal earned her enemies.
Then came Bravis.
The biggest organization. Structured. Ruthless. Efficient.
Led by her uncle.
Her father's brother.
When the offer came, it wasn't dressed like temptation. It was framed like inevitability. Family loyalty. Protection. Legacy.
And eventually—survival.
Shriya tightened her grip on the steering wheel as the city skyline came into view.
MK had never known this.
Not because Shriya didn't trust her—but because some truths didn't just risk judgment. They risked removal.
If her family knew how deeply she loved MK—how vulnerable she had become—they wouldn't hesitate.
They would see MK as a liability.
And liabilities were erased.
---
MK stared at her phone long after the message arrived.
She read it again.
And again.
Something about it hurt in a way she couldn't explain. The apology felt sincere—but distant. Like a door being closed gently instead of slammed.
My family called me home.
MK frowned.
Shriya never talked about her family. Not really. Whenever the topic came up, she deflected. Changed subjects. Smiled in that way that meant don't ask again.
MK sank onto the couch, the ring box still empty in her pocket.
"Stay safe," she murmured.
It sounded like goodbye—even if it wasn't meant to be.
For the first time, MK wondered if there were parts of Shriya's life she would never be allowed into.
---
Elsewhere, Gavin Hermon's luck was running thin.
The ban lift should have been a victory. A relief. Instead, it painted a target on his back.
The fired board members were circling him like sharks. They knew exactly why they had fallen. They had followed the paper trail. The signatures. The influence.
And every road led back to him.
His phone buzzed constantly—threats masked as warnings, warnings disguised as offers.
He glanced over his shoulder as he walked, pulse racing.
He had crossed powerful people.
And the only reason he was still breathing was because one woman had decided he was useful.
For now.
---
High above the city, as a helicopter lifted into the night, Shriya stared down at the lights shrinking beneath her.
She didn't know what waited for her on the island.
Only that whatever it was, it would cost her time.
And time—right now—was the one thing she couldn't afford to lose.
Not with MK.
Not with her heart stretched between duty and desire.