Peace Isn't Free
639 Words
The black car hadn’t returned, but the unease stayed.
Rehaan didn’t tell Aanya, but ever since that night, he’d added two more men to tail them from a distance. Not to invade her space—but to keep her safe. She had no idea. And he preferred it that way.
He still saw her. Still found reasons to meet. Coffee shops, late-night drives, bookstores. Every encounter peeled back another layer of the wall he had built around himself.
But for every moment of peace, there was an echo of danger waiting in the shadows.
“You’ve been distracted,” Zayn said one morning as they reviewed shipment logistics at the warehouse. “That girl got your heart doing somersaults or what?”
Rehaan didn’t respond.
“You know they’re watching you, right?” Zayn continued. “Your uncle’s men. The old guard. They think you’re slipping.”
“They can watch,” Rehaan said flatly. “I’m still in control.”
But even he wasn’t sure anymore.
—
Aanya, meanwhile, had started noticing the changes.
Rehaan's presence came with silence, but lately, there was a tension she couldn’t explain. A slight glance over his shoulder. A longer pause at street corners. He never talked about it, but she felt it.
One evening, they sat on the hood of his car, watching the stars from an empty overlook. Rehaan hadn’t said a word in ten minutes.
“Are you okay?” Aanya finally asked.
He nodded, but didn’t meet her eyes.
“You don’t have to protect me from the truth,” she said softly. “I know your world isn’t... simple.”
He finally looked at her. “Simple is something I’ve never had.”
“And do you want it?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“I want quiet,” he said at last. “I want mornings without blood on the news and nights without having to watch my back. I want...” He paused. “I want to sit like this without wondering if someone’s got a rifle aimed at us.”
Aanya reached for his hand.
“Then maybe we both want the same thing.”
—
But the universe has a way of testing desire.
Two nights later, Rehaan walked into his apartment to find Zayn waiting.
“There’s movement,” he said. “The Verma family. Word is, they think you’ve gone soft. You’re not responding like your father would’ve. They want to test you.”
Rehaan’s jaw clenched. “How?”
“They kidnapped one of our runners. Left a message: ‘Bring your poetry girl if you want him back.’”
Ice. That’s what ran through Rehaan’s veins.
Aanya’s name—spoken by enemies—made something primal rise inside him.
“They won’t touch her,” he said coldly.
“You sure about that?” Zayn asked. “Because the Rehaan I knew wouldn’t have let this happen in the first place.”
Rehaan didn’t reply. He just walked to the weapons locker and pulled out a matte black pistol.
“I’ll handle it.”
—
The next morning, Aanya waited for Rehaan at their usual café.
He never showed.
She tried calling twice. No response.
She tried again at noon. Still nothing.
Her stomach twisted.
Something was wrong.
Later that night, she found an envelope taped to her apartment door. No return name. No message inside—just a photo.
A grainy image of Rehaan, bloodied, surrounded by masked men.
Aanya gasped, her hands trembling. Her first instinct was panic. Her second—something colder.
Resolve.
She pulled out her phone and made a call. Not to the police.
To a name Rehaan had once told her to forget unless it was life or death.
Zayn.
When he answered, she only said three words.
“I’m coming in.”
- Writer
