Seen

Prologue

PROLOUGE

HER Pov

Mumbai at night has a way of pretending it’s on your side.

The streets glow just enough to make you believe you’re safe—yellow lights reflected on wet asphalt, the hum of traffic, the illusion that noise equals protection. I used to love this city for that. For how it swallowed you whole and made you anonymous.

Tonight, anonymity feels like a lie.

The café is too bright. Too open. Glass walls, exposed lights, nowhere to hide. I can still see him through the reflection in the window—his careless smile from earlier, the way he hadn’t even bothered to deny it when I said the word affair. As if fidelity was a suggestion, not a promise.

I shouldn’t have come.

I tell myself that as I wrap my fingers around my coffee cup, now cold, untouched. I came here to confront him. To say my piece. To walk away clean.

Instead, I’m sitting here with my heart racing, replaying every moment of the last hour, wondering when exactly things slipped out of my control.

My phone vibrates.

Once.

The sound is small, ordinary. The kind of vibration I’ve ignored a thousand times before. But my body reacts anyway—shoulders stiffening, breath catching, instincts flaring without explanation.

I glance down.

Unknown Number

That’s enough to irritate me. Mumbai is full of wrong numbers, spam calls, delivery drivers who can’t read addresses. I almost dismiss it. Almost.

I open the message.

I know what you did.

The words sit there calmly, no punctuation, no emoji. Not dramatic. Not angry.

Certain.

My first thought is him.

My second is much worse.

I look up from my phone, scanning the café. Every table is occupied. Laughter, cutlery, conversations overlapping. A barista arguing with a customer about soy milk. No one looks suspicious. No one looks at me.

My phone vibrates again.

Attached photo.

The image loads slowly, like it’s teasing me.

It’s me.

Standing near the counter. Hair pulled back. Phone in my hand. A crease between my eyebrows I didn’t know I made when I was confused.

The timestamp reads two minutes ago.

My pulse spikes so fast it makes me dizzy.

I turn in my seat, nearly knocking into the woman behind me. She glares. I mumble an apology I don’t mean. My eyes search faces, hands, reflections in glass. Anyone could have taken that photo. Everyone could have.

No one is watching me.

Which means someone is watching me very carefully.

Another message appears.

Shit.

Who the hell is this person?

I don’t remember typing it, but there it is—my fear spilling onto the screen.

I look around again, slower this time. More deliberate. The city has taught me how to observe without staring. Still nothing. Just strangers. Just Mumbai, doing what it always does.

My phone vibrates.

Wow. Look at you trying to figure out where I am.

You look so adorable doing that.

My stomach turns.

Adorable.

I feel suddenly exposed, like the walls have thinned, like every movement I make is being catalogued. I type back with shaking fingers.

Who are you?

What do you want?

I wait.

The reply comes instantly.

THE WATCHER

She looks up right on time.

They always do.

There’s a moment—right after the message lands—when people still think they’re imagining things. When denial fights instinct. That’s my favorite part. Watching the brain scramble for logic while the body already knows the truth.

She’s sharper than most. I noticed that earlier. The way she clocked the exits when she walked in. The way her eyes hardened when she spoke to him. Not weak. Just wounded.

Wounded people are interesting.

I watch her through the reflection in the glass, not directly. Direct watching is rude. Intimate things should be savored slowly. Her shoulders tense, then lift, like she’s bracing for impact. Good. Awareness makes everything more fun.

She types back.

Who are you? What do you want?

Straight to the point. No pleading. No threats.

I smile.

You.

Simple answers are best at the beginning. Let them fill in the rest themselves.

She stands up, chair scraping loudly against the floor. She thinks movement will save her. That noise will draw attention. It never does. Crowds are wonderfully useless when you understand them.

She takes a step toward the exit.

I let her.

Hope needs room to breathe before you suffocate it.

I type one word.

Sit down.

She doesn’t.

Interesting.

Most people do.

I can tell by the way her jaw tightens that she’s debating it—fight or flight flickering behind her eyes. I admire that. Fear looks good on her, but defiance might look even better.

I send another message.

I wouldn’t run, if I were you.

Tonight is just the beginning.

She freezes.

Not because of the words.

Because of the truth in them.

I don’t want her gone yet. I didn’t choose her by accident. I’ve been watching for a while now—long enough to know where she goes when she’s angry, how she holds her phone when she’s nervous, which mistakes still haunt her.

She thinks this is about him.

It isn’t.

Men like him are everywhere. Replaceable. Predictable.

She’s the variable.

Outside, the city moves like nothing is wrong. It never notices the important things until they’re over. That’s the beauty of Mumbai—so much noise, no one hears the scream until it’s far too late.

I slip my phone into my pocket and take one last look at her reflection.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already part of the game.

And I never play alone.