War did not begin with gunfire.
War began with truth.
Aruna stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the tablet in Victor’s hand. The numbers were simple. Date. Amount. Recipient.
Adrian.
And the sender—
Her mother.
Her heart slowed. Too slow. As if her body refused to process what she was seeing.
“It doesn’t make sense,” she whispered.
Dante stood beside her, close enough for his warmth to reach her, but he did not touch her. He knew she needed space to think, not comfort.
“We don’t know the context yet,” he said calmly.
Aruna let out a quiet laugh.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was cruel.
“Context?” she repeated softly. “My mother paid the man who destroyed my life.”
Victor spoke carefully. “The transfer happened eighteen years ago.”
Eighteen years.
Aruna closed her eye
