"Darling, I knew it — even though I’m your ex, if I call you, you’ll come," you said softly, stepping closer to your ex-husband, Jackson. Your perfume lingered between you, sweet and familiar, a scent that once belonged to late nights and whispered promises. You reached to hug him, leaning towards him giving a show of your clevage, but he shifted back, his expression unreadable.

"Phir aa gayi chipkali," he muttered under his breath, the faintest trace of irritation in his voice.

You pouted instinctively, your lips curving into that same soft expression that once made him smile. But this time, he didn’t even glance your way. Jackson brushed past you, disappearing into the glittering crowd of the cruise party — where music pulsed, laughter rang, and women leaned toward him like moths drawn to a steady flame.

You watched, the sting in your chest quiet but sharp.

Then a low, smooth voice interrupted your thoughts. “Analog,” the man said, offering his hand. His grip was firm — maybe a little too firm — and lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary. His eyes, a warm hazel that caught the golden lights of the deck, studied you with unmistakable interest.

“Your ex seems… busy,” he murmured, lips curling into a teasing smile.

You gave a small, polite nod, masking your unease behind composure. You knew that look — the kind of look that wasn’t professional, but personal. The kind Jackson hadn’t given you in years.

Jackson Mehra — once your husband, now a detective for the London Metropolitan Police — was here only because you had called. Not for love, but for duty. Your father was dead.

The news had shattered you in the middle of your voyage — a cruise meant to celebrate your father’s upcoming will declaration. A will that would have divided his immense fortune among you and your three half-brothers: Julius, Ansh, and Armaan — sons of his other wives.

Your father had been a man of power and pleasure — charming, reckless, and adored by women. His life had been an empire built on ambition and desire, but his death… it was too sudden, too silent.

You, the youngest and only daughter from his first marriage, had inherited your mother’s softness — beauty wrapped in gentleness, a contrast to your brothers’ sharp edges and commanding presence. They were heirs molded for power; you were the heart no one expected to fight for it.

Now, beneath the hum of the party and the whisper of the sea, suspicion lingered like perfume. Someone had wanted your father gone — and everyone aboard this cruise had something to gain.

Jackson was here to find the truth, not to heal old wounds. His eyes no longer lingered on you; they measured the crowd, cold and professional, as if you were just another name in his case file.

But Analog… his gaze stayed. Steady. Curious. A little dangerous.