..Out of the Blue ..💙

40.found her

The call connected. A faint click.

Monica (flatly):
“John.”

There was a pause. Then a chuckle from the other end, smug and tired.
John:
“Well, well… look who’s finally calling. I was wondering when you’d—”

Monica (cutting him off):
“I won’t waste time. Just make sure my daughter stays unharmed.”

Another pause. This time, John was wary. Why is Monica acting like he has the child ,that means the kid is not in her custody yet that's a good thing he thought
John:
“...So, you’re finally showing some vulnerability, Mittal. You almost sound like a mother.”

Monica (coldly):
“I don’t negotiate with worms, John. But even a rat deserves one warning. If I find so much as a bruise on her skin—”

John (grinning):
“Or what? You’ll send your shadow army after me like you did with Raj?”

Monica’s grip on the phone tightened, but her tone remained velvet.

Monica (low and razor-sharp):
“She’s a child, John. Keep her safe. You have no idea what I’m capable of if you cross that line.”

She hung up before he could respond, tossing the phone onto the desk. Her breath shook slightly — not from fear, but fury, and something deeper.

Monica knew.
John didn’t have Athena. She is Hidden. Safe. Untouchable. The girl was sleeping peacefully in the next building under tightest security.

But Zoya…

That thought kept her awake like a scream buried in her throat.

     

Warehouse

Gunshots. Screams. Dust and blood in the air.

Zoya couldn’t see clearly—men burst into the warehouse-like building, their voices sharp, barking commands she couldn’t make out. A pair of arms yanked the little girl from her.

Zoya (screaming):
“No! Don’t take her—SHE’S JUST A CHILD!”

Another man grabbed her—firm, unyielding—and dragged her toward the back exit. She kicked, screamed, clawed, but it was useless. Her voice broke into hoarse sobs as they shoved her into a van. Metal slammed. Lock engaged.

Then darkness. Then silence.

And finally… blackness.

---

When Zoya opened her eyes, the light was blinding.

Not a cell. Not the cold concrete or dim flickering lights. She was in front of a familiar structure, draped in stone and elegance.

Monica's house.

She blinked.

“Monica?” she whispered, disoriented.

No one answered. Her limbs felt heavy, her throat dry, her heart thudding too loud. She stumbled up the stairs, barely registering the guards standing silently on either side. The door creaked open—someone must’ve been watching.

The house smelled like coffee and antiseptic. Like safety and restraint.

And there, on the sofa in the center of the living room, sat Monica.

Legs crossed. Dressed in her usual deep grey. Back straight. Eyes cool.

Like she hadn’t lost a single night of sleep.

Like she hadn’t broken apart searching.

Like she hadn't been slowly dying inside.

Zoya froze.