You hit the floor hard enough that the candle flames shiver in their holders. For a second, the palace room feels like it’s holding its breath with you, waiting to see what kind of bride you’re going to be. Your cheek presses against his chest, warm through layers of silk, and your mind screams a single humiliating thought: This is my wedding night and I just tackled my husband like a clumsy guard.

Then your palm lands lower, near his waist, and you feel it.

Not a twitch from nerves. Not a reflex from impact.

A deliberate, unmistakable movement, like muscle answering muscle.

Your breath catches so sharply it stings. You freeze on top of him, eyes wide, and your fingers tighten around fabric as if the truth might try to escape.

Arnav’s jaw clenches. His hands, which were supposed to be helpless, press against the floor with quiet strength. You feel his body brace, controlled and practiced, as if falling wasn’t an accident for him. It was a mistake, yes… but not because he couldn’t move.

Because he didn’t expect you to catch it.

You lift your head slowly, dread and shock mixing like poison honey. “You…” you whisper, and the word barely makes it out. “You can feel that.”

His eyes flick to the door, then back to you, sharp as a blade. “Get up,” he murmurs, so low it’s almost wind. “And don’t say another word.”

Your heart gallops. “You’re not—”

“Now,” he repeats, and it’s not cruel. It’s urgent.

You scramble off him, heat flooding your face, but not from embarrassment anymore. Your mind is sprinting. If he can move, then the rumors are lies. If the rumors are lies, then the marriage is something else. And if the marriage is something else… you have been dragged into a game you never agreed to play.

Arnav doesn’t stand. He doesn’t suddenly walk across the room like a movie villain. Instead, he shifts with brutal caution, sliding himself into the wheelchair with a smoothness that looks practiced, down to the smallest detail. Even his breathing changes, shallow and uneven, like he’s putting on a costume made of weakness.

You stare, trembling. “Why are you doing this?”

He looks at you as if he’s deciding whether you’re a threat or an ally. “Because walls have ears,” he says quietly. “And because tonight was never about romance.”

The words land cold.

You swallow. “Then what is it about?”

Arnav’s gaze drops to your red bangles, your gold embroidery, the fresh mehndi still dark on your hands like an oath. “It’s about survival,” he says. “Mine. And now, apparently, yours.”

A sound comes from the corridor outside, faint footsteps, the whisper of servants changing shifts. You flinch like a guilty child, but Arnav’s face doesn’t change. He turns his chair slightly, positioning himself the way a photographer would expect a “disabled” groom to sit, shoulders stiff, expression distant.

He points with his eyes toward the vanity. “Go,” he says. “Sit. Fix your hair. Look normal.”

You obey because fear is a powerful teacher, and because something in you recognizes a different kind of danger now. You lower yourself onto the bench, hands shaking as you smooth your saree. In the mirror, you see your own eyes, wide and bright, and behind you, Arnav’s reflection, calm as a storm cloud.

Minutes pass like hours.

Finally, when the hallway quiets, Arnav speaks again. “Tell me something, Aarohi,” he says. “Did you want to marry me?”

The question hurts because it’s clean and direct, and your life has been anything but. You force a bitter laugh that comes out thin. “I didn’t even want to be sold,” you say. “Let alone married.”

Arnav’s lips twitch, not quite a smile. More like recognition. “Good,” he says. “Then at least we’re both honest.”

You turn toward him, anger rising. “You’re calling this honest? You let them parade you in a wheelchair like a tragedy, and you let me walk into this blind.”

His gaze hardens. “I didn’t choose the parade. I chose the disguise.”

You blink. “Disguise?”

Arnav leans forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Five years ago, I wasn’t just in a car accident,” he says. “I was targeted.”

The room feels colder, even with candlelight. You press your fingers to your own wrist, as if holding yourself together. “Targeted by who?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flick to the heavy carved door again, like he expects it to open with betrayal at any second. “By someone who wanted the Malhotra empire without killing the family name,” he says. “If I died, it would start a war. If I lived but ‘broke’… people would get careless.”

Your throat tightens. “So you pretended to be paralyzed to… what? Bait them?”

Arnav’s stare is steady. “To watch who smiled,” he says. “To see who relaxed. To learn who stepped closer when they thought I couldn’t stand.”

A shiver crawls up your spine, and suddenly you see the wedding differently. The palace. The grandeur. The whispers. The “poor disabled heir” storyline that makes everyone pity the family while they keep their power.

You swallow. “And me?” you ask. “Why drag me into it?”

Arnav’s expression softens, just a fraction. “That part wasn’t my idea,” he says. “You were… introduced.”

Your pulse spikes. “Introduced by who?”

He says it like a knife going in slow. “Your stepmother.”

The words knock the air out of you. “No,” you whisper. “She did it because of my father’s debts.”

Arnav’s eyes sharpen. “Debts don’t appear out of thin air,” he says. “Tell me. Your father’s business… did it collapse suddenly?”

You think of your father’s face, the way he looked smaller these past months, like the world was leaning on his back. You think of documents your stepmother always “handled,” the calls she took in private, the way she knew too much and cared too little.

“It happened fast,” you admit. “Too fast.”

Arnav nods once, like he’s confirming something ugly. “Your stepmother didn’t force you to marry a rich disabled man,” he says. “She delivered you to a house where she thinks you’ll be quiet.”

Your skin prickles. “Why would she want that?”

Arnav’s voice stays low. “Because if you’re here,” he says, “you’re out of her way. And if something happens to you here, it won’t look like her hands did it.”

Your stomach turns.

You stand abruptly, pacing toward the window, staring out at the palace courtyard where lanterns glow like trapped suns. “You’re saying she wants me dead,” you whisper, but you can’t believe it because believing it would rewrite your whole childhood.

Arnav’s answer is simple. “I’m saying she wants you useful,” he says. “And usefulness has an expiration date.”

The candle crackles, loud in the silence.

You press your forehead to the cool glass. For years, your stepmother’s favorite weapon was practicality. She never screamed. She never hit. She simply arranged your life like furniture, moved you where she wanted you, and called it “for your own good.” And you let her, because you thought obedience was the price of peace.

Now you realize peace was the trick.

Arnav’s voice reaches you like a thread. “Aarohi,” he says gently. “If you want to run, I won’t stop you.”

You turn, incredulous. “Run?” you repeat. “From a palace full of guards? From your family? From her?”

Arnav’s eyes don’t flinch. “You’d be surprised what people can do when they’re desperate,” he says. “But if you stay… you need to understand something. You’re not a guest here. You’re leverage.”

Your hands curl into fists. “Then what do I do?”

Arnav looks at you, and for the first time, you see a different man behind the marble face. Not cold. Not rude. Just… tired. Vigilant. Surrounded by wealth that feels like a cage.

“You learn to act,” he says. “You smile when you want to scream. You listen when you want to speak. And you trust me when I tell you to stay close.”

Trust. That word again. You feel the bitter irony in your mouth. Your stepmother taught you not to marry poor because love is unreliable. Now you’re being asked to trust a rich stranger who might be your only lifeline.

You swallow hard. “What if I can’t trust you?”

Arnav’s gaze holds yours. “Then we both lose,” he says. “And you don’t strike me as someone who likes losing.”

Something in you sparks. Anger, yes, but also pride.

“I don’t,” you say.

Arnav nods. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because tomorrow morning, the game begins.”

In the morning, the palace wakes like an organism. Servants glide through corridors. Relatives appear in clusters, dressed in elegance and suspicion. Everyone looks at you with polite curiosity, as if you’re a new piece of art hung on a familiar wall.

Arnav plays his part perfectly.

At breakfast, he barely speaks. He moves his chair with the help of a young attendant who looks too eager, too loyal. His hands rest limp in his lap when people watch. His eyes stay cold and distant, like a man who has given up on living.

If you didn’t know the truth, you’d believe the performance.

And it terrifies you how convincing lies can be when they’re expensive.

You sit beside him, smiling softly when older aunties compliment your saree and younger cousins stare like you’re gossip made flesh. Your stomach is tight the entire time, but you remember Arnav’s instructions: act normal. Be charming. Be harmless.

After breakfast, a woman approaches you, tall and regal, jewelry heavy with authority. Her eyes are kind but measured, like a queen assessing a new ally.

“I’m Meera Malhotra,” she says. “Arnav’s mother.”

You rise quickly, respect ingrained into your bones. “Namaste, ma’am,” you say.

Meera takes your hands and squeezes gently, but her gaze locks onto your face as if searching for something beneath your politeness. “I know this marriage happened quickly,” she says. “And I know my son is not easy.”

You keep your expression calm. “I’m grateful to be here,” you lie, because truth is dangerous this early.

Meera’s lips curve into something soft. “You’re brave,” she says quietly. “Or you’re trapped.”

Your breath catches.

Meera steps closer, lowering her voice. “Whatever brought you here,” she says, “understand this: this family has enemies. And not all of them live outside these walls.”

Your pulse spikes. So Meera knows. Or suspects. Either way, she isn’t blind.

Before you can answer, Meera glances at Arnav’s attendant and stiffens slightly. Then she pats your hands and steps back into the crowd, leaving you with a sentence that feels like a warning carved into stone.

You find Arnav later in the library, alone except for a guard posted discreetly outside the door. The shelves smell like old books and old money. Arnav sits near the window, chair angled so that anyone walking in would see him in profile, “frail” and distant.

When the door clicks shut, his posture changes. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“How did it go?” he asks.

You exhale. “Your mother basically told me your house is a nest of snakes,” you say.

Arnav’s eyes darken. “She’s right.”

You cross your arms. “So who are we looking for?”

Arnav studies you. “We?” he repeats, as if testing the word.

You lift your chin. “Unless you plan to keep me as a decorative hostage, yes,” you say. “We.”

A flicker of approval passes through his expression. “Good,” he says. “Because I need your eyes.”

He wheels closer, lowering his voice. “The person behind my ‘accident’ is careful,” he says. “They don’t rush. They poison slowly. They push people into corners and call it fate.”

Your stomach twists. “Like my stepmother.”

Arnav’s gaze sharpens. “Exactly,” he says. “She isn’t just a cruel woman. She’s connected.”

You feel anger flare hot. “Connected to who?”

Arnav taps the armrest once, a small habit that seems to replace pacing. “The bank your father owes,” he says. “And a man named Vikram Sethi.”

The name hits you like a slap because you’ve heard it before. Your stepmother once took a call and stepped outside, whispering, “Yes, Mr. Sethi,” as if speaking to someone powerful enough to rearrange air.

“Who is he?” you ask.

Arnav’s voice turns colder. “He’s my cousin,” he says. “And he’s been waiting five years for me to die quietly.”

Your mouth goes dry. “So he wants your inheritance.”

Arnav nods. “And he wants my mother to look too emotional to run the company,” he says. “And he wants my father to look too old to fight.”

You feel the shape of the trap forming.

“And he wants me…?” you begin.

Arnav meets your eyes. “He wants you to be the perfect scapegoat,” he says. “A new bride. An outsider. If anything ‘happens’ to me… people will look at you first.”

Your stomach drops.

You think of the way the relatives watched you at breakfast, like you were entertainment. You think of how easy it would be to whisper, She pushed him. She poisoned him. She wanted money.

Your throat tightens. “So what’s your plan?”

Arnav’s gaze is razor sharp now. “To catch him,” he says. “With proof. Not suspicion. Not rumors. Proof that forces the police to act and the board to obey.”

You swallow. “And how do I help?”

Arnav leans forward. “We provoke him,” he says. “We make him think he’s winning.”

A chill runs down your spine. “How?”

Arnav’s mouth curves into the faintest, most dangerous hint of a smile. “We give him what he wants,” he says. “A vulnerable heir. A naïve bride. And a stepmother who thinks she has control.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. “That sounds like we’re walking into a fire.”

Arnav’s eyes don’t blink. “We are,” he says. “But we’re walking in with water.”

For days, you play your role like you were born to it. You smile at cousins who ask too many questions. You compliment aunties who inspect you like merchandise. You nod politely when someone suggests you should convince Arnav to “sign some paperwork” because it would “help the family.”

Each time, you remember Arnav’s warning: snakes don’t hiss. They offer tea.

At night, you sit with Arnav in your room, speaking in low voices while the palace quiets. He teaches you what to watch for: the servant who lingers too long near the medicine cabinet, the guard who reports to someone outside the official chain, the cousin who insists on being alone with Arnav “for old times.”

You start noticing patterns, and the patterns start noticing you.

One afternoon, your stepmother arrives.

Not with warmth. Not with joy. With purpose.

She enters the palace like she owns it, her sari crisp, her gaze flat, her smile carefully applied like paint. She hugs you briefly, a performance for the staff, then pulls back and looks at Arnav with a professional kind of pity.

“My poor boy,” she says, voice dripping with false compassion. “Life is so unfair.”

Arnav doesn’t respond. He simply watches her.

Your stepmother turns to you and squeezes your shoulder. “Aarohi,” she says sweetly, “you must be very patient. Men like him can be… difficult.”

You feel your blood heat. But you keep your face calm because you’re learning the game.

“We’re doing fine,” you say.

Your stepmother smiles wider, eyes narrowing. “Good,” she says. “Because I’d hate for you to be unhappy.”

The words sound kind. They land like a threat.

Later, when she corners you in the corridor near the courtyard, she drops the sweetness like a mask she’s tired of wearing.

“Remember our agreement,” she says quietly. “You will behave. You will not embarrass this family. You will not make demands.”

You stare at her. “What do you want from me?” you ask.

Her eyes flicker with impatience. “I want you to be smart,” she says. “A rich husband is security. Even a broken one.”

Your stomach twists. “You don’t care about me,” you say, and it comes out steadier than you expected.

Your stepmother’s gaze turns colder. “Care is a luxury,” she says. “We survive. That’s what matters.”

You could scream. You could slap her. You could finally let your pain speak.

Instead, you lean in slightly and smile.

“You’re right,” you say softly. “Survival matters.”

Your stepmother relaxes, satisfied, thinking she has won.

She has no idea you just agreed to survive against her.

That night, Arnav tells you the next move.

“We’re hosting a small family gathering,” he says. “Only close relatives.”

You narrow your eyes. “That doesn’t sound small.”

“It’s a trap,” he admits calmly. “For Vikram.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What kind of trap?”

Arnav’s gaze is steady. “We’re going to pretend my condition is getting worse,” he says. “And we’re going to hint that I’m signing my shares into a trust.”

You stare. “That’s insane.”

Arnav’s expression doesn’t shift. “It’s bait,” he says. “He’ll want to speed things up.”

Fear crawls up your spine. “Speed things up how?”

Arnav’s voice drops. “Poison,” he says. “Or a staged accident. Something clean.”

You feel your skin prickle. “And we’re just going to… wait?”

Arnav reaches out, and you feel the rough strength in his fingers as he takes your hand. “No,” he says. “We’re going to record him.”

He gestures toward a small device on the table, hidden under a tray. “Audio,” he says. “And cameras in the corridor. We don’t need him to confess like a villain. We need him to instruct someone.”

Your throat tightens. “And my stepmother?”

Arnav’s eyes sharpen. “She’ll be there,” he says. “And if she’s connected to him, she’ll move when he moves.”

Your heart pounds so hard it hurts. “What if they hurt you?” you whisper.

Arnav’s gaze softens, just slightly. “They already tried,” he says. “I’m tired of living like a ghost.”

You swallow and squeeze his hand back. “Then we end it,” you say.

Arnav nods once. “Then we end it,” he repeats.

The gathering is held in a grand sitting room with carved arches and soft lamps that make everyone look more elegant than they are. The air smells like expensive incense and hidden intentions. You sit beside Arnav, playing the attentive wife, adjusting his shawl, offering water, smiling at the right moments.

Vikram arrives late, as if to prove he can.

He’s handsome in a polished way, wearing a suit that fits too perfectly and a smile that never touches his eyes. He greets Meera with exaggerated respect, greets Arnav with fake sympathy, and greets you like you’re a new object he’s curious about.

“So you’re the bride,” he says, voice smooth. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” you reply evenly.

Vikram’s gaze dips toward Arnav’s wheelchair. “My cousin,” he says softly, “you’re looking… thinner.”

Arnav’s expression stays blank. “That happens,” he says.

Vikram’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at the weak response.

Your stepmother appears beside Vikram moments later, as if drawn by the same magnet. She doesn’t stand too close, but you notice the small exchanges: a glance, a nod, a shared look of calculation.

Your stomach turns.

The conversation drifts toward business, as it always does in families where love is just another asset. Someone mentions Arnav’s shares. Someone says it would be “wise” to secure the company’s future. Someone makes a comment about “unexpected events” and then laughs like it’s a joke.

Arnav’s hand trembles on the armrest, performance perfect.

Vikram leans in slightly. “Arnav,” he says gently, “you should sign the trust soon. It will help Meera. It will help the family.”

Arnav’s eyes lift, dull and distant. “Maybe,” he murmurs.

Vikram’s smile grows.

Your stepmother watches you from across the room, and in her eyes you see something like triumph. She thinks she delivered you into a life where you’ll be quiet forever.

You keep your face calm, but your heart is screaming.

Later, when the gathering breaks into smaller conversations, Vikram approaches you near the window.

“Must be difficult,” he says softly, nodding toward Arnav.

You tilt your head. “Difficult?”

“To marry a man who cannot…” he pauses delicately, “fulfill the usual expectations.”

Your cheeks heat with anger, but you keep your voice smooth. “I married him,” you say. “Not his legs.”

Vikram’s brows lift, amused. “Bold,” he says. “But boldness fades.”

You smile faintly. “So does patience,” you say.

For a moment, his eyes sharpen, as if he senses something.

Then Arnav’s attendant rolls closer, whispering something in Vikram’s ear. Vikram’s expression shifts, and he nods once.

Your stomach drops as you realize: the attendant is his.

Your eyes flick toward Arnav. He’s watching, calm, like he expected this.

And then Vikram speaks again, low enough that only you can hear.

“Be careful, Aarohi,” he says. “In this family, accidents happen.”

He smiles politely, then walks away.

Your blood turns cold.

That night, Arnav tells you not to sleep.

“We’re close,” he says. “He made a threat.”

You nod, throat tight. “He did,” you whisper.

Arnav’s gaze is focused. “Then he’s moving faster,” he says. “Tonight or tomorrow.”

You stare at him. “What do we do?”

Arnav reaches under the bed and pulls out something that makes your breath catch.

A metal brace. Not a medical brace. A reinforced support designed to stabilize weight, hidden and sleek. Proof of strength disguised as weakness.

He looks at you. “I’m going to stand,” he says.

Your heart jumps. “In front of them?”

Arnav nods slightly. “Not in front of the room,” he says. “In front of the right person.”

A sound comes from outside the door. Soft. Like fabric brushing wood.

Arnav’s eyes harden. He lifts a finger to his lips.

You both go silent.

The handle doesn’t turn. But you hear a faint metallic click near the lock, like someone testing it.

Your pulse roars in your ears.

Arnav’s hand moves with controlled precision to the small device on the nightstand. He taps it once. Recording.

Then the lock clicks again. More deliberate now.

You swallow hard, staring at the door like it’s a mouth about to open.

Arnav’s voice is almost nothing. “Go sit on the bed,” he murmurs. “Act normal.”

You do, trembling, pulling the blanket up like a shield.

Arnav positions his chair facing the door. His posture shifts back into the “helpless” pose, shoulders rigid, face blank.

The lock finally turns.

The door opens slowly.

A servant slips inside, head lowered, carrying a tray.

At first, it looks harmless. Just tea. Just routine.

Then you see the servant’s hands.

They’re wearing gloves.

In a palace where servants never wear gloves to serve tea.

Arnav’s eyes sharpen. “Leave it,” he says coldly.

The servant pauses, then steps closer, tray steady. “Sir,” he murmurs, voice strange, “this is from your mother.”

Arnav doesn’t blink. “My mother doesn’t send tea at midnight,” he says.

The servant’s shoulders tense. His gaze flicks to you, then back to Arnav, calculation visible now.

He sets the tray down, and you see it: a small vial tucked beside the cup, as if it could be slipped in quickly.

Your stomach drops.

Arnav’s voice stays calm. “Who sent you?” he asks.

The servant hesitates.

Arnav’s eyes narrow. “Say the name,” he commands softly.

The servant’s jaw tightens. His hand moves toward his pocket.

Too fast.

Arnav moves faster.

In a blur, Arnav’s “useless” hand snaps up and grabs the servant’s wrist with iron strength. The servant’s eyes widen in shock. His other hand jerks, but Arnav twists, using leverage like someone trained, yanking the man off balance.

The servant crashes to the floor with a thud that shakes the room.

You gasp, scrambling back on the bed.

The servant stares up at Arnav, terror spreading across his face. “You… you can—”

Arnav leans forward, voice like ice. “Who sent you,” he repeats, “or I’ll make you beg for the guards.”

The servant’s eyes dart, desperate. “Vikram,” he blurts. “He said… he said you’d be asleep. He said it’d be quick.”

Your heart pounds so hard it hurts.

Arnav releases the man and presses a button on the wall panel. An alarm. Within seconds, footsteps thunder down the corridor.

The servant starts to crawl backward, but the guards burst in and pin him down.

Arnav’s expression doesn’t change as he looks at the man. “And the poison?” he asks quietly.

The servant’s voice shakes. “It’s… in the vial.”

The guards seize it.

Your stomach twists with nausea, but also something else. Relief, sharp and dizzy.

Arnav looks at you then, eyes steady. “You heard him,” he says softly.

You nod, trembling. “I did.”

Arnav turns to the guards. “Bring my mother,” he says. “And bring Vikram.”

The guard hesitates, eyes flicking to the wheelchair, confusion on his face.

Arnav’s gaze cuts through him. “Now,” he says.

The guard nods, swallowed by obedience, and rushes out.

You sit frozen, staring at Arnav like he’s a stranger you just met in your own bedroom. Not because he moved. But because of how controlled he was. How ready. How long he’s been living with a blade at his throat.

Arnav exhales slowly, then looks down at his own hands as if they disgust him. “I hate this,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “But you’re good at it,” you whisper.

He meets your eyes. “I didn’t want you to see it,” he says.

Your throat tightens. “Too late.”

And something passes between you then, something more intimate than romance. A shared fear. A shared truth. The beginning of trust built in fire.

Meera arrives first, hair loose, face pale. When she sees the guards and the servant pinned down, her eyes widen. Then she looks at Arnav, and something in her expression shifts from fear to fury.

“What happened?” she demands.

Arnav speaks calmly. “Vikram sent him,” he says. “With poison.”

Meera’s face tightens, pain flashing across her features. “I knew it,” she whispers, and it sounds like grief.

Then Vikram arrives.

He comes in wearing silk sleep clothes, acting annoyed, as if being summoned at midnight is an insult. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on the servant, and for a fraction of a second, panic flickers in his eyes.

Then it’s gone.

He laughs lightly. “What is this?” he says. “Some kind of drama?”

Meera steps forward. “Don’t,” she says sharply.

Vikram’s smile remains. “Auntie, please,” he says, voice smooth. “You’re upset.”

Arnav looks at him, expression empty. “He confessed,” Arnav says.

Vikram tilts his head, feigning concern. “Confessed to what?”

Arnav nods toward the recording device. “We have it,” he says. “Your name. Your instructions. The poison.”

Vikram’s eyes narrow. “You have an audio of a servant saying my name,” he says calmly. “That means nothing.”

Meera’s hand trembles. “You tried to kill him,” she whispers.

Vikram’s gaze turns cold. “Arnav has been a burden for years,” he says softly, and the cruelty under his polish finally shows. “The company needs a leader, not a symbol in a wheelchair.”

Your stomach churns. You step forward before you can stop yourself. “So you decided murder was leadership?” you snap.

Vikram’s eyes flick to you, amused. “And you,” he says, “are what? The loyal wife?”

You feel your blood burn. “I’m the witness,” you say.

Vikram’s smile tightens. “Be careful,” he murmurs. “Witnesses disappear.”

Meera inhales sharply.

And then Arnav does something that makes the entire room freeze.

He sets his hands on the armrests, muscles tightening, and slowly, deliberately, he stands.

Not with a dramatic flourish. With controlled pain and practiced strength. His legs tremble slightly, but they hold. He rises to full height, towering, his face calm, his eyes locked on Vikram like a verdict.

Vikram stares, shock cracking his composure. “You… you—”

Arnav takes one step forward.

Then another.

Vikram stumbles back instinctively, as if the sight of Arnav standing is more terrifying than any accusation. “You lied,” Vikram spits.

Arnav’s voice is quiet and deadly. “And you confessed,” he says.

Vikram’s eyes dart to Meera, to the guards, to the servant, to you. His mind races, looking for exits.

Your stepmother, who has been lingering near the doorway, suddenly steps forward.

“She’s lying,” she says sharply, pointing at you. “Aarohi has always been dramatic. She wants attention. She’s trying to ruin this family.”

The sound of your stepmother’s voice in that moment is like ice water poured down your spine. She’s here. Of course she is. Snakes don’t miss feeding time.

Arnav turns his head slowly toward her.

“Mrs. Sharma,” he says, voice measured. “Interesting timing.”

Your stepmother’s eyes flicker, then harden. “I came because I heard screaming,” she says. “I was worried.”

You laugh once, bitter. “You don’t worry,” you say. “You calculate.”

Your stepmother’s gaze slices you. “Watch your mouth,” she hisses.

Meera steps forward, eyes sharp now. “Why are you here?” she demands.

Your stepmother smiles thinly. “Because I care about my stepdaughter,” she lies smoothly.

Arnav’s gaze doesn’t move from her. “Then you won’t mind explaining your calls to Vikram Sethi,” he says.

Silence slams down.

Your stepmother’s face doesn’t change at first, but her eyes do. Something tightens. Something cornered.

“That’s absurd,” she says.

Arnav nods toward the guard. “Show her,” he says.

A guard steps forward holding a phone recovered from the servant, messages displayed. Numbers. Names. Your stepmother’s contact saved under a false label.

Your breath catches.

Your stepmother’s composure finally cracks, just slightly. “That proves nothing,” she snaps. “Anyone can save a number under any name.”

Arnav’s voice stays calm. “True,” he says. “That’s why we also have the bank records.”

Meera’s eyes widen. “Bank records?” she repeats.

Arnav’s gaze flicks to you briefly. “Your father’s ‘debts’ were engineered,” he says. “Loans approved unusually fast, penalties triggered prematurely, signatures forged. The same bank financing Vikram’s private acquisitions.”

You feel dizzy. “My father…” you whisper.

Your stepmother’s face goes pale, and for the first time, you see fear on her. Not sadness. Not regret. Fear of consequences.

Vikram recovers, anger rising. “You can’t prove any of that,” he snaps.

Arnav takes another step forward, close enough now that Vikram has to tilt his head up. “I don’t need to prove everything tonight,” Arnav says softly. “I only need to prove enough.”

Meera turns to the guards, voice shaking with controlled fury. “Call the police,” she says. “Now.”

Vikram lunges for the door.

The guards block him.

Your stepmother tries to slip away behind them, but Meera’s voice cuts through the room like a whip.

“And her too,” Meera says. “She doesn’t leave.”

Your stepmother freezes.

You stand there, trembling, watching the empire of your stepmother’s “practicality” collapse in real time. She taught you to marry security. She never imagined security would come with handcuffs for her.

In the days that follow, the palace becomes a storm of lawyers, police, and whispered news. Vikram is arrested pending investigation, his polished smile gone, replaced by a rage that makes him look ordinary. Your stepmother is questioned, her calm facade shredded by evidence and witnesses you didn’t know existed.

Your father, when you finally see him, looks like a man waking from a long nightmare. He clutches your hands and cries like he’s ashamed of how much he didn’t protect you. You hold him and realize you’re not angry at him anymore.

You’re angry at the woman who used him as a lever to move you.

Arnav’s family moves carefully, controlling the narrative publicly while letting the law do its work privately. The Malhotras are powerful, yes, but you learn something important: power doesn’t always mean safety. Sometimes it means you have more shadows.

One evening, you find Arnav in the courtyard, sitting alone, wheelchair beside him like a discarded costume. He’s standing, leaning slightly on the stone railing, staring at the lanterns swaying in the wind.

You approach quietly. “How does it feel,” you ask, “to stand in the open?”

He doesn’t turn right away. “Like stepping into sunlight after years underground,” he says. “Bright. And dangerous.”

You come to his side. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you ask softly.

Arnav exhales. “Because everyone who knew became a target,” he says. “And because I didn’t trust easily.”

You swallow. “Do you trust me now?”

Arnav turns his head, and his eyes meet yours, unguarded for once. “You didn’t run,” he says. “You didn’t sell me. You didn’t flinch when you saw what I’m capable of.”

He pauses, then adds quietly, “And you didn’t become like them.”

Your throat tightens. “I was close,” you admit. “Not to being like them… but to believing I deserved nothing better than survival.”

Arnav’s gaze softens. “Survival is the beginning,” he says. “Not the whole story.”

A breeze lifts the edge of your saree. The palace lights glow warm against the night. And for the first time since your stepmother’s trap snapped shut, you feel something else inside you.

Choice.

You look at Arnav. “So what happens now?” you ask.

Arnav’s jaw tightens slightly, as if he’s afraid to hope. “Now,” he says, “we decide what this marriage becomes.”

You stare at him. “You mean… we can end it?”

Arnav nods. “If you want,” he says. “You were forced into this. I won’t be another cage.”

Your chest tightens. You think of his hands catching the servant’s wrist. You think of him standing, trembling, refusing to be a ghost. You think of how he could have treated you like a pawn and didn’t.

You step closer. “I didn’t marry you because I wanted to,” you say honestly. “But I stayed because I saw who you are when no one is clapping.”

Arnav’s breath catches slightly.

You continue, voice steady. “I don’t want a ‘quiet, secure life’ if it means living numb,” you say. “I want a life where the truth is allowed to exist, even when it’s messy.”

Arnav looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. “And what about love?” he asks softly.

You swallow. “I don’t know,” you admit. “But I know this: trust grew here faster than fear did.”

Arnav nods slowly, as if accepting something precious. He reaches out, and his fingers brush yours, gentle despite the strength you know he carries.

“Then we start there,” he says.

And you realize the shocking truth you discovered on the floor that night wasn’t only that your husband could move.

It was that you could too.

Not your legs.

Your life.

Months later, your stepmother’s case ends exactly the way she never planned: publicly, with consequences. She doesn’t get to rewrite the story. She doesn’t get to call you ungrateful. She doesn’t get to hide behind “I did what I had to.”

The court doesn’t care about her excuses.

Your father’s debts are restructured, and the forged documents come to light. He moves into a smaller home, humbler but real, and for the first time in years he sleeps without flinching at the sound of his phone.

Arnav goes to physiotherapy openly now, no longer trapped by the mask. Some days he walks without support. Some days he doesn’t. Healing isn’t a straight road, it’s a maze, but he walks it anyway because he refuses to live as a myth.

And you… you change too.

You stop shrinking your voice to fit someone else’s comfort. You stop apologizing for wanting more than survival. You learn how to stand beside power without letting it swallow you.

One night, you and Arnav sit on the palace balcony, the city lights of Jaipur spread below like scattered stars. He’s holding a cup of tea, hands steady. You’re wearing simple clothes, no heavy jewelry, no performance.

Arnav looks at you and says, “Do you ever regret staying?”

You think about the fear, the trap, the humiliation. You think about the floor, the shock, the truth in his muscles. You think about how your life could have gone smaller if you had accepted your stepmother’s lesson as gospel.

Then you shake your head.

“No,” you say. “Because I didn’t just marry a rich man.”

Arnav raises an eyebrow.

You smile, small but real. “I married a man who survived,” you say. “And I became a woman who chose.”

Arnav’s gaze softens, and he reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Then we’ll keep choosing,” he says.

And this time, when you lean into him, it isn’t because you’re trapped.

It’s because you finally know the difference between a cage and a life.

THE END.