Arohi's POV
The house is quiet when Raghu steps inside, his voice careful but urgent.
"Ma'am… there's something you should know."
I barely look up. "Speak."
"It's Aryan. He's at Westwood Café. With Meera."
I freeze for a second. Meera? With Aryan?
"And?"
"He's found something. A file. On Suryavanshi Enterprises."
My heartbeat slows, then quickens.
What the hell is Aryan doing?
I know he's reckless, but this? Digging into my father?
My grip tightens on the armrest.
"Where exactly?"
"Westwood Café," Raghu repeats. "And ma'am… it's serious. Money laundering, disappearances, murders—"
I don't wait to hear the rest.
I grab my keys and storm out.
I reach the café in minutes, but I don't go in right away.
I stay in my car, fingers gripping the steering wheel, watching.
Through the glass, I see them—Meera and Aryan—poring over that damn file like they've uncovered the secret to the universe.
Fools.
Do they really think this will change anything?
Does Aryan really think he can go against Suryavanshi Enterprises and survive?
For a second, I almost laugh. Let them talk. Let them feel powerful.
Father will take care of everything.
But no—I will take care of it.
I step out of the car and walk in.
The moment I enter, I feel the shift in the air.
I don't slow. Don't hesitate.
I reach their table, snatch the folder from Aryan's hands, and start reading.
Loudly.
Clearly.
With no fear.
"Money laundering. Kidnapping. Murder."
The weight of eyes turns toward me.
Whispers rise. Phones lift to record.
Let them.
I keep going, each word sharper than the last.
Then—
I turn a page.
And my entire world shatters.
CASE FILE 47: DEATH OF AASHA MALHOTRA.
Status: Staged accident. House fire.
Real cause: Ordered execution. Perpetrator: Ratan Malhotra.
My breath hitches.
My hands turn to ice.
No. No. This is a lie.
My father's name. My father.
My mother—murdered? By him?
Not an accident. Not fate. Not some cruel twist of destiny.
A lie.
Rage slams into me.
I want to tear the page apart. To erase it.
I want to destroy everything.
And then—
My fingers brush cold steel.
The gun.
The one my father gave me. To protect myself.
My breath turns ragged. My vision blurs.
I can't think. I can't stop.
The world fades—except for the fury crashing through me.
BANG!
A gunshot cracks through the café.
Aryan collapses, screaming, clutching his leg. Blood seeps into his jeans.
Screams. Chaos. Chairs crash. People run.
But I don't hear any of it.
My ears ring. My chest heaves.
I have shot him.
I have actually shot him.
But it isn't enough.
It isn't enough to silence the truth.
I turn. And run.
Out the door. Into the car.
Away from the lies.
Away from the truth.
Because if I stop now—if I think, if I feel—
I might never survive it.
I run.
I don't know where I am going—I just need to get away.
My car.
My hands fumble as I throw the door open, slam it shut behind me, and grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
My chest is too tight. Too full. I can't breathe.
I want to cry. I want to scream.
But not a single tear falls.
I stare at my trembling hands. The same hands that just pulled the trigger.
Aryan.
This is his fault.
If he had just stayed out of it. If he hadn't dug into things that weren't meant to be found. If he hadn't made me see.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shut out the image of the paper.
But another one takes its place.
A memory.
A garden.
Sunlight filtering through the leaves. Flowers swaying in the wind, filling the air with their sweet scent.
And laughter. My laughter.
I am small, sitting on a wooden swing, my feet barely reaching the ground.
"Hold tight, Aaru!"
Mama.
She pushes the swing, her hands warm and gentle against my back.
I squeal in delight as I go higher, the wind rushing past me.
Then she stops the swing, kneels in front of me, and cups my face in her soft hands.
"My little princess," she whispers, her eyes shining.
She takes out a small tiffin box, opens it, and picks up a piece of roti dipped in ghee and sugar.
"Open your mouth," she says, smiling.
I obey, and she feeds me. It melts on my tongue, warm and sweet—like her.
"Aarohi," she calls my name, her voice so full of love that it fills my whole heart.
I smile at her. "Mama, I love you."
She brushes my hair back, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "And I love you more."
The memory fades.
I gasp, sucking in a sharp breath.
The garden disappears. The warmth vanishes.
All that's left is the cold, suffocating reality.
She is gone.
And my father—**the man I trusted, the man I loved—**took her from me.
A sob builds in my throat, but I swallow it down.
I won't cry.
I can't.
Instead, I grip the steering wheel harder, my nails digging into the leather.
I will not fall apart.
I will not break.
But one thing is clear—I can never go back home.
Never.