Wrapped in a soft, warm shawl, Aaradhya stood near the tall glass doors that opened to the balcony of their room. 

The winter wind was sharp tonight, yet she barely felt it. Her gaze was fixed on the driveway below, where two sleek cars—one belonging to Harshavardhan's parents and the other his own—stood with their headlights piercing through the fog before finally disappearing into the darkness beyond the iron gates of the Acharya estate.

The grand mansion, which never slept, suddenly felt unsettlingly quiet. Even the guards seemed to move more cautiously, as though aware that something unspeakable had occurred.

 Aaradhya didn't know where they were going or whom they were meeting at this unholy hour, but one thing she knew clearly—Harshavardhan had told her to stay inside, to rest, and not to worry.

 And when he said something, it wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

She turned her eyes away from the now-empty driveway and slowly walked back toward the bed. 

The room was still dimly lit by the amber glow of the night lamp, its warmth failing to touch the unease curling in her chest.

 She could still see him in her mind—how he had walked in a few minutes ago, composed yet disturbed, tension radiating from his otherwise impassive face.

There was no visible sign of sweat, no frantic movement, nothing that could betray his emotions to a stranger. 

But Aaradhya had spent enough nights under the same roof, watching him in silence, learning the quiet details of his body language. 

The stiffness in his shoulders, the subtle clench of his jaw, and the slight heaviness in his breath had told her what his words did not—something was wrong.

He had only said one thing before leaving: "Stay here. Sleep. I'll be back in a few hours."
And then he was gone, leaving her with more questions than answers.

Aaradhya let out a soft sigh as she watched the main gates close from her balcony view. She stood there for another minute, staring into the night, wondering what could have shaken the ever-composed Harshavardhan Singh Acharya.

 It was a rare sight—almost unnatural—to see him worried, even slightly disturbed.

What could make the entire Acharya family leave the mansion in the middle of the night like that?
Whatever it was, it had to be important—urgent enough to pull him away from her side despite his obsessive control over her movements and safety.

Finally, Aaradhya turned off the balcony lights and walked back toward the bed. The silence of the room pressed down on her ears. 

She sat on the edge for a while, her thoughts restless, before lying down and pulling the blanket up to her shoulders. 

She reached for her phone, its screen lighting up her face softly in the dark. The clock read 1:10 a.m.

She unlocked it absentmindedly, scrolling through her empty chats and unread messages just to distract herself. 

Her mind wouldn't stop circling back to what might have happened—was it related to business? Or family? Harshavardhan rarely showed emotions, and when he did, it was always something grave.

Deciding that overthinking wasn't good for her—especially now, when stress could affect the baby—she exhaled deeply, turned off the phone, and shut her eyes.

But just as her body began to relax, a soft ting echoed in the silence. Her phone lit up again. Aaradhya frowned, her pulse skipping slightly. 

Maybe it was Harshavardhan messaging her to update her or remind her to rest. She reached for the phone with a small smile, expecting to see his name on the screen.

But her heart froze for a second when she saw the sender.

Priya.

Her cousin. The woman whose choices had rewritten Aaradhya's entire fate.

Aaradhya sat up, blinking at the name as though she were seeing a ghost. 

Her fingers trembled slightly as she stared at the notification—just one message, short, unreadable in the preview, yet heavy enough to make her chest tighten.

Why now?
After six long months of silence, of absence, of pretending as if she didn't exist—why was Priya suddenly reaching out in the middle of the night?

Memories began to flood back, unbidden and merciless—the sound of Priya's parents crying, the chaos of that night, the letter she had left behind. Aaradhya's own wedding day that wasn't supposed to be hers. 

The moment when Harshavardhan's cold, commanding voice had chosen her to replace the bride who had vanished, sealing her fate in an arrangement she never wanted.

Her throat felt dry. She stared at the phone screen again, her thumb hovering above the message.
Was it guilt? Was Priya trying to explain herself? Or... was something else going on?

A thousand questions spiraled in her head, each darker than the last. 

The timing was too strange—Priya's sudden message, the family's abrupt departure, Harshavardhan's rare unease. It couldn't be a coincidence.

As another gust of winter wind pressed against the glass doors, Aaradhya pulled the blanket closer to herself, her heart racing softly in the quiet. 

Whatever this was—it wasn't normal.
And deep down, she had a feeling that the night wasn't going to end in peace.

Aaradhya's fingers trembled as she tapped the notification. Her pulse had begun to thrum painfully in her ears, each beat echoing louder than the last.
The message opened.

It wasn't a text.
It was a video.

A single thumbnail filled her screen — dark, grainy, and somehow wrong. The file was already loaded, the play button glowing faintly in the darkness of her room. 

She hesitated for a long second, her thumb hovering above it, a quiet dread crawling up her spine.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she pressed play.

The screen flickered.
And then she froze.

Her vision blurred for a heartbeat — not because the image was unclear, but because her mind refused to accept what she was seeing. 

The man in the frame... the way he stood, the way his shoulders curved, the sharp tilt of his jaw under dim yellow light...

It was him.
It was Harshavardhan.

Her very own husband.

He looked different — disheveled, drenched, his crisp white shirt darkened with blood that made her stomach twist.

 His eyes in the video were wild, colder than she had ever seen, filled with a rage that didn't belong to the man she had known for six months.

Aaradhya's hand flew to her mouth. A sharp gasp escaped her throat, small but loud enough to echo in the quiet of the room. 

She could feel her entire body trembling. Her mind screamed at her to stop watching, but her eyes — wide and terrified — refused to move away from the screen.

The sound of a struggle echoed faintly through her phone's speakers, muffled and distorted, but clear enough to make her heart twist. 

The voice that followed — deep, rough, unmistakably his — made her stomach drop. It was Harshavardhan's tone—the one he used when angry, when commanding, when warning.

The phone slipped from her shaking hands, landing softly on the blanket beside her.

"No..." she whispered under her breath, as if the single word could somehow undo what she had just seen. "No, no, no..."

Her breathing grew fast, shallow. The walls of the room seemed to close in.
She pressed both palms to her ears, trying to block out the sounds that were still ringing inside her mind — the echoes of her husband's voice, the terrible coldness in it.

 Her tears came freely now, hot and unstoppable, tracing down her cheeks as her throat tightened.

Her heart refused to believe it, but her eyes had seen too clearly.

The same man who had just hours ago held her protectively in his arms... who had brushed a strand of hair from her face and whispered sleep... that same man was now someone she couldn't even recognize.

Her phone buzzed again.

 A soft, cruel sound in the silence.

She stared at it through blurred eyes, fear crawling up her spine like frost. Slowly, she reached for it, wiping her tears away with the back of her trembling hand.

Three more messages.
All from Priya.

And each message carried another video.

She didn't open them — she couldn't. The small preview images on the screen were enough to make her vision darken, to make her breath stumble. 

Each thumbnail was shadowy, blurred, but the shape of the man in them... the stance, the way he moved, the darkness in the scenes — all pointed to one truth.

It was all him.

Harshavardhan Singh Acharya.

Aaradhya's heart began to race so fast it hurt. She pressed the lock button and tossed the phone onto the far side of the bed, as if distance could stop the horror from existing. 

Her hands went straight to her head, clutching her hair as she tried to steady herself.

"No... it can't be... it can't..." she whispered, rocking slightly, the words tumbling out between broken breaths.

She had known he was cold. Ruthless. Intimidating. But this—this was beyond anything she could comprehend. What kind of world had she married into? 

What kind of man shared her bed, spoke to her in that calm tone, touched her belly, and talked about their child's future — all while hiding something this monstrous behind his composed face?

Her lips trembled as she reached for the water bottle on the nightstand. 

Her throat felt scorched. She gulped down the water desperately, almost half the bottle in one go, trying to quiet the pounding of her heart.

Her entire body shook as she set the bottle back down. 

She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. Her mind was spinning, flashes of her wedding night, his face, his touch — all clashing against the image from that video.

She stumbled toward the drawer beside the bed, pulling it open with unsteady hands. 

Inside lay the small bottle of tablets her doctor had prescribed — for anxiety, to help her calm down when the pressure became too much.

Her fingers fumbled with the cap. She managed to get one pill out, her vision blurring with tears as she swallowed it dry. Her hands fell weakly to her lap afterward, her breath still uneven.

In that silent, dimly lit room, Aaradhya sat frozen — a woman caught between the safety she thought she knew and the reality that had just shattered it.

The man she had feared was now someone she didn't even understand.

And for the first time in six months, she realized she wasn't just trapped in a mansion...
She was trapped with a stranger.

Her tears wouldn't stop. They came in waves — hot, endless, blinding — blurring the room around her until she could barely see. 

At first, she tried to wipe them away with the back of her trembling hand, but soon there were too many. 

They spilled freely down her cheeks, soaking into the shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her quiet sobs grew louder, turning into small, broken gasps that filled the silence of the vast room.

Each breath hurt. Each heartbeat felt heavier than the last.

She couldn't believe it — couldn't understand how her life had turned into something so twisted, so cruelly ironic. 

She, Aaradhya — the girl who once dreamt of love, of safety, of a quiet home filled with laughter — was married to a man who lived in darkness. A man the world might call powerful, but in her eyes now... he was something else entirely.

A criminal. A monster.
A murderer.

She covered her mouth with both hands, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as another sob escaped her throat. 

The sound of it was small but raw — the sound of someone whose world had just fallen apart in front of her eyes.

Her thoughts raced, colliding violently in her mind. 

How could she have been so blind?

Every little thing suddenly began to make sense — the way the staff went silent when he entered a room, the way his phone calls always ended abruptly when she came near, the flashes of temper, the stains on his shirts that he always dismissed as wine or paint. 

The chilling authority in his voice whenever he gave orders, the fear in people's eyes when they met his gaze — things she had noticed, yes, but had forced herself to ignore.

Now they all screamed the truth at her.

Her breaths came uneven, her chest heaving as she whispered through tears, "I–I was with him... I slept beside him, I... I trusted him..." 

Her voice broke, her hands clutching her stomach instinctively. The motion was almost automatic, protective.

 "And now... I'm carrying his child."

The thought made her freeze. Her tears stopped for a second, replaced by a suffocating wave of dread. Her child. 

Their child.

 What kind of world was this baby coming into? What kind of man was its father?

She shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head as if that would erase the images burned into her memory. 

"No, no, no... it can't be true," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It's... it's not him. It can't be him. It must be fake."

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true.
Those eyes, that voice — no one could fake him.

Aaradhya bent forward, clutching her shawl tightly, her sobs muffled against the fabric. Her body shook from exhaustion and shock, her mind unable to process the avalanche of truth crushing her. 

Every memory with him — every smile, every argument, every quiet night — came rushing back, each one feeling poisoned now.

She had seen his tenderness, his rare, fleeting warmth. 

The way he would hold her hand when she was too anxious to sleep, the way he'd place a cautious palm on her belly as if guarding both her and their unborn child.

 How could the same man have such darkness inside him? How could he show her care and still be capable of... that?

Her phone vibrated suddenly, startling her so hard that she flinched. The device lay near the edge of the bed, the screen glowing faintly in the dark. Her heart skipped a beat.

Priya.

Her cousin's name flashed on the screen.

Aaradhya's breath caught in her throat. The same Priya who had run away, who had left her to marry Harshavardhan in her place.

 The same Priya who hadn't called, texted, or shown a single sign of existence in six long months — until tonight.

Her mind screamed, Don't answer it.
Her body, trembling and weak, agreed. She wasn't ready — not to talk, not to listen, not to face another truth.

 She could barely stand under the weight of the one she'd just learned.

But the phone kept ringing.
Over and over.

The sound pierced the silence, echoing like a cruel reminder that the nightmare wasn't over yet. Her heart pounded against her ribs, faster and faster. 

A part of her — the scared, fragile part — wanted to throw the phone away, to pretend none of this was happening. But another part, small and desperate, wanted to know more.

She needed answers.

Maybe Priya knew something. Maybe she had sent the videos for a reason — maybe she was trying to warn her. 

Maybe there was a story behind those horrifying images that Aaradhya didn't know yet.

Her fingers hovered over the phone for several seconds, shaking so badly that she could barely grip the device. 

Her reflection on the black screen looked ghostly — tear-streaked, pale, hollow-eyed. She didn't even recognize herself anymore.

Her thumb moved closer to the green button. Her heart hammered painfully as if warning her not to do it.

___________

For a few seconds, there was only silence — a heavy, suffocating silence that filled the room after the call ended.
The screen went black, and her reflection stared back at her, pale and frightened. Aaradhya couldn't move; her mind refused to catch up with what she'd just heard.

Priya.
Her voice still echoed in her ears — hurried, panicked, trembling in a way that made Aaradhya's stomach twist.

The words replayed over and over in her head.

"Those videos were real. No AI, no editing. He's dangerous, Aaradhya. For you, for the baby. Please, if you want to keep your child safe, come outside. I'm waiting near the back door."

Her heart thudded painfully against her chest.

Real.
The videos were real.

Aaradhya's throat went dry as she stared at the wall, the dim golden light of the bedside lamp flickering against her tear-streaked face. 

A part of her wanted to deny it, to scream that Priya was lying — that this was some cruel trap — but deep down, she knew Priya's tone wasn't that of a liar. It was the sound of someone terrified, desperate.

And "we"?
Who was we?

The word lingered in her mind like a shadow. If Priya wasn't alone, who had come with her? Was she with someone safe — or someone worse? But right now, that wasn't the main question.

The main question was: Should she go?

Her eyes drifted to the nightstand where her phone lay face-down, then to the closed door of the bedroom. 

The mansion was silent. Harshavardhan had left a few minutes ago — she'd seen the cars disappear through the main gates herself. But the walls of this place still felt alive, watching her.

 Even when he wasn't here, his presence lingered in every corner — cold, heavy, and suffocating.

She placed a trembling hand over her belly, feeling the faint movement beneath. The warmth of it grounded her, but also made her chest ache.

 "I can't leave you here," she whispered, her voice cracking. 

"Not here... not with him."

Her heart screamed at her to run.
Her mind warned her not to.

What if this was a trap? What if someone was trying to harm her — or worse, take her child? But then, what if Priya was right? What if staying meant putting her baby in danger?

The fear for her unborn child drowned every other thought.

Without another second's hesitation, she stood up. Her knees felt weak, her body trembling slightly, but she forced herself to move. 

She wrapped a thick shawl around her shoulders, slipped her feet into soft slippers, and glanced at the large mirror one last time.

The woman staring back at her didn't look like Aaradhya anymore.
She looked haunted, fragile... but determined.

Quietly, she opened the bedroom door and stepped into the dim corridor.

 The mansion was vast and eerily silent — the kind of silence that hums faintly in your ears. Only the soft ticking of the antique clock echoed through the hallways.

She moved slowly, her hand brushing against the cold wall for balance. Her heart raced faster with every step she took.

When she reached the main staircase, two guards stationed near the door straightened immediately. 

Their eyes widened in mild confusion at the sight of her wandering around at such an hour. Aaradhya forced a small, polite smile, masking the panic that threatened to spill out of her.

"Ma'am? Is everything alright?" one of them asked.

"Yes," she whispered softly. "I'm fine... just feeling a little suffocated. The room feels too closed, I just wanted to take a short walk. The doctor said night air can help me relax."

They exchanged a quick look — hesitant. One of them stepped forward slightly. "If you wish, we'll accompany you, ma'am."

Her pulse quickened. She couldn't let them come with her — not when she was planning to slip away. "No, that won't be necessary," she said quickly, forcing a tired smile. "I just need some time alone. Please."

"Ma'am, it's not safe for you to—"

"Please," she interrupted softly, her voice gentle but firm. "Or else I'll have to call him and tell him that you're not letting me do something as small as take a walk."

The moment his name was implied, both guards stiffened. Fear flickered across their faces, immediate and unhidden. They bowed slightly, stepping back. "As you wish, ma'am."

She nodded and continued walking, her slippers making almost no sound against the polished marble floor. When she finally turned the corner toward the back side of the mansion, her breath began to tremble again.

The corridor leading to the rear entrance was dim, the lights deliberately low. Outside, the garden lamps cast faint halos through the fog that had settled thickly across the lawn. The night was still — eerily still — and the cold air seeped through the glass walls, making her shiver.

As she approached the back door, she froze.

There were guards there too — two of them — standing tall, rifles slung across their shoulders. Their eyes caught sight of her instantly, surprise flashing through them. 

The guards looked visibly perplexed, exchanging quick glances as the woman before them — Mrs. Aaradhya Harshavardhan Singh Acharya — stood at the back door, wrapped in a shawl, her hair loose and slightly damp from the warm bath earlier. It was 1:27 a.m., the hour when the mansion usually slept under the shadow of silence, and yet here she was — the mistress of the house — standing before the back gate, breathing heavily, eyes darting nervously.

"Ma'am?" one of the guards finally spoke, his voice uncertain, polite yet careful. "Do you need something?"

Aaradhya froze.
Her mind went blank for a split second as panic rose like a tide inside her chest. She had to think of something — anything — that sounded believable. 

But what could possibly justify her presence at the back gate in the middle of the night when her husband wasn't even home?

"Umm, I—I..." she stammered, fingers gripping the edge of her shawl tightly. "My... my favourite shirt. Yes, my favourite shirt flew away from the terrace earlier, and I completely forgot about it until now." 

She spoke too quickly, the words tumbling out in one breath as her heartbeat hammered in her throat. "I remembered it just now, so I thought I'd come and look for it. That's all."

Both guards blinked, their confusion deepening. Their faces remained neutral — expressionless, trained — but their eyes betrayed a flicker of bewilderment.

 Still, they kept their heads bowed slightly; none of them dared to meet her eyes directly unless absolutely necessary.

"Ma'am," one of them said hesitantly, "would you like us to look for it? We can check the garden and—"

"Yes!" Aaradhya said too quickly, nodding eagerly. "And I'll help you. I know exactly where it might have fallen, I just need a little—"

"Forgive us, ma'am," the second guard interrupted politely but firmly. 

"Sir has given strict orders that you are not to step outside without his permission. We can't allow you beyond this door unless he says so."

Her heart sank.
Her throat felt dry, and she could almost feel the pulse pounding against her temples. 

She forced herself to take a deep breath — slow, deep, like the doctor had told her to when she felt anxious. Calm down, Aaradhya. Think.

"But I really do know where it fell," she tried again, her voice soft, pleading, with the faintest tremble. "It's just there — not far at all. I'll be back in two minutes."

The guards looked at each other again, their hesitation obvious. "Ma'am, please allow us to call sir and confirm. It's not about distrust — it's protocol—"

"No!" she blurted out before she could stop herself, the word sharp and panicked. Both guards straightened instantly at her tone. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice softer, nervous but composed. 

"I mean... please, don't disturb him. You know how he left — in a hurry. If you call him over something so small, he'll be angry. And you know how he is when someone  calls him for no reason."

That made them stiffen. Even the mention of his temper seemed to work better than any command. Still, they hesitated.

Aaradhya's fingers brushed under her eyes and, without much effort, a few tears escaped. Thank you, pregnancy hormones, she thought, her lips trembling just right, her eyes glistening under the dim lamp.

 "Please," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "I'm already not feeling well. I just need to breathe. I promise I'll come back in a minute."

The sight of her tears — the soft, fragile wife of the most feared man they knew — broke through their resistance. The guards immediately nodded, apologetic and flustered.

"O-of course, ma'am. Please don't cry. We'll come with you," one said hurriedly, gesturing to his companion. "We'll call for more men to ensure your safety."

Her heart dropped again. More guards? That wasn't part of the plan.

Within moments, five more guards joined them, each armed, tall, and alert. The heavy metal latch clanked as they pulled the back door open. 

Cold night air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. The fog outside seemed thicker now, swallowing the far end of the garden.

Aaradhya's breath quickened as she stepped out, her eyes scanning the driveway. The gravel glimmered faintly under the garden lights. But there was no sign of any car. No movement. No Priya.

Her mind spun. Where is she? Where's the car?

The guards followed close behind her, their boots crunching softly against the gravel.

"Ma'am," one of them asked, glancing around, "where did you see the shirt last time?"

"Th-there," she said quickly, pointing toward a random patch near the line of trimmed bushes at the far edge of the lawn. 

Her voice trembled as she tried to sound casual. "I think it flew that way. The wind was strong earlier."

She bent slightly, pretending to search through the bushes. Her fingers brushed cold leaves as her heart pounded faster.

The guards spread out obediently, moving their flashlights along the ground, checking the corners of the garden. They were distracted — perfect. She was about to step back quietly, thinking maybe she could slip away toward the gate, when—

A hand shot out from behind the hedge.

Before she could even gasp, the hand clamped tightly over her mouth. Her entire body went rigid, eyes wide in shock.

 A strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her backward with terrifying strength. She tried to scream, but the sound was muffled against the rough palm pressing her lips.

Her eyes darted wildly to the guards — but they were still searching, their flashlights pointed in the opposite direction, completely unaware.

Her pulse hammered.
Her body thrashed weakly, panic surging.

But then, as the figure dragged her into the shadows, she caught a glimpse of his face — tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black.

 His face was partly hidden under a cap, but his jawline and the faint scar running along his neck were visible.

It wasn't Harshavardhan.

The realization made her freeze.

She opened her mouth to scream again, but his grip tightened gently, not painfully — almost like a silent reassurance. He leaned close enough for her to hear his low whisper against her ear.

"Don't make a sound. You're safe."

Safe.
The word barely registered through her panic.

He pulled her quickly through the darker side of the garden, staying low, keeping to the shadows until they reached the corner where the fog was thickest. 

A car engine purred softly nearby — hidden behind the tall hedge that separated the mansion's property from the private road.

And then Aaradhya saw her.

Standing beside the car, dressed in a long coat, her hair tied back, eyes glistening with both relief and guilt — Priya.

For a second, everything inside Aaradhya froze.

The last time she'd seen that face, it was through fake, pretending to be happy — on the night before the wedding that never happened.

Now, six months later, she stood in front of her again, the same eyes filled with urgency and fear.

"Priya..." Aaradhya whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling as the man finally released her. Her legs wobbled, but the moment she saw her cousin, a strange relief flooded through her chest.

 At least the one who dragged her wasn't a stranger — even though the situation was no less terrifying.

Priya rushed forward, grabbing Aaradhya's cold hands tightly. "Thank God," she breathed, eyes wide with desperation. "Come, we don't have time. Please — get in the car. Now."

Aaradhya stood there, frozen between shock and disbelief, staring first at Priya, then at the man beside her — the silent giant who had just dragged her out of her own home.

She couldn't understand what was happening.

All she knew was that she had crossed a line from which there might be no return — and that somewhere, miles away, the man she was running from would soon find out.

And when he did...
The night wouldn't stay silent anymore.