Aarohi woke to the soft chirping of birds drifting through the partially open sliding door of her bedroom balcony. The gentle morning sounds blended with the cool breeze that slipped into the room, carrying the crisp freshness of dawn. Instinctively, she pulled the blanket closer around herself, curling deeper into its warmth as she tried to ignore the growing chill. For a few moments, she remained still, unwilling to leave the comfort of sleep.

However, the steadily dropping temperature in the room eventually forced her awake. With a quiet sigh, she opened her eyes and slowly pushed herself into a sitting position.

The room was bathed in the muted light of early morning. The rising sun had already begun to illuminate the sky outside, casting a soft golden glow across the walls, yet no direct rays reached the interior of the room. Everything felt strangely peaceful—too peaceful.

Aarohi sat motionless for a moment as fragments of the previous night returned to her mind.

The balcony.

The nightmare.

The tears.

And him.

Her expression hardened almost immediately.

Of course.

Somehow, once again, he had managed to get inside her head. Somehow, despite everything she knew, despite every warning screaming inside her mind, he had succeeded in making her lower her guard. The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and placed her feet on the cold floor. A slight headache lingered behind her temples, the result of an emotionally exhausting night, while her throat felt painfully dry.

Slowly, she stood up and looked around the room.

Empty.

There was no sign of him.

A small breath escaped her lips before she turned toward the door. Even then, her eyes instinctively scanned every corner of the room, every shadow, every possible place where someone could be standing. The suspicion had become second nature.

Stepping into the hallway, she made her way downstairs. The wooden staircase creaked faintly beneath her weight as she descended. Her bare feet met the polished floor below, which felt surprisingly warm compared to the chilly air upstairs.

The house was unusually quiet.

She followed the familiar ache in her throat toward the kitchen and headed directly for the refrigerator. Opening the door, she reached inside for a bottle of water.

Just as her fingers wrapped around it, a familiar voice spoke behind her.

"Beta, are you okay? Do you need anything?"

Aarohi flinched slightly.

Turning around, she found the same woman standing a few feet away.

The woman whom he claimed was his mother.

She stood near the kitchen counter wearing a simple apron, a spatula resting casually in her hand. Her expression carried the same warmth and concern that Aarohi had seen before, as though caring for her came naturally.

For a brief moment, Aarohi simply stared at her.

Then she shook her head.

"No," she replied quietly. "I just came down for water."

The older woman smiled softly and walked toward her. Reaching out, she gently patted Aarohi's cheek.

"Alright then," she said warmly. "Go freshen up, take a bath, and come downstairs for breakfast. I made your favourite poha."

The gesture immediately caused Aarohi's guard to rise.

Her eyes narrowed.

She stepped back, removing the woman's hand from her face before speaking.

"I don't like poha."

The warmth in the kitchen seemed to disappear instantly.

"You don't know anything about me," Aarohi continued, her voice firm and cold. "So please stop behaving as if I'm a part of your family."

The woman's smile faltered slightly, but Aarohi didn't stop.

"Just wait for some time," she said, gripping the water bottle more tightly. "Soon enough, I'll prove that I'm right."

Without giving the woman a chance to respond, Aarohi turned around and walked out of the kitchen.

His mother remained standing in the kitchen long after Aarohi had left.

The words had stung more than she wanted to admit. Although she knew Aarohi hadn't truly meant them, hearing them spoken aloud still left a dull ache in her chest. She understood that the girl was frightened, confused, and trapped in circumstances she couldn't fully comprehend. Still, understanding the reason behind the anger did not make the hurt disappear completely.

For a few moments, she stood there silently, absentmindedly gripping the spatula in her hand.

Then a thought crossed her mind.

Before her marriage, Aarohi had never liked poha.

A small smile appeared on her face as the realization settled in.

Of course.

All of Aarohi's memories after her marriage were missing. If she only remembered her life before that period, then it made perfect sense why she reacted the way she did. To her, they were behaving like strangers who somehow claimed to know everything about her.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside her disappointment.

If poha wasn't her favourite anymore, then perhaps she should make something Aarohi used to enjoy before her marriage.

The thought brought her a small sense of comfort.

Turning back toward the kitchen counter, she began gathering ingredients, determined to prepare a breakfast that might bring back at least a little familiarity for the girl.

Meanwhile, Aarohi climbed the stairs, her irritation growing with every step.

The encounter downstairs had done nothing to improve her mood. If anything, it had made her even more suspicious. Everyone in this house behaved as though they knew her, cared for her, loved her.

And somehow, that only made her distrust them more.

Tightening her grip around the water bottle, she pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside.

The sight that greeted her immediately made her pause.

Sidharth stood in front of the wardrobe with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He appeared to have just stepped out of the shower, droplets of water still visible along his neck and shoulders. His attention was focused on the wardrobe as he searched through the neatly arranged clothes for something to wear.

The sound of the door opening caused him to glance over his shoulder.

His expression softened slightly when he saw her.

"Hey. Good morning," he said casually. "How are you feeling now—"

He didn't get the chance to finish.

The moment Aarohi's eyes landed on him, a wave of irritation surged through her.

She had seen him like this countless times in the fragments of memories that haunted her mind. Yet none of those memories carried warmth or romance. None of them resembled the loving marriage everyone kept insisting they had shared.

To her, they felt like reminders of everything she feared.

"Fuck you, bastard," she snapped.

Sidharth blinked once.

Aarohi took a step forward, glaring at him furiously.

"And how dare you sleep beside me, huh? Just wait. The moment I find a single piece of proof, I will sue you—"

Her rant was interrupted only by the fact that he wasn't reacting the way she expected.

Instead of becoming angry or defensive, he simply looked at her for a second before turning his attention back toward the wardrobe.

A scoff escaped him.

"Best of luck."

Aarohi stared at him in disbelief.

His complete lack of concern only made her angrier.

"Don't you dare ignore me!"

Sidharth pulled a shirt from a hanger.

"Not ignoring you."

"Then answer me."

He sighed.

"What now?"

"Where is my phone?"

The question finally succeeded in making him pause.

He turned around fully.

"Your phone?"

"Yes, my phone," she replied sharply. "Where is it? And where are my clothes? My belongings? All the stuff that belongs to me?"

For the first time since she entered the room, Sidharth appeared mildly surprised.

Without arguing, he walked to the opposite side of the massive wardrobe and pulled open another section.

Aarohi's eyes widened slightly.

Inside was an entire collection of women's clothing.

Traditional outfits, casual wear, formal clothes, lounge sets, party dresses, winter wear, office attire—everything was neatly organized and arranged with obvious care.

Sidharth gestured toward it.

"These are your clothes."

He then pointed toward a door attached to the room.

"The bathroom is there. Go take a shower, freshen up, and then we'll—"

"My phone."

Her interruption was immediate.

Sidharth stopped mid-sentence.

Aarohi folded her arms across her chest, refusing to let the subject go.

"My phone," she repeated, her voice colder this time. "Where is it?"

Sidharth let out a long sigh, the kind that suggested he had already anticipated this conversation. Finally turning to face her properly, he crossed his arms over his chest and said, "I don't have your phone."

Aarohi's eyes narrowed instantly at his answer. "What do you mean you don't have my phone?" she demanded, her suspicion rising immediately.

"It was damaged in the accident," Sidharth replied calmly, as though he had explained this before. "I tried recovering the data, but the device was completely shattered. The internal hardware was destroyed beyond repair."

The answer only deepened her suspicion. She studied his face carefully, searching for the slightest sign of hesitation or deception. However, his expression remained frustratingly composed, making it impossible for her to tell whether he was telling the truth or simply lying with practiced ease.

"Convenient," she muttered under her breath before another thought struck her. Looking back at him, she immediately asked, "Fine. What about something else? My iPad? Laptop? Any other device that actually belongs to me?"

For a moment, Sidharth remained silent. Then, without arguing, he turned and walked toward the study area situated near the large window. Aarohi watched him closely as he crouched down and opened one of the drawers built into the desk.

A few seconds later, he pulled out an iPad and a laptop. Walking back toward her, he placed both devices on the table beside her chair and said, "There. Now can you please take a shower and get ready?"

Aarohi ignored the second half of his sentence completely. Her attention had already shifted to the devices in front of her. Slowly reaching out, she picked up the tablet first.

The smooth metallic surface felt unfamiliar beneath her fingertips. There was no recognition, no memory, nothing at all. Her brows furrowed as she turned it over, examining every corner as though doing so might magically unlock a forgotten memory.

It didn't.

The laptop wasn't any better. Everything about it felt foreign.

"This isn't mine," she said sharply, looking up at him.

Sidharth, who had begun pulling a shirt over his head, paused briefly before replying, "That's because it isn't your old one."

Aarohi frowned. "What?"

Adjusting the collar of his shirt, he answered casually, "Ritvik dropped your previous iPad from the terrace."

"The terrace?" she repeated skeptically.

"Yes," he said with a small nod. "Completely destroyed it. You were furious for almost a week."

Aarohi stared at him. The ease with which he delivered these explanations was almost impressive. Not a second of hesitation. Not a single pause. Every answer arrived immediately, as though he had rehearsed them countless times before.

"And the laptop?" she asked, folding her arms.

Sidharth glanced toward the device before replying, "I gifted it to you on our second wedding anniversary."

Aarohi couldn't help the sarcastic laugh that escaped her. Amazing. Absolutely amazing. The man could create elaborate lies without even blinking.

At least that was what she kept telling herself.

Otherwise, she would have to consider the possibility that he wasn't lying at all.

And that possibility terrified her far more.

Pushing those thoughts away, she sat down in the chair and pulled the laptop toward herself. The screen illuminated almost instantly, causing her movements to freeze.

The wallpaper displayed a photograph.

A woman.

Her.

Holding a laughing baby in her arms.

The child couldn't have been more than a year old, tiny hands reaching toward her face while showing two adorable front teeth in a bright smile. The image looked natural, unposed, and genuinely happy, as if it had captured a real moment rather than a staged photograph.

Aarohi found herself staring at it for several seconds. Something twisted uncomfortably inside her chest.

The woman in the picture looked happy.

Not forced.

Not trapped.

Happy.

Her jaw tightened immediately, and she looked away before her mind could dwell on it any longer. This proved nothing. Absolutely nothing. People could fake pictures. People could fake memories. People could fake entire lives.

Straightening her posture, she pressed a key to unlock the laptop. A password screen appeared.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.

And then...

Nothing.

The confidence disappeared instantly. A strange blankness settled inside her mind, making her frown.

Trying again, she thought of every possible password she might have used. Birthdays. Names. Favourite places. Important dates.

Nothing came.

Not a single possibility felt familiar.

The harder she tried, the more frustrated she became. Her heartbeat slowly increased as irritation mixed with panic.

Why couldn't she remember?

It should have been easy.

A password wasn't supposed to feel impossible.

After several failed attempts at even guessing what it could be, she pushed the laptop aside and grabbed the iPad instead. The same screen greeted her.

Password required.

Her fingers froze once again.

A sharp wave of irritation surged through her.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

It was as though someone had reached into her mind and erased an entire section of her life, leaving behind only empty spaces where memories should have existed. The realization made her chest tighten.

Aarohi shut her eyes briefly before spinning around in the chair. "Hey!" she called out, her voice echoing through the room.

Sidharth, who was standing in front of the mirror brushing his hair, looked up through the reflection. "What?"

"What's the password?" she asked impatiently.

He paused and turned slightly toward her. "The password?"

"Yes, the password," she snapped. "For these devices."

For a few seconds, he simply looked at her before shrugging lightly. "I don't know."

Aarohi blinked in disbelief. "What?"

"I don't know the passwords," he repeated calmly.

Her frustration immediately exploded. "Are you serious?"

Sidharth placed the brush on the dresser and turned around fully. "Very."

"You're telling me I'm supposedly your wife and you don't know the password to my devices?" she demanded, staring at him as though he had lost his mind.

His expression remained calm despite her anger. "We never shared everything with each other," he replied.

Aarohi frowned deeply. "What does that even mean?"

"It means exactly what I said," Sidharth answered as he leaned against the dresser. "We respected each other's privacy. We knew enough about each other, but when it came to work, personal projects, professional matters, and private accounts, we didn't interfere."

Aarohi stared at him silently. The explanation sounded absurdly mature.

And annoyingly believable.

Still, she wasn't willing to admit that.

"What if you needed to check something?" she challenged. "What if there was some emergency?"

A faint smile appeared on his face. It wasn't mocking or arrogant. It was simply certain.

"Then I would've asked you," he replied.

The answer caught her off guard.

Sidharth held her gaze and continued in the same steady voice, "I trusted you. And I still do."

For a brief moment, silence settled between them.

Aarohi hated how confidently he said those words. Hated how there wasn't even the slightest hesitation in his voice, as though trust had never been a question between them and everything he was saying was the most obvious truth in the world.

Before she could think of a response, he pushed himself away from the dresser and headed toward the door. Reaching it, he grabbed the handle and glanced back at her one final time.

"Take a shower," he said, his voice softening slightly. "And come downstairs quickly."

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Aarohi alone with the laptop, the iPad, and the growing frustration that seemed to accompany every answer she received in this house.

Aarohi stared at the closed door for a few moments after Sidharth left, her frustration still simmering beneath the surface. Every conversation with him seemed to leave her with more questions than answers. Whether it was the photographs, the devices, or the effortless confidence with which he spoke about their supposed life together, nothing made sense.

Letting out a long sigh, she decided there was no point in torturing herself over the laptop and iPad right now. If she couldn't remember the passwords, then sitting here and staring at the screens wouldn't magically restore her memories. She would deal with those devices later.

Pushing herself out of the chair, she walked toward the massive wardrobe occupying an entire wall of the room.

The sight of it made her pause.

There were far more clothes than she had expected.

Rows upon rows of neatly arranged outfits stretched before her. Traditional suits, elegant sarees, casual wear, office attire, party dresses, lounge clothes—every section appeared carefully organized. It looked less like a wardrobe and more like a personal boutique.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

A question suddenly crossed her mind.

Was Sidharth really stupid enough not to know something as basic as her dressing style while claiming to be her husband?

Or had her preferences genuinely changed after marriage, just as everyone in this house kept insisting her life had changed?

The thought annoyed her.

Every answer seemed to create another question.

Slowly, she began browsing through the clothes, pushing hangers aside one after another while trying to find something that felt remotely familiar.

Nothing did.

Some outfits were far too elegant for her liking. Others looked expensive enough to make her uncomfortable. A few appeared so carefully selected that they felt more like someone else's wardrobe than her own.

Then her hand drifted toward the saree section.

The moment her fingers brushed against the delicate fabrics, something inside her tightened.

Her gaze lingered on the collection.

Silk.

Cotton.

Organza.

Georgette.

Every colour imaginable hung neatly before her.

And with each saree she looked at, fragments of unwanted memories threatened to surface.

Memories she didn't want.

Memories she had spent the entire morning trying to suppress.

For a brief moment, images flashed through her mind—the countless nightmares, the fear, the helplessness, and all the dark memories she associated with him. The sight of those sarees seemed to pull at the edges of those thoughts, tempting her to sink back into them.

Aarohi immediately shook her head.

"No."

The word escaped under her breath.

She wasn't going to do this again.

Enough.

Enough of reliving those dark memories every few minutes.

Enough of letting the past consume her.

If everyone in this house was lying to her, then sitting around remembering nightmares wasn't going to help. What she needed was proof.

Actual proof.

Evidence that would expose Sidharth and prove that her instincts were right.

Determination slowly replaced the discomfort on her face.

Taking a deep breath, she moved away from the saree section and continued searching through the wardrobe.

After a few moments, she finally found something she could tolerate.

A simple navy-blue short kurta paired with a white palazzo.

Nothing flashy.

Nothing overly expensive-looking.

Just simple and comfortable.

For some reason, it felt like something she would choose for herself.

Pulling the outfit from the hanger, she gathered a towel and a few essentials before turning toward the attached bathroom.

As she walked across the room, the cool morning breeze continued drifting in through the partially open balcony door, rustling the curtains softly behind her.

The room felt strangely peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Almost as if the house itself was trying to convince her that everything was normal.

Aarohi tightened her grip on the clothes.

She wasn't falling for it.

Not yet.

Not until she had answers.

Not until she found proof.

And with that thought firmly planted in her mind, she stepped inside the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Time passed quietly after she stepped into the bathroom, and when Aarohi finally came downstairs, the atmosphere in the house felt no different—still, controlled, almost unnaturally calm.

She walked into the dining area and took a seat at the table, her movements slightly slow from exhaustion and lingering tension. Hunger hit her only now in full force. She realized she hadn't eaten anything since the previous day, and her body reminded her of it with a dull ache in her stomach.

Her gaze shifted toward the food laid out in front of her.

Simple, warm breakfast dishes filled the table.

Just as she was about to reach for the plate, her eyes caught movement beside her.

A small boy sat nearby.

Ritvik.

She remembered his name now, though it came to her in fragments rather than clarity. The child was looking at her with wide, curious eyes, almost unblinking, as if trying to understand her presence. His hair was half wet and half dry, carefully tied into a small ponytail to keep it from falling over his face.

Beside him sat Sidharth.

The same man she had been calling a bastard in her mind since morning.

He was serving the child breakfast with an ease that suggested familiarity, his attention briefly shifting between the plate and the boy to make sure everything was in place.

Across from them, the same elderly woman from the kitchen approached with another plate and gently placed it in front of Aarohi. The aroma of paratha reached her immediately, warm and comforting in a way that surprised her. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, noticing how naturally the food matched her taste.

The woman then sat down beside her at the table and quietly served herself as well, as though this was an everyday routine rather than a carefully arranged moment.

Aarohi did not speak.

She did not greet anyone.

She did not ask any questions.

Instead, she simply picked up her food and began to eat.

The silence at the table remained uninterrupted, heavy yet strangely structured, as if everyone had silently agreed not to disturb her thoughts.

Ritvik occasionally looked at her with innocent curiosity, as if wanting to ask something but holding back. Each time he tried, Sidharth calmly answered him first, redirecting his attention gently so the child would not feel ignored or left out.

Aarohi noticed it, but said nothing.

The boy never felt dismissed.

The conversation continued softly between Sidharth and Ritvik, small and simple exchanges that kept the child engaged while the rest of the table remained quiet.

Aarohi focused on her plate, eating steadily, choosing silence over participation, her mind working far faster than her expression revealed.

And just like that, the breakfast continued in an uneasy stillness—no arguments, no explanations, only the faint clink of cutlery and the quiet rhythm of a household pretending, for a brief moment, to be normal.

After breakfast, Sidharth quietly stood up from the table. Without saying much, he escorted his mother and Ritvik out of the house. Aarohi watched from a distance as the elderly woman held the child's hand, guiding him gently toward the car. Ritvik turned back once, his curious eyes briefly landing on her before he was ushered forward again.

The moment they left, the house felt emptier.

Sidharth returned a few minutes later, his expression calm but focused. He walked straight toward Aarohi, who was just about to head upstairs, and stopped her with a simple instruction.

"Be ready at 11 AM," he said. "I'll come and pick you up. We need to go to the hospital."

Aarohi paused mid-step.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she turned toward him. "Why hospital?"

Sidharth glanced at his watch, adjusting his sleeve casually before answering.

"Because your therapy starts today."

The words hit the air before she could fully process them.

Her expression darkened instantly.

"Oh," she said coldly. "So you can manipulate me, hypnotize me, and turn me into your puppet again? No thanks."

Sidharth's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second, the first visible crack in his otherwise controlled expression. He took a step forward, his voice rising slightly as he responded.

"Whatever it is," he said firmly, "I need you to be ready at sharp 11. No excuses."

There was a brief silence between them.

Aarohi didn't reply.

Instead, she turned away and walked upstairs without another word.

Sidharth watched her for a moment longer before turning toward the exit. Moments later, the sound of the front door closing echoed through the house, followed by the distant engine of his car as he left for work, business pulling him away once again.

Aarohi stood by the upstairs window, watching him leave through the glass.

The car disappeared down the driveway.

Only then did she move.

Her gaze shifted to the clock on the wall.

8:20 AM.

Almost two hours and forty minutes until 11.

She calculated quickly in her mind, her thoughts already shifting into strategy rather than emotion. After a brief pause, she called one of the maids and asked about Ritvik's school timing and how far it was from the house. The answers came easily—the old lady had left just minutes ago, and would likely return around 8:50.

That meant she had less than half an hour as the house would be fully empty.

Aarohi didn't waste another second.

She rushed upstairs and locked the bedroom door behind her.

Standing in the center of the room, she scanned everything carefully, her eyes sharper now, more focused. This was no longer confusion or fear—this was intent.

She began opening drawers one by one, moving quickly but methodically.

Sidharth's study drawer contained legal documents, business papers, contracts, files filled with complex details she couldn't immediately decipher. Everything looked legitimate, too organized, too clean.

She moved to the next drawer.

This time, she froze.

Her documents.

Carefully arranged in neat folders were her certificates, qualifications, identification papers, and official records. Her academic history. Her professional background. Everything related to her IAS posting in Mumbai, her transfers, her service record—details that should have been her own memory, but instead felt like someone else's life laid out in front of her.

Her fingers hovered over the papers as she pulled them out slowly.

Her last posting details.

Dates.

Locations.

Transfers.

She tried to match them with what she remembered.

Nothing aligned.

Nothing felt familiar.

Her breathing slowed as she continued sorting through the documents, pulling out her driving license, ID cards, and other official records, one after another.

Each piece confirmed something about her identity.

And yet, at the same time, it made her feel more disconnected from it.

As if she was looking at proof of a life she was told she lived... but could not remember ever belonging to.