| ISHA SURI |

"My husband is missing!" I sobbed, my voice cracking under the weight of panic. My eyes, swollen and desperate, searched the constable's face, silently pleading—begging—for help, for anything that could bring back the love of my life.

"Ma'am, please... try to calm down," the constable urged gently, his voice measured.

But how could I possibly calm down? The man I loved, the man who was my whole world, had vanished without a trace. Even the cold, sterile walls of the police station couldn't muffle the storm inside me. My breath came in short, uneven sobs, and I clutched the corner of my pallu with trembling fingers, burying my face into its fabric as if it could somehow shield me from the hollow terror gnawing at my chest.

I glanced up, my eyes raw with desperation. "Please, sir... I'm begging you, just write the report, do something. It's not like Viru to disappear like this. He always tells me where he's going, always calls—but it's been two days. I haven't heard a word," I said, my voice breaking between sobs.

"Ma'am, please have some water. I'll start writing the report right away," the constable said softly, handing me a glass.

"It's okay," I whispered, shaking my head, clutching the edge of my pallu tightly against my face.

"Do you have a photograph of your husband with you?" the constable asked, reaching for his pen.

"Yes... yes," I stammered, fumbling through my trembling hands, trying to pull out my phone. My fingers shook so badly it took several tries before I managed to unlock the screen.

"Ma'am, can you state your name again?" he asked gently.

"Isha... Isha Viraj Suri," I murmured, barely able to push the words past the lump in my throat.

"And the full name of the missing person?"

"Viraj Rajendra Suri," I said softly, setting my phone on the table in front of him. The constable leaned in, glancing at the screen where my husband's smiling face stared back at us from the wallpaper. With a trembling finger, I pointed at the photo, feeling my heart clench tighter.

He looked at the photo. For a moment, his face was unreadable, his eyes flickering with something I couldn't quite place. Then, without a word, the constable standing near the table shifted, exchanging a glance with another officer across the room—some silent signal that made my stomach twist.

My brows furrowed in confusion as I glanced between them. Why were they acting so strangely?

The constable gently took the phone from my trembling hands, his gaze fixed on the screen, lingering far longer than seemed necessary. His fingers tightened slightly around the device.

When he finally looked up, the calm resolve that had been in his eyes just moments ago was gone, replaced by something guarded, hesitant.

"Ma'am... could you please wait in the waiting area for a moment?" his voice was softer now, but the edge of firmness hadn't left.

"Why?" I asked, my voice rising in a mix of fear and frustration. "You were just about to take my report, and now you're asking me to wait?"

He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I can't... I can't file your complaint at this moment. Please, you'll need to wait outside."

"You're not understanding the situation, sir. My husband..." I clutched the edge of my pallu tighter, my fingers twisting the fabric as if it could anchor me. "My husband is missing. I can't reach him. You should be doing something—anything—instead of telling me to wait!" My voice cracked, rising higher with each word, trembling on the verge of panic.

I shot to my feet. "Sir—"

But before I could finish, a lady constable was at my side, her fingers closing around my arm in a grip so tight it ached, her nails digging slightly into my skin.

"Ma'am, please," she murmured, her voice low but firm. "We will take your complaint. You just need to wait a moment."

"Don't you understand?" I choked, my voice breaking as I looked around the room. But my words seemed to bounce off the walls, lost in the still air. One by one, heads turned, eyes fixed on me—some curious, some wary, others quietly dismissive. I could feel their stares, their silent judgment.

But tell me—if the man you loved, the man who never left home without a kiss goodbye, without letting you know where he was, simply vanished for two whole days... what would you do?

I waited.

My fingers twisted nervously at the edge of my pallu, the fabric damp where I had clutched it too long. The clock on the wall ticked on, slow and merciless, every second stretching out as if to mock me. People passed around me—officers, civilians, murmuring voices, shuffling footsteps—but no one came for me. No one stopped.

When a constable finally walked past, I jolted upright. "Sir—" I called, hurrying after him, my voice thin with desperation. But he kept walking, his steps brisk, his eyes fixed ahead as though I were invisible. I followed him through the hallway, my pleas trailing uselessly in the air, until I found myself standing in the middle of the corridor—alone again.

And then, through the haze of faces and peoples, a figure emerged from the crowd. A familiar face. A sharp suit. Measured steps. Eyes scanning the room with quiet authority.

Aarman Bedi.

How could I have forgotten the reason?

My father-in-law—an MLA. In a family where even breathing felt like asking for permission, how had they ever let us live in peace?

The color drained from my face as Aarman walked past me, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. My gaze dropped to the floor, too intimidated to meet his eyes, too afraid to dare. Quietly, I backed away, sinking onto the cold wooden bench, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest.

My heart pounded furiously against my ribs, each thud loud enough to echo in my ears. Moments dragged by, stretching into an unbearable silence.

"Isha."

The voice cut through the noise, low and firm, making me flinch.

I looked up, just slightly, and saw the tall figure towering over me. Aarman.

I barely dared to lift my eyes. "Yes," I murmured softly, my voice trembling.

The men surrounding him loomed like shadows, familiar faces from the edges of my life—my father-in-law's people. I had seen them around Viraj.

"It's not a good look for you to be here," Aarman said, his voice calm but edged with quiet authority. "You should've called me first."

I opened my mouth, my lips trembling. "Viraj... he's—" I fumbled over the words, my throat tightening.

But Aarman raised a hand, cutting me off gently yet firmly. "Let me take you home. We'll deal with it there." His tone left no room for argument. He waited, expectant, and I knew if I didn't follow, no one would help me. No one would save me, Isha.

My fingers tightened at the edge of my pallu as I rose slowly, my knees unsteady. I cast a helpless glance toward the constable, but his eyes were already lowered, his expression shut down the unspoken threat from the men behind me had reached him first.

Their cold gazes pressed against my back like a silent warning.

Swallowing hard, I adjusted the pallu over my shoulder, gathering the loose edge with trembling hands. Step by step, I followed Aarman, each movement heavy with the weight of surrender.

The car ride was suffocating.

I sat in the back seat, pressed against the door, the soft rustle of my saree the only sound from my side. Aarman sat beside me, his phone in hand, murmuring quiet instructions to someone on the line, his voice clipped and efficient.

I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the streets blur past, but I saw none of it — only the pounding of my heart and the dry ache in my throat. My fingers twisted in the folds of my pallu, knotting and unknotting, over and over. The air inside the car felt too small, too tight, as if even breathing might disturb the cold control that hung over Aarman like a second skin.

Not a word passed between us. Not a single word.

When the car finally pulled into the driveway of Shanti Manor, my stomach tightened into a knot. The house loomed before me a mirror image of ours across the street, yet nothing alike. Where our home had been filled with warmth and laughter, this house stood cold, grand, and immaculate, its towering pillars and wide veranda glowing beneath the porch lights.

But tonight, the windows shone with more than just light they burned like watchful eyes, sharp and unblinking.

I stepped out of the car, my legs stiff and heavy, the cold evening air clinging to my skin. Aarman's men moved into place behind us, silent as shadows, their footsteps muffled against the stone path. As I neared the front door, it swung open before I could even lift my hand to knock, the light spilling out onto the porch like a waiting spotlight.

Inside, they were already gathered.

As I crossed the threshold into the living room, my breath hitched, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I couldn't fight them, Viru. How could I, when you weren't even here to stand beside me? My steps faltered, but I forced myself forward, Aarman at my side like a steady, immovable pillar.

"I've handled it," Aarman said, his voice low and deliberate, cutting through the heavy silence. "There's no word out yet. But it appears Viraj really is missing?"

"I've been trying to tell you," I choked out, my voice trembling and thin. "That's why I went to file the report so they can start searching for him."

I didn't dare lift my gaze, but I felt it — the suffocating weight of their stares. Their eyes clung to me with blistering anger, cold judgment, and something even sharper, something I couldn't quite name. To them, I was still the bride they never wanted, the outsider they had barely tolerated. And now here I stood, in the center of their pristine world, because their son, my husband was gone.

Maybe I couldn't even blame them. Maybe. But while they clung so desperately to their image, their reputation, their spotless name, all I could think about was Viru. Where was he? What if something had happened to him? The thought wrapped around my chest like a tightening rope, stealing my breath.

A sharp voice sliced through the heavy silence. "Where is my son? And I bet it has to do with you."

His mother surged to her feet, her eyes blazing, her hands trembling at her sides.

I flinched, instinctively twisting my fingers tighter into the edge of my pallu, the silk damp beneath my grip. "I... I told you," I stammered, my voice small in the vast, cold room. "I haven't heard from him in two days. I've been trying to—"

"Lies!" she spat, her voice cracking with fury. "You're lying! How could you not know where he is? First you enchanted my son, and now—now look what you've done to him!"

My head shook helplessly, the tears burning hot in my eyes. "I'm not lying," I whispered, struggling to steady my voice. "I'm just—I'm asking you to help look for him. I went to the police, I did everything I could, but here... here, all anyone seems to care about is the family's image."

The last words slipped out before I could stop them, raw and trembling. My voice cracked, the weight of it all crashing down on my shoulders and for a breathless second, the room went even colder.

The moment I said it, I saw her eyes narrow a dangerous glint sparking in them.

"Our image?" she hissed, stepping toward me. "You dare stand in this house and speak to me of image after shaming this family with your love marriage, after dragging my son down with you?"

I tried to step back, but she was already in front of me. Before I could speak, before I could even raise a hand in defense—

Smack.

The slap came hard and sudden, burning across my cheek.

I gasped, a choked sound, and stumbled a step backward. The room stayed frozen in thick, heavy silence.

"Bindu," she called sharply, turning her head. The maid, who had been lingering at the corner, rushed forward.

"Take her to the guest room," she ordered coldly. "Lock her inside. I don't want her wandering around or running to the police again. We'll handle this our way."

I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came. My chest heaved, the sting on my cheek pulsing hot as Bindu gently but firmly took hold of my arm.

And just like that, I was led away the only sound in the room the faint click of my sandals on the marble floor.

The door shut behind me with a dull thud, followed by the sharp click of the lock turning.

For a moment, I just stood there, the dim scent of dust and mothballs creeping into my nose. My fingers fumbled along the wall until they brushed against a switch.

Click.

The weak yellow light flickered to life overhead, casting trembling shadows across the cramped space. This wasn't a guest room it was a storage room. Boxes stacked to the ceiling, old trunks shoved into corners, a faded wedding sari hanging off the back of a chair. There was barely enough space to stand, let alone breathe.

My chest tightened, each breath catching as if the air itself had thickened. The walls seemed to lean in, pressing closer, their shadows stretching long across the floor. Slowly, almost unwillingly, I turned and my gaze fell on a cracked mirror propped carelessly against the far wall. For a moment, I froze.

My own reflection stared back at me: wide, startled eye, skin pale as moonlight, the faint imprint of fingers still etched red across my cheek, like a brand I hadn't earned but was forced to carry. A soft tremor rippled through me, not quite a shiver, not quite a sob.

And then I felt it a twist deep in my chest, sharp and bitter, curling like smoke through the hollow spaces inside me. My lips parted on a shaky breath, and for a second, the corners twitched, almost—almost into a smile. A thought unfurled in the quiet, slipping through the cracks of my mind like a laugh I didn't dare let rise to the surface.

I guess... that was believable.