The first time I met Aarav Malhotra, he was standing beside my father's pyre.
He wasn't crying.
Neither was I.
I remember thinking that was strange.
Everyone else in the room seemed determined to prove they were grieving. My mother had been crying for so long that her eyes were swollen shut. My younger brother, Rohan, had disappeared into a corner with two of my father's business partners. Even my father's driver, Mahesh, kept wiping his face with the end of his white shirt.
But the man standing three feet away from me looked completely calm.
Too calm.
He was wearing a black kurta.
His hair was slightly damp, as if he had driven through the rain to get there. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were fixed on my father's photograph on the wall.
Not on the body.
The photograph.
I had never seen him before.
And yet, when his eyes finally moved to me, I felt something I couldn't explain.
Recognition.
Not curiosity.
Recognition.
As if he already knew exactly who I was.
He looked at me for three seconds.
Then he looked away.
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn't.
Three days later, he was sitting across from my mother at our dining table.
And six weeks after that, I was falling in love with him.
I wish I could say I saw the warning signs.
I didn't.
That's the worst part.
I saw them.
I simply didn't understand what they meant.
My father's death was ruled an accident.
At least, that's what the police told us.
His Mercedes had gone off the old Lonavala road during heavy rain. The car had hit the railing, gone through it, and fallen several metres down the slope.
He died instantly.
Everyone called it unfortunate.
My mother called it God's will.
My brother called it bad luck.
I didn't call it anything.
I just couldn't stop thinking about the fact that my father had driven that road every week for twenty-two years.
He knew every turn.
Every pothole.
Every dangerous patch.
He used to complain about the road so often that I could practically draw the route from memory.
He wouldn't have lost control.
Not like that.
But I never said it aloud.
Because grief makes people fragile.
And suspicion makes families dangerous.
I learned that much later.
My father's company, Malhotra Infrastructure, was one of the largest construction companies in Mumbai.
At least, that's what the newspapers said.
My father always told us it was smaller than people thought.
He lied.
Everything about my father's life was bigger than we knew.
His office was on the thirty-second floor of a glass building in BKC.
His house was a three-storey mansion in Juhu.
He had a farmhouse outside Pune.
Two apartments in South Mumbai.
A private driver.
Three cars.
A collection of watches that my mother still couldn't bear to look at.
And secrets.
So many secrets.
I didn't know about those.
Not then.
At twenty-four, I thought my father's biggest flaw was that he worked too much.
I thought he was emotionally distant because that was simply the kind of man he was.
I thought the late-night phone calls were business.
I thought the locked drawer in his study contained financial documents.
I thought his habit of checking the front gate twice before going to bed was paranoia.
I thought the way certain men went silent when he entered a room was respect.
I was wrong about all of it.
The first time Aarav spoke to me was at the funeral.
"You're Ananya."
It wasn't a question.
I turned toward him.
"Yes."
He held my gaze.
"I'm Aarav."
"I know."
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
I almost smiled.
"My father mentioned your name once."
It was a lie.
My father had never mentioned him.
I had simply overheard one of the men at the funeral whispering it.
Aarav didn't call me out.
He just nodded.
"I'm sorry about your father."
"Thank you."
Silence.
Then he said something that made the back of my neck prickle.
"He was a complicated man."
I stared at him.
"What does that mean?"
A muscle moved in his jaw.
"Nothing."
He walked away.
I watched him disappear through the crowd.
For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about that sentence.
My father was a complicated man.
Not a good man.
Not a bad man.
Complicated.
I didn't know then that Aarav had spent eight years deciding exactly what kind of man my father was.
And that he had spent those same eight years planning how to destroy him.
Six weeks after my father's funeral, Aarav Malhotra came to dinner.
I was the first person to open the door.
He stood outside holding a bottle of wine.
My mother didn't drink.
Neither did I.
I almost told him that.
Then I remembered my manners.
"You're Aarav."
"Yes."
"You were at the funeral."
"I was."
"Why are you here?"
His mouth curved into the smallest smile.
"Your mother invited me."
I looked behind him.
No car.
No driver.
No umbrella.
Just him.
Standing in the rain.
"You came walking?"
"My car is parked down the street."
"Why?"
"Your security guards wouldn't let me through."
I frowned.
"They know you."
"They know my face. That's different."
There was something about the way he said it.
Not irritation.
Amusement.
I stepped aside.
"Come in."
He entered.
And that was how it began.
Not with fireworks.
Not with some ridiculous instant attraction.
It began with a man wiping rain from his hands on a white handkerchief and a woman wondering why he had been invited into her house.
My mother was waiting in the living room.
Rohan was there too.
The conversation was ordinary.
Painfully ordinary.
Business.
The monsoon.
Traffic.
The rising cost of construction materials.
Aarav was introduced as a consultant who had recently begun working with my father's company.
I listened quietly.
Something didn't make sense.
"My father hired you?"
Aarav looked at me.
"Before he died."
"When?"
"Two months before."
"Why didn't I know?"
"Because you weren't involved in the company."
Fair enough.
But there was something in his expression.
Something that said he had expected the question.
As if he'd rehearsed the answer.
Dinner was quiet.
My mother kept asking Aarav about his family.
"Where are your parents?"
He paused.
"Dead."
My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded.
"Long time ago."
"What happened?"
My mother immediately looked uncomfortable.
"Shalini—"
"It's okay," Aarav said.
Then he looked at me.
"An accident."
The word hung in the air.
Accident.
I suddenly couldn't breathe properly.
My father's accident.
His parents' accident.
Two different tragedies.
One word.
"You don't have to talk about it," I said.
His eyes remained on mine.
"I don't mind."
But he did.
I could tell.
There was something buried beneath his calmness.
Something enormous.
Something angry.
After dinner, I went upstairs.
My room overlooked the garden.
I stood by the window and watched Aarav leave.
He stopped beside his car.
Looked up.
Straight at my window.
I froze.
He couldn't possibly have seen me.
The lights in my room were off.
But he kept looking.
Then he got into his car.
And drove away.
I told myself it meant nothing.
I was wrong.
Again.
Aarav started appearing everywhere.
At first, it was because of work.
Then it became coincidence.
Then it became impossible to believe in coincidence.
He was at the café near my office.
At the bookstore I visited every Saturday.
At a charity event my mother dragged me to.
At the hospital when Rohan broke his wrist playing cricket.
At my favorite restaurant in Bandra.
"You have a stalking problem," my best friend Meera told me.
I laughed.
"He's working with my family."
"That's not what I meant."
She stirred her coffee.
"He watches you."
I rolled my eyes.
"You've watched too many crime shows."
"I'm serious."
I looked across the café.
Aarav wasn't there.
"See?"
"He was here five minutes ago."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"He left when you went to the bathroom."
"Why?"
"Exactly."
I laughed again.
But my laugh sounded forced.
Because suddenly I remembered something.
Aarav always seemed to know when I was leaving.
He always seemed to know where I would be.
He always seemed to arrive just before I needed someone.
And somehow, I liked it.
That was the embarrassing part.
I liked being noticed.
My father had spent most of my childhood too busy to notice me.
My mother noticed everything, but she worried about everything too.
Aarav simply noticed.
If I skipped lunch, he'd know.
If I was tired, he'd know.
If I was upset, he'd know.
Once, I mentioned that I hated jasmine flowers because the smell gave me headaches.
I didn't think he heard me.
Three days later, my mother brought home a huge arrangement of jasmine for a dinner party.
Aarav walked into the room.
He saw the flowers.
Then he looked at me.
"Those bother you."
I stared at him.
"How did you know?"
"You told me."
"I did?"
"At the café."
I couldn't remember saying it.
But he could.
He remembered everything.
One evening, he drove me home.
It was raining heavily.
Mumbai traffic had become a nightmare.
We sat in silence for almost twenty minutes.
Then he said, "Do you trust your family?"
I turned toward him.
"Of course."
"That's not what I asked."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you trust them?"
I laughed nervously.
"My mother? My brother? Yes."
"Your father?"
I stared at him.
"He's dead."
"I know."
"Then why ask?"
Aarav's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
"Because dead people can still hurt you."
I didn't answer.
He looked at me.
"Forget I said that."
I wanted to.
But I couldn't.
The first time I kissed Aarav, I was crying.
I hated that.
It made the memory feel less romantic than it should have.
But maybe that was the truth.
Maybe real love isn't always flowers and music.
Maybe sometimes it's two damaged people sitting in a parked car while rain hits the windshield.
My brother had called me that evening.
He'd been fighting with my mother.
Money.
The company.
The house.
Everything was falling apart.
I had spent an hour pretending I was fine.
Then Aarav found me.
I don't know how.
I was sitting on a bench outside Marine Drive.
He sat beside me.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't tell me everything would be okay.
He just sat there.
Eventually, I whispered, "I don't know what I'm doing."
"I know."
"I'm scared."
"I know."
"Everyone keeps telling me I'm strong."
"You don't have to be."
I looked at him.
"What if I'm not?"
His expression changed.
"You don't have to be strong with me."
That was it.
Something inside me broke.
I started crying.
He didn't touch me.
He waited.
That mattered.
When I finally looked up, he was watching me.
Not with pity.
With something much more dangerous.
Want.
I leaned toward him.
He didn't move.
So I kissed him.
For one second, he remained completely still.
Then his hand came up to my cheek.
His fingers were cold.
The kiss was gentle.
Almost painfully gentle.
When we pulled apart, he looked devastated.
I smiled through my tears.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You look like someone died."
His eyes closed.
"Something did."
I didn't understand.
I thought he was talking about the person I had been before my father's death.
I thought he meant that everything had changed.
I didn't know he was talking about himself.
Aarav and I didn't tell my family.
At first.
Then we couldn't hide it.
My mother noticed.
Mothers always do.
She confronted me one morning while I was drinking tea.
"Do you love him?"
I nearly choked.
"What?"
"Aarav."
I looked down.
My face was burning.
"Maybe."
She smiled.
It was the first genuine smile I'd seen on her face since my father's death.
"Your father would have hated this."
I laughed.
"Why?"
"He didn't trust him."
My smile disappeared.
"What?"
My mother looked away.
"He told me once that Aarav was dangerous."
The room suddenly felt colder.
"When?"
"Before his death."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Ma."
"I really don't know."
I stood up.
"You never told me this."
"You never asked."
"How am I supposed to ask something I didn't know?"
She sighed.
"Ananya, your father didn't like many people."
"Did he know Aarav before hiring him?"
"I think so."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
Something was wrong.
I could feel it.
My mother was hiding something.
And for the first time, I wondered whether Aarav had known my father far longer than he had admitted.
That night, I confronted him.
"What did my father do to you?"
He went completely still.
We were sitting in his apartment.
It was the first time I'd been there.
Dark walls.
Minimal furniture.
No photographs.
No family pictures.
Nothing personal.
It felt like a hotel room.
"Why would you ask me that?"
"My mother said my father didn't trust you."
"He didn't."
"Why?"
Aarav stared at me.
Then he walked toward the window.
"He had reasons."
"What reasons?"
"He didn't like me."
"That's not an answer."
"No."
He turned around.
"Your father was not a good man."
I felt something crack inside me.
"Don't talk about him like that."
"You asked."
"I asked because I'm trying to understand."
"Sometimes understanding makes things worse."
"Try me."
He looked at me for a long time.
Then he said quietly:
"Your father destroyed my family."
I stopped breathing.
"What?"
"He took everything."
"What did he take?"
"My father died with nothing."
Aarav's voice didn't shake.
That made it worse.
"My mother spent her last years believing she had failed us."
I whispered, "What happened?"
"Your father knows."
I stared at him.
"He's dead."
Aarav's eyes hardened.
"Then ask yourself why."
I didn't sleep that night.
I searched my father's old files.
Nothing.
I searched his emails.
Nothing.
I searched his phone backups.
Nothing.
It was almost four in the morning when I found the first name.
Devendra Malhotra.
Aarav's father.
I stared at the screen.
Then I searched again.
Devendra Malhotra had once been the managing director of a company called Malhotra Engineering.
Twenty years ago, the company had collapsed.
Financial fraud.
Misappropriation of funds.
Criminal investigation.
Bankruptcy.
Devendra Malhotra had disappeared shortly afterward.
Three months later, he was found dead.
Suicide.
I covered my mouth.
Aarav had never told me his father had killed himself.
But there was something else.
A news article from seventeen years ago.
The headline made my stomach turn.
BUSINESSMAN ARVIND SHARMA CLEARED IN MALHOTRA FINANCIAL SCANDAL
Arvind Sharma.
My father.
I kept scrolling.
The article said there had been allegations that my father had manipulated accounts and transferred assets from Malhotra Engineering into another company.
But there wasn't enough evidence.
My father had walked away clean.
Devendra Malhotra hadn't.
I leaned back in my chair.
Aarav had been telling the truth.
My father had destroyed his family.
But why?
And why had Aarav come into our lives now?
The next morning, I went to his apartment.
He opened the door wearing a black T-shirt.
He looked surprised to see me.
"Ananya?"
"Did you know who I was before we met?"
He didn't answer.
That was enough.
My heart sank.
"How long?"
"Ananya—"
"How long did you know my family?"
His face changed.
Not guilt.
Something worse.
Resignation.
"Come inside."
"No."
"Please."
"Answer me."
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then he said:
"Years."
My stomach dropped.
"You knew me?"
"No."
"You knew my father?"
"Yes."
"Before he hired you?"
"Yes."
"Did you come into my life because of him?"
Silence.
I stepped backward.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
The word hit harder than I expected.
I couldn't breathe.
"What was your plan?"
He looked away.
"Don't."
"Tell me."
"Ananya."
"Tell me!"
His jaw tightened.
"I was supposed to get close to your family."
"Why?"
"To find evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"Everything your father did."
"And then?"
He didn't answer.
I already knew.
"Then what?"
His eyes met mine.
"I was going to destroy him."
My chest tightened.
"But he's already dead."
"I know."
"Did you kill him?"
His expression changed instantly.
"No."
I believed him.
And somehow, that made everything worse.
Because if he hadn't killed my father, then why had he stayed?
Why had he continued?
Why me?
I whispered, "Did you ever love me?"
He closed his eyes.
For the first time since I'd met him, he looked genuinely broken.
"That wasn't part of the plan."
I laughed.
It came out ugly.
"That's not an answer."
"It became one."
"When?"
"I don't know."
"Then why didn't you leave?"
He stared at me.
"Because by the time I realized what was happening, leaving you meant abandoning you."
"From what?"
He said nothing.
"From what, Aarav?"
His voice dropped.
"Your family."
I left him.
Or at least I tried to.
For the next two weeks, I refused every call.
Every message.
Every attempt to see me.
I changed my routine.
I stopped going to the café.
I asked my driver to take different routes.
I blocked his number.
I told myself I hated him.
It was easier than admitting that I missed him.
Then my brother disappeared.
Rohan was twenty-one.
He was careless.
Impulsive.
Annoying.
He forgot his keys three times a week.
He left wet towels on the bed.
He stole food from my plate.
He was my little brother.
At 8:17 p.m., his phone stopped responding.
At 9:02, his location disappeared.
At 9:30, my mother called the police.
At 10:14, someone sent me a photograph.
Rohan was sitting in a chair.
His hands were tied.
His face was bruised.
There was blood on his shirt.
Under the photograph was one sentence.
Your father took my family. Now I'll take yours.
My hands went numb.
I dropped the phone.
My mother screamed when she saw the photograph.
The police came.
Questions.
Phones.
Statements.
Chaos.
And through all of it, I could think of only one person.
Aarav.
I called him.
He answered on the first ring.
"Where are you?"
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
I started crying.
"Rohan."
"I know."
My blood froze.
"You know?"
"Where are you?"
"Home."
"Stay there."
"Aarav—"
"I said stay there."
Then the line went dead.
Twenty-seven minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Aarav stood outside.
There was blood on his knuckles.
My mother screamed.
I stared at his hands.
"Where is my brother?"
"He's alive."
"Where?"
"I can take you to him."
The police officers immediately moved toward him.
Aarav didn't resist.
Instead, he looked directly at me.
"You have two choices."
"What?"
"Let them arrest me."
He glanced at the officers.
"Or come with me."
"Why would I trust you?"
His eyes held mine.
"You shouldn't."
Then he looked at my mother's terrified face.
"But if you want your brother alive, you need to decide quickly."
We drove for forty minutes.
Nobody spoke.
I sat in the back seat.
Aarav sat beside me.
His hands were still bleeding.
"Who did this?"
He didn't answer.
"Who has my brother?"
"I told you. He's alive."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
"Then answer me."
He looked at me.
"The same people your father spent twenty years trying to bury."
I felt sick.
"My father?"
"Your father had enemies."
"Everyone has enemies."
"Not like these."
He looked out the window.
"They've been waiting for him to die."
"Why?"
"Because he was the only thing keeping them from coming after you."
I stared at him.
"You're lying."
"I wish I was."
The car stopped outside an abandoned warehouse.
Aarav got out.
I followed.
Inside, I heard a voice.
"Ananya?"
"Rohan!"
I ran.
My brother was tied to a chair.
Alive.
Terrified.
I dropped to my knees beside him.
"Rohan."
He started crying.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't."
"I'm sorry, Didi."
"You're okay."
I untied him.
Then I heard footsteps.
Aarav.
He walked toward us.
Behind him were three men.
I recognized one.
My father's former business partner.
Mr. Sethi.
My stomach dropped.
He smiled.
"Hello, Ananya."
Aarav stepped between us.
"You're not touching her."
Sethi laughed.
"You're still protecting her?"
Aarav didn't move.
"Yes."
"After everything?"
"Especially after everything."
Sethi's smile disappeared.
"You were hired to destroy them."
"I know."
"You were supposed to hand her over."
"I changed my mind."
Sethi looked at me.
Then back at Aarav.
"She doesn't even know."
My heart stopped.
"Know what?"
Nobody answered.
I looked at Aarav.
"What is he talking about?"
Aarav's face was expressionless.
Sethi laughed.
"You should ask your boyfriend who killed your father."
My eyes snapped toward Aarav.
"No."
Aarav said nothing.
Sethi continued.
"Your father didn't die in an accident."
I couldn't breathe.
"He was murdered."
I looked at Aarav.
He didn't deny it.
The world tilted.
"You killed my father."
Aarav's eyes met mine.
"No."
"Then who?"
His voice was barely audible.
"Your father was killed by someone who wanted me to take the blame."
"Who?"
He looked at Sethi.
Then at me.
"Your mother."
I laughed.
I actually laughed.
Because sometimes the human mind refuses to accept the truth.
"My mother?"
Aarav didn't look away.
"No."
I shook my head.
"You're lying."
"I wish I was."
"She was with me that night."
"She told you she was."
I stared at him.
Rohan stood behind me.
He was crying.
"Ananya..."
I turned toward him.
"You knew?"
He shook his head.
"I didn't."
I looked back at Aarav.
"You expect me to believe that my mother killed my father?"
"No."
"Then what do you expect?"
"I expect you to look."
He pulled a file from inside his jacket.
He handed it to me.
I opened it.
Bank statements.
Property transfers.
Phone records.
Photographs.
Messages.
And then—
A video.
My fingers shook.
"Where did you get this?"
"From your father's private records."
I pressed play.
The video was grainy.
Black and white.
A security camera.
My father was standing in his study.
My mother entered.
They were arguing.
I couldn't hear the words.
Then my father grabbed something from the drawer.
My mother screamed.
The video ended.
"What is this?"
"The night your father died."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"No."
He took out another photograph.
My mother's car.
Outside my father's office.
At 11:43 p.m.
The night before his death.
I shook my head.
"No."
Then he gave me one final document.
A medical report.
Toxicology.
My father's blood contained a lethal amount of a sedative.
The kind of drug that would have made him unconscious before the crash.
I stared at the page.
Someone had drugged him.
Someone had put him in the car.
Someone had driven him to that road.
Someone had pushed the car over the railing.
My hands began shaking.
"Why would my mother do this?"
Aarav's voice was quiet.
"Because your father was going to expose her."
"For what?"
He didn't answer.
I looked at him.
"For what?"
He hesitated.
Then he said:
"She was the one who stole from my father's company."
Silence.
I couldn't move.
"Your father discovered it years later."
I felt dizzy.
"She?"
"Your mother transferred the money."
"That's impossible."
"Your father protected her."
"Why?"
"Because she threatened to take you and Rohan away."
I stared at him.
"My mother wouldn't."
Aarav's expression softened.
"Ananya."
"No."
"She did."
"Stop."
"You need to hear this."
"No!"
I screamed.
The warehouse echoed.
My brother grabbed my arm.
Aarav stepped closer.
I moved away from him.
"You lied to me."
"Yes."
"You used me."
"Yes."
"You knew everything."
"Not everything."
"You knew my father was murdered."
"Yes."
"And you still kissed me."
His face broke.
That was the first time I saw something like pain in his eyes.
"That was the one thing I never planned."
I shook my head.
"I hate you."
"I know."
"I loved you."
"I know."
"How dare you say that."
"I know."
He looked at me.
"And that's why I couldn't finish what I came here to do."
We went home before sunrise.
My mother was waiting.
She was sitting in the living room.
Calm.
Too calm.
When she saw Rohan, she ran toward him.
"My baby."
She hugged him.
He held her.
I stood behind them.
Watching.
For the first time in my life, my mother looked like a stranger.
She noticed Aarav.
Her expression changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Fear.
Then hatred.
"You."
Aarav didn't answer.
My mother looked at me.
"Ananya, go upstairs."
"No."
"Please."
"What did you do?"
Her face went pale.
"What?"
"What did you do to Papa?"
Rohan stepped away from her.
"Ananya..."
"Did you kill him?"
My mother's lips parted.
Nothing came out.
That silence was my answer.
I felt something inside me die.
"Why?"
She sat down.
"I didn't mean to."
Aarav's expression hardened.
My mother began crying.
"He was going to destroy us."
"You destroyed him."
"I was protecting you!"
"You killed him."
"He was going to send us away!"
"Who?"
"Those people."
She looked at Aarav.
"He knows."
Aarav said nothing.
My mother covered her face.
"I thought if he died, everything would stop."
"But it didn't."
"No."
She looked at me.
"Because your father had already made a deal."
My heart stopped.
"What deal?"
She looked at Aarav.
Then back at me.
"He knew they would come after you."
Aarav's face changed.
My mother whispered:
"He hired Aarav."
I stared at him.
"What?"
Aarav didn't move.
My mother continued.
"Your father knew he was dying."
I couldn't breathe.
"He knew."
"Then why—"
"Because he knew they would come for you after he was gone."
My mother looked at Aarav.
"He asked him to protect you."
I looked at Aarav.
He had told me he came to destroy my family.
But there was another part of the story.
One he had never told me.
"Is that true?"
He looked at me.
"Yes."
My heart shattered.
"You came because my father asked you?"
"Partly."
"And the revenge?"
"That was mine."
"Then why did you stay?"
He walked toward me.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if I were something fragile.
"Because your father asked me to protect you."
He stopped in front of me.
"And then I fell in love with you."
I looked into his eyes.
There was no manipulation there.
No calculation.
Just exhaustion.
Pain.
And something terrifyingly real.
Love.
My mother began crying behind us.
But I couldn't hear her anymore.
All I could hear was Aarav's voice.
"I was supposed to destroy your family."
He swallowed.
"But somewhere along the way, you became my family."
I thought that was the end.
It wasn't.
Three days later, my mother confessed.
She admitted to killing my father.
She admitted to stealing from Malhotra Engineering years ago.
She admitted that my father had discovered the truth.
She admitted that he had planned to turn himself in.
And she admitted that she'd killed him to stop him.
The police arrested her.
Rohan moved into my aunt's house.
The company collapsed within weeks.
The newspapers had a field day.
My father's name was everywhere.
So was mine.
And Aarav disappeared.
No phone call.
No message.
Nothing.
For the first time since I'd met him, I didn't know where he was.
Part of me was angry.
Another part of me was relieved.
Because loving Aarav Malhotra had begun to feel like standing on the edge of a cliff.
One wrong step.
And everything would disappear.
Three weeks passed.
Then a package arrived.
No sender.
Inside was a small black box.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
There was a key.
And a note.
You deserve the whole truth.
I knew the handwriting.
Aarav.
I drove to the address written beneath the note.
An old apartment in South Mumbai.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, there were boxes.
Hundreds of them.
Documents.
Photographs.
Newspaper clippings.
And pictures of me.
So many pictures.
Me at college.
Me at the café.
Me walking home.
Me laughing with Meera.
Me standing outside my father's office.
My stomach turned.
How long had he been watching me?
Then I found a photograph that made me stop.
It was me at sixteen.
Standing outside my school.
On the back was a date.
8 years ago.
Underneath it, in Aarav's handwriting:
The first time I saw her.
I stared at the photograph.
Eight years ago.
Before my father hired him.
Before his parents' case was reopened.
Before he came into my life.
Before we met.
There was another photograph.
Me at eighteen.
Another at twenty.
Another at twenty-two.
Another from the week before my father's death.
He had been watching me for years.
My hands began shaking.
Then I found a file.
The first page had my name.
ANANYA SHARMA
Underneath:
Subject: Daughter of Arvind Sharma.
I turned the page.
There was a photograph of my father.
Then his company.
Then my mother.
Then Rohan.
Then—
Aarav.
My breath caught.
The final page contained a single sentence.
Objective: Gain access to the Sharma family through Ananya.
I read it twice.
Then again.
The date at the top was eight years old.
I sank slowly into the chair.
Eight years.
He hadn't met me six weeks before my father's death.
He hadn't met me at the funeral.
He hadn't even met me when my father hired him.
He had been planning this for eight years.
And suddenly, everything I thought I knew about our relationship became meaningless.
The first café.
The first dinner.
The first kiss.
The first time he told me he loved me.
Were any of those moments real?
Or had every single one been part of the plan?
I turned the page.
There was one final photograph.
A picture of Aarav standing outside my school when I was sixteen.
And beside it, a handwritten note.
She cannot know what happened that day.
I stared at the words.
My heart began pounding.
What happened that day?
I kept reading.
There was another sentence beneath it.
Because if she remembers, she'll know why I chose her.
I stopped breathing.
Chose me.
Not my family.
Not my father.
Me.
I looked around the empty apartment.
Suddenly, I understood something.
Aarav hadn't fallen in love with me by accident.
He hadn't accidentally entered my life.
He hadn't accidentally protected me.
He hadn't accidentally watched me for eight years.
There was a reason.
A reason he'd hidden from everyone.
Even me.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Hello?"
For several seconds, there was only silence.
Then a man's voice said:
"Ananya?"
"Who is this?"
"You found Aarav's files."
My heart stopped.
"Who are you?"
The man laughed softly.
"You really don't remember?"
I couldn't speak.
"I think it's time someone told you what happened eight years ago."
The call ended.
I sat completely still.
Then I looked down at the photograph of my sixteen-year-old self.
And for the first time, I noticed something I hadn't seen before.
I wasn't alone in the photograph.
There was someone standing behind me.
A boy.
Half-hidden in the shadows.
Watching me.
I zoomed in.
My hands went cold.
Because I knew that face.
I had seen it before.
Not in my memories.
Not in photographs.
But in the mirror.
In my own face.
The boy standing behind sixteen-year-old me was Aarav.
And he wasn't watching me.
He was protecting me.
From someone standing on the other side of the road.
Someone holding a gun.
Someone whose face had been deliberately scratched out.
I stared at the photograph.
Then at the note.
She cannot know what happened that day.
My phone rang again.
This time, there was no number.
Only one message.
Ask Aarav why he saved you eight years ago.
A second message appeared.
Then ask him why he didn't save your father.
I dropped the phone.
And suddenly, I knew one thing with absolute certainty.
My father's death wasn't the beginning of this story.
It was the consequence.
The real story had started eight years earlier.
With a sixteen-year-old girl who didn't know she was being watched.
With a boy who had every reason to hate her family.
And with a secret so terrible that the man I loved had spent eight years protecting me from it.
I thought Aarav had entered my life to destroy my family.
I was wrong.
He had entered my life because of me.
And whatever happened eight years ago—
I was the reason.
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