⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟗˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
I didn’t say anything the entire ride back.
Not when I handed her the water bottle.
Not when I buckled Tara into the seat myself.
Not when she leaned back in the passenger seat, pale as a ghost, her fingers weakly gripping the edge of her dupatta.
I kept my hands on the wheel. Eyes straight.
But my mind? My mind was chaos.
“She snatched my son.”
“She’s a bad omen — her and that daughter of hers.”
“He died because of her.”
Those words… voice… it wouldn’t leave my head.
What the hell did that mean?
Who the fuck died?
And why… why did my chest feel like it was caving in every time I remembered the look on Ritvika’s face when she whispered to Tara — "Mumma yahin hai."
Why did it affect me?
Why do I care?
I shouldn’t care.
I parked the car. Didn't even wait for her to open the door. I picked Tara in one arm, held Ritvika’s wrist with the other, and got them inside. Straight to the room.
She sat down silently.
I placed Tara gently on the bed. Covered her up.
Then turned around.
Hands clenched. Jaw tight.
“Who died?” I asked. My voice was calm, but it was the kind of calm before a violent thunderstorm.
Ritvika blinked, startled.
“Wh…what?”
I stepped forward. “I asked you something. Who. Died.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about…” she stammered, standing up.
But I was done.
I pointed a finger at her chest. “That lady said something back there. That you snatched her son. That he died because of you.”
Ritvika froze.
“I’ve let a lot of things slide, Ritvika,” I continued, my voice getting colder with every word. “Your sudden marriage. That daughter. Your secrets. Your silences. But now—” I took a breath, “Now I’m asking you directly.”
“Did someone die because of you?”
“Are you a murderer?”
Her lips parted — but no sound came out. Her fingers clutched the edge of her kurta like she was physically holding herself up.
“You better speak, Ritvika,” I said, stepping closer. “Because if there’s one thing I won’t let near my family… it’s someone with blood on their hands.”
And still — she said nothing.
Just looked at me.
Eyes wide. Tears shimmering. But no answer.
And that silence?
That silence screamed louder than any truth I could have imagined.
She just stood there — trembling, blinking, not uttering a word.
Like the weight of my question had knocked the breath out of her.
But I wasn’t done.
I took another step forward, my voice sharpening like a blade.
“What did you do, Ritvika?”
“Did you murder your husband?”
Her eyes flew wide at the word. Murder.
She took a step back — but I followed.
“She said he died because of you. And you didn’t even deny it.”
My words cut like acid now. My breath was ragged with fury I couldn’t control.
“Is that what you’re hiding behind those innocent tears and your soft voice? That you’re a widow… or a killer?”
She shook her head faintly, her lips trembling. “No… no I—”
“Don’t lie to me!” I snapped, and she flinched.
“You think you can stay quiet and that’ll be enough? You think I’ll just ignore what I heard?”
My fingers raked through my hair as I paced the floor.
“I brought you into this house out of responsibility. But I cannot — I will not — allow a woman with blood on her hands to live under my roof.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
I pointed toward the door.
“My family trusted me. They accepted you. They embraced your daughter like their own.”
I turned to her now, full-on.
“But you — you — are hiding things. You keep looking over your shoulder like someone’s chasing you. You collapse at a single word. You refuse to speak.”
I gestured toward the bedroom where Tara lay.
“And I’ll be damned if I let you bring that mess anywhere near that child. Or near my family.”
Her hand flew to her mouth — like she was going to throw up or cry, or maybe both.
I stood there staring at her — arms crossed, chest heaving, and mind raging.
She didn’t say a word. Just kept looking at the floor, as if it held all the answers she refused to give me.
That was it.
My anger, my frustration, my confusion — it all came crashing out.
"Why did you kill him?"
The words slipped out like venom.
Her head snapped up, her lips parting — shocked. But I didn’t stop.
"Was he not rich enough for you?" I stepped closer.
"Couldn’t fulfill your so-called desires?"
She took a step back, her hands trembling.
Good. Let her feel cornered.
"Or was it something else?" I continued, pacing now, circling her like a predator.
"An affair?"
She visibly flinched.
"Maybe he found out that the daughter you call his wasn’t even his?"
I sneered.
"Maybe Tara is someone else’s child. Your lover’s."
Her breathing picked up.
I noticed it — shallow, uneven.
She clutched her dupatta near her heart, blinking rapidly.
But it didn’t stop me.
"He found out, didn’t he?"
"And you couldn’t handle it, so you did what people like you do — you got rid of him."
She closed her ears with her palms, shaking her head, murmuring under her breath.
"Please... please stop… please stop…”
Her lips were dry. Her face had gone pale. Her fingers twitching like they didn’t belong to her.
But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t stop.
Because for the first time, I was scared — not of her, but of the possibility that I'd let someone dangerous walk into my house.
"You used your child to cover up your sin, didn’t you? Played the victim card? Hid behind that sindoor and mangalsutra? Who are you even?"
She looked up now — her eyes wet, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling too fast.
And then — her whisper.
“Please… bas karo…”
(Please… stop…)
Her knees bent a little, but she caught herself, gripping the table beside her.
She tried to speak, but her voice was a whisper lost in her uneven breaths.
She looked like she was fighting herself — against something deep, painful, raw.
And then—
The sound of her slap echoed like a gunshot in the living room.
Her hand was still trembling mid-air. But her eyes — her eyes had fire in them.
Silent tears streamed down her face, and her lips moved… slowly, brokenly.
“Bas… ek shabd aur bola na… toh iss baar khoon main karungi.”
(One more word… and this time, I will commit murder.)
I stared at her.
Not out of rage.
But because I had no idea…
what I had just woken up inside her.
And for the first time —
I felt like I was the one who had gone too far.
My cheek still stung.
But I didn’t move.
I didn’t shout.
Because she wasn’t standing like someone who had slapped in anger —
She was trembling… like she had just shattered.
Her hand fell to her side, and then — her voice came. So low, so fragile I barely heard her.
“I’m not… not a… murd… murderer…”
She choked on the word as if saying it made her skin crawl.
“I swear… I swear on… on my Tara…”
Her breath hitched.
“I… I didn’t kill him… you know…”
She looked at me — not with defiance, not with guilt.
But with the raw, crushed fear of a woman who had been carrying this weight alone.
“He died himself… in a car accident…”
Her lips quivered.
“I… I didn’t…”
She couldn’t even finish. She turned away, covering her face, trying to hold in the sob that finally escaped her throat.
And me?
I just stood there.
Staring.
The rage in my chest that had burned like wildfire… dulled.
Just for a second.
Because in that moment… I knew.
I knew something is definitely wrong.
I’ve known it.
I’ve seen it.
From the day of our marriage — how she was just shouting, trembling, like… like she thought I was going to force her.
The way she obeyed quietly when I told her to sleep on the couch, not uttering a single word.
How I humiliated her, insulted her in front of others — and still, she didn’t fight back. She never did. Not once.
Why didn’t I notice it then?
Why didn’t I question the way she always kept her eyes down, her hands clutched, like she was always bracing herself for a hit?
Why did I ignore the way she would flinch every time my voice rose even a little?
But today…
Today, hearing those two women at the showroom — hearing the venom in their voices, the accusations, the hate — something clicked.
Something dark.
Something painful.
Something undeniably wrong.
They weren’t mocking her like an old friend would.
They were attacking her.
And she… she just stood there, barely breathing. Not defending, not denying — like she was used to being blamed. Used to being hurt.
How the hell did I miss all of this?
But what if the things I’m thinking… are wrong?
What if she really is guilty?
What if everything they said about her… was true?
What if she's not the victim I’m trying to believe she is — but someone who knows exactly how to manipulate, to pretend?
What if... she did do something terrible?
What if I’ve allowed a liar — a murderer — into my house?
And worse... around my family.
Vidyut slammed the door behind him as he walked out, his footsteps echoing through the silent hallway.
Inside the room, silence dropped like a shroud.
Ritvika stood frozen in the middle of the floor. Her chest was rising rapidly, almost in panic. Her hand clutched the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
The air felt… too thin.
Her ears rang. Her legs trembled.
And suddenly — everything started spinning.
The walls, the light, the bed, the sound of her own heartbeat — all merged into one dizzying blur.
She staggered back a step, one hand pressing against her chest. A sharp pain radiated through it — not unbearable, but enough to make her fold slightly.
The tightness was familiar now… it always came when she was pushed to her edge. When her breath wouldn’t come easy.
She leaned harder against the wall, her eyes blinking rapidly, trying to fix the haze in front of her. But her vision flickered. The corners of her eyes darkened. A wave of fatigue swept over her — bone-deep, crushing.
She was blacking out.
No. Not now.
She bit her lip hard, trying to ground herself. The taste of blood hit her tongue.
But it worked — barely.
A few long seconds passed before the wave passed. Just enough to keep her upright. But her breathing remained labored, the tightness in her chest refusing to ease. Sweat had formed across her brow, despite the cool air of the room.
And then—finally—she collapsed to her knees, not fainted, not unconscious… just broken.
Her fingers curled around the mangalsutra on her neck as tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Why me…” she whispered to no one.
She wasn’t just hurt by Vidyut’s words.
She was suffocating under the weight of them.
Everything felt... quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that doesn’t bring peace — but a strange heaviness.
I was still on my knees, the room cold around me, my body shaking from within.
Why does it hurt so much?
Not just the words… but everything.
The way he looked at me — with those accusing eyes. Like I was some criminal, a burden he never asked for.
"Murderer..."
The word still echoed in my mind like a curse.
And the worst part? I had no energy left to defend myself.
I wiped my tears with trembling fingers and forced myself up, my head spinning, chest tight again. My body wasn’t mine anymore — it didn’t move when I wanted it to. It dragged.
But I had no time to collapse again.
I walked toward the small drawer near the wardrobe and opened it. My fingers shook as I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app.
Balance: ?28,000
A broken laugh left my lips.
That’s all.
That’s all I had after saving every rupee I could. Every small stitching work, tutoring… every coin dropped in the jar after Tara was born — all added up to this. Twenty-eight thousand. Not even enough to buy peace, forget comfort.
But now… this wasn’t about peace.
It was about Tara.
My daughter.
My little sunshine.
My reason to keep breathing when I had no reason left.
I looked toward the corner of the bed where she lay curled up under the blanket. Her fever had lowered a little, her lips slightly parted as she breathed softly — unaware of the storm I was carrying in my chest.
I sat beside her again, brushing her soft hair off her forehead.
“Mumma will be fine… okay?” I whispered.
“Not for myself. But for you. Only for you.”
I had no choice now.
No matter how sick I felt.
No matter how much fear settled in my bones every time I thought of the tests.
No matter how alone I felt in this house.
The next morning didn't begin like the others.
There was no rush of footsteps, no sleepy babbles from Tara, no irritated sighs from Vidyut as he wrestled with the chaos of fatherhood. The room was filled with soft golden sunlight, and Tara — the little tornado — was now curled peacefully on the bed, cheeks rosy again, her fever entirely gone.
She was fine now.
Finally.
But the silence in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was empty.
Vidyut hadn’t returned to the room last night after their argument. Not even once.
Not to check Tara’s temperature.
Not to even glance at her.
And Ritvika? She had stayed awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling for hours, waiting… hoping… that maybe he’d come. Maybe he’d ask, maybe he’d apologise.
But he didn’t.
And now it was morning.
She got out of bed quietly, tucked Tara in with gentle hands, and made her way to the cupboard. Her movements were slower today — fatigue tugged at her limbs, and that invisible weight in her chest had only grown heavier.
But her resolve was firm.
She opened the same drawer as yesterday and picked up the medical file — the one she had been avoiding ever since the doctor had said the word "surgery."
She clutched it to her chest, then glanced one more time at Tara.
“I’ll be back before you wake up, baby,” she whispered softly, brushing a kiss on her forehead.
Downstairs, she met Lata kaki in the living room and said, “Tara so rahi hai… please uska dhyaan rakhiye thodi der. I… I have to go somewhere important.”
(Tara is sleeping… please take care of her for a while.)
Kaki looked up, concerned. “Sab theek hai na, bitiya?”
(Is everything alright, daughter?)
Ritvika gave a tight nod and a soft smile. “Bas… ek kaam hai. Jaldi laut aaungi.”
(Just… there is one thing to do. I will return soon.)
She stepped out of the house, pulling her dupatta tightly around her. The world outside was just waking up — morning vendors, honking cars, the buzz of a city that never stopped. But her mind was elsewhere. Every step felt heavy.
At the hospital entrance, she clutched her file and walked straight to the reception.
“I’m here for some tests,” she said softly. “I… I’ll deposit the amount today — ?28,000. And the rest… I’ll manage. I will. But please… let me get the tests done today.”
The receptionist checked her file, looked up, and gave a polite nod. “Yes ma’am, the doctor has already written down the tests. Please proceed to billing.”
Ritvika’s fingers were shaking as she opened her purse and handed over the money.
All of it.
Everything she had saved for years… gone in a moment.
But she didn’t flinch.
Because now — this wasn’t just about her heart.
It was about the heartbeat that ran around the house in tiny feet, who called her "Mumma."
?? ?
It was past two in the afternoon.
The usually quiet Rajvansh mansion echoed with the shrill, panicked cries of a toddler — Tara was wailing uncontrollably in Lata kaki’s lap, her little fists banging against her chest as if demanding answers neither of them had.
“Big man… mumma… mumma chahiye…” she sobbed, her voice cracked and shaking.
Lata kaki was near tears herself, rocking her back and forth.
“Arey beta, bas karo… Mumma bas aati hi hongi… please na…” she whispered, but Tara wasn’t listening. Her cries were getting louder — not the stubborn kind, but the helpless, scared kind. The kind that pierced through walls and reached deep into hearts.
(Hey, stop it… Mumma must be coming soon… please…)
Ritvika’s phone had been off since morning. Lata kaki had tried again and again.
No response.
With no option left, she did the only thing she could — she called Vidyut.
He was in the middle of a high-stakes meeting, a boardroom full of executives and tension in the air when his phone buzzed. The moment he saw “Lata Kaki” on screen — he frowned.
But the moment he answered, and heard her panicked voice, his expression shifted instantly.
“Vidyut beta, Tara ro ro ke haalat kharab kar chuki hai. Ritvika bhi kahin gayi hai. Phone bhi off hai. Mujhe samajh nahi aa raha kya karun!”
(Tara’s crying non-stop. Ritvika has gone somewhere. Her phone is switched off. I don’t know what to do!)
That was all it took.
Vidyut didn’t utter a word. He stood up without explanation, ignored the startled glances of his colleagues, and walked out.
No driver. No delay.
He drove like a storm.
In exactly seventeen minutes, the black SUV screeched outside the mansion gate. He didn’t even wait for someone to open the door — just barged inside.
“Tara!” he called loudly.
The sobbing didn’t stop, but grew louder — almost as if the little one knew her big man had come.
“Vidyut beta!” Lata kaki stood up as he entered the living room. “Dekho na, bacha ro ro ke pagal ho gayi hai…”
(Look, the child has gone mad from crying…)
Without another word, he rushed to the couch.
Tara looked up through tear-filled eyes — the second she saw him, she raised her arms instinctively, “Big man… big man…”
He picked her up immediately, holding her close to his chest. She clung to his shirt like her life depended on it.
“Shhh… bas… main aa gaya hoon,” Vidyut muttered, running his hand down her back.
(Shhh… I’m here now.)
Her cries slowly turned into hiccups as she buried her face in his shoulder.
But Vidyut?
His heart was thundering.
Where the hell was Ritvika?
Why was her phone switched off?
Why was she not home — when her daughter was in this condition?
His jaw clenched, rage slowly replacing concern.
He glanced at Lata kaki, his voice dangerously quiet now.
“Kahan gayi hai woh?”
(Where did she go?)
Lata kaki shook her head, nervous. “Bola tha, thoda kaam hai… bas jaake aati hoon. Uske baad se koi khabar nahi…”
(She told me that she has some work… will just go and come back. There has been no news since then…)
Vidyut looked down at the little girl in his arms — still sniffling, but calming.
And in that moment, he made a silent promise.
Wherever Ritvika had gone — she’d better have a damn good reason.
The familiar blue board outside read “Dr. Rahul Sirohi”.
I was sitting inside his cabin again… this time with a trembling heart and a stack of freshly printed reports in his hands.
The air felt heavier today. Maybe because I already knew—somewhere deep down—that nothing was going to be okay.
Dr. Rahul looked up at me after scanning the last page. He removed his glasses and set them aside, his expression unreadable… calm, but distant.
“Ms. Ritvika… the diagnosis is confirmed,” he finally said, softly. “It’s Dilated Cardiomyopathy, and it’s… slightly progressive in your case.”
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry. My palms were sweating. I knew this… I knew this already, didn’t I?
Still… hearing it aloud made my skin feel cold.
He continued gently, “Your left ventricle is enlarged and weaker than it should be. That’s why you feel tired all the time, why breathlessness hits you even with slight exertion. It explains the palpitations, the dizzy spells…”
I nodded numbly.
“I was hoping these symptoms were just early-stage. But the latest tests suggest it’s not just beginning — it’s… in the moderate stage now.”
My hands tightened over the sides of my dupatta. I had expected this. But I wasn’t ready.
“T—then what now?” I managed to ask, my voice a whisper.
Dr. Rahul sighed and leaned forward.
“Surgery isn’t necessary yet. That’s the good part. But you’ll need to start medications immediately. A set of four — one to manage your heartbeat rhythm, one to ease the pressure on your heart, a blood thinner to prevent clots, and one for maintaining oxygen circulation.”
I blinked rapidly. My mind was spinning.
“I’ll give you the exact schedule. You’ll have to follow it strictly.”
I nodded again.
“But…” he paused, looking straight at me, “there will be side effects. Fatigue will increase in the beginning. You’ll feel drowsy. Your appetite may reduce. You might feel nauseous, and sometimes dizzy. And there’s one more thing…”
I looked up quickly.
“You may begin to feel emotionally… more fragile Some of these medications affect the nervous system. It’s important you have someone around — just in case of emergencies. Someone to monitor your dosage. Someone who can report back if anything looks off.”
I felt my stomach sink lower.
Someone around? Who? How?
“Ms. Ritvika, I would strongly suggest… that next time, you don’t come alone. Bring someone with you. Preferably a family member. A guardian.”
I gave a small, dry nod.
But the truth was — I had no one.
I was fighting for my daughter. Alone.
I couldn’t tell him that.
I clutched the prescription paper tightly and stood up.
“Thank you, doctor,” I whispered.
He nodded kindly. “We’ll see how your body responds to medication. If it works, no surgery needed. But you have to come back in two weeks. Alright?”
I walked out of the hospital room, slow, heavy steps. Outside, the world still moved — nurses ran around, patients talked, monitors beeped.
But inside me?
Something had shattered.
━━━━━━?? ━━━━━━
570 Votes and 150 Comments
Agar comments nahi karoge toh chalega, because honestly, this chapter isn't worth that much — so it's okay.
But you know what? I really love your comments... I end up giggling and kicking my legs in the air!
Bas votes kar dena na? Woh toh kar hi sakte ho. ?????