Chapter-56
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The air in the Rathore mansion was thick-so thick it felt like breathing through grief.
It wasn't silence that comforted, but silence that punished.
Heavy. Suffocating. Every ticking clock, every creak of the old wooden floor echoed with dread.
The house, once echoing with laughter, footsteps, and the chatter of a large joint family, now seemed to mourn with them.
Three days.
It had been three days since Aarushi was taken away.
Three days since the name Aarushi Rathore had been splashed across television screens and news apps, now synonymous not with grace or kindness-but with scandal, blood, and murder.
The Home Minister was dead.
And Aarushi-the once soft-spoken, sunlit girl of this household-was being painted as his killer.
In the main living hall of the mansion, the entire family sat like frozen statues, trapped in a moment they couldn't undo.
The space between them was thick with unspoken questions, unshared fears. No one moved much anymore. No one ate properly. No one laughed.
Navya sat hunched on the edge of the sofa, fingers twisting the ends of her kurta like she was trying to tie herself to sanity. "She must be so scared," she whispered, her voice raw, trembling. "And we can't even help her..."
"Help?" Aryan scoffed, eyes rimmed red. "We're not even allowed to see her." His tone was flat, clipped, but the pain behind it bled through every word.
"She hasn't even been granted a proper hearing yet," Chachi added quietly. Her hands, wrapped around a rosary, trembled. "Her parents call every few hours. What am I supposed to tell them? That we know nothing? That we're just... sitting?"
Chacha, who had been standing silently by the window, turned with a face carved in stone. "What do you expect us to say? No lawyer updates. No official word. No access. Abhimanyu has taken full control-like it's some goddamn boardroom crisis."
The room fell into a sudden, sharp silence.
Abhimanyu.
The man who once held Aarushi's hand and promised her forever.
The man who now refused to meet anyone's eyes.
The man who had built walls so high around himself in the past three days, not even family could reach him.
"He's busy saving the company," Vivaan said bitterly, arms crossed as he leaned back. "Crisis management meetings, lawyer briefings, PR strategy-he's doing everything right for Rathore Industries. Just not for his wife."
Navya's head snapped up. "How can bhai be like this? How can he shut everything down and go quiet? This isn't a scandal to fix. This is about bhabhi."
"She must feel so alone," Badi Ma whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her heartbreak. "No contact. No one to talk to. Just her name being torn to shreds on every screen while the family she married into sits in silence."
Chacha nodded slowly, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. "Abhimanyu doesn't want any emotional interference. He thinks it'll harm the case. No visits. No tears. Just statements through lawyers and silence from the family."
"It's already a wildfire out there," Aryan burst out.
"You've seen what's happening outside the gates, right?
Protestors. Media vans. People shouting slogans.
Throwing accusations like flower petals at a wedding.
You know what it's like to hear bhabhi being called a murderer on national TV while we sit here helpless? "
"She didn't do it," Vivan said softly, almost to himself. "She can't have. We all know that. Badi Ma's brother had a long list of enemies. Why would she-"
His voice cracked.
And again, silence returned-this time heavier. This time crueler.
Bade Papa, who had remained quiet through it all, finally stood. His expression-normally calm, always composed-was shadowed with something far deeper than anger. It was betrayal.
"I don't understand him," he said slowly, his voice gravelly. "Not this time. Abhimanyu's always been shrewd, yes. Calculated, even. But this? This is inhuman."
"He's not even returning our messages,"Chacha said. "We've called, texted, left voicemails. Nothing. It's like he's vanished-except for when he's appearing in lawyer meetings and internal board calls."
"She's probably still waiting for him," Chachi said, her voice breaking.
The thought was like a gut punch.
And Bade Papa couldn't take it anymore.
He reached for his phone. His fingers, usually steady from years of business and leadership, now trembled-not with fear, but with barely-contained rage.
The kind only a father could feel-watching his daughter being devoured by a scandal, abandoned by the one person she trusted the most.
He dialed.
One ring.
Two.
Three...
Four.
Five.
And then-
"Hello."
The voice on the other end was composed. Calm. Distant.
Too distant.
Bade Papa clenched his jaw. "Abhimanyu," he said, voice low but loaded with fury. "What the hell are you doing?"
There was a pause.
"I'm handling it," came Abhimanyu's flat response. Controlled. Clinical. Cold.
"Handling it?"Bade Papa's voice rose, incredulous. "She's in jail, Abhimanyu. For three days, No one is being allowed to meet her. Her name is being dragged through filth, and you-you're what? Sitting in your office making strategy notes?"
"I'm doing what needs to be done," Abhimanyu replied evenly. "The more noise we make, the more we feed the media. Right now, silence is the only defense we have."
"She's not a public relations crisis, Abhimanyu," Bade Papa snapped. "She's your wife. She needs her husband right now."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Abhimanyu spoke, voice unnervingly steady. "And the company is under fire. Shareholders are panicking. The board is divided. Political pressure is mounting. One wrong move and it'll all collapse."
"And is she the collateral damage in all this?" Bade Papa's voice cracked. "Is that what she's become to you-a risk? A headline you need to bury?"
"Emotions right now will destroy what little leverage we have. I handle it in court. That's all that matters."Abhimanyu said quietly.
'No," Bade Papa said fiercely. "She matters. Her faith in you matters. Do you have any idea what she must be thinking? What she's going through? Every second she sits there thinking-'He'll come. He won't leave me like this.' And you... you're proving her wrong."
A silence followed. One that ached.
"I said,"Abhimanyu finally replied, tone sharper, "stay out of it. Let me handle this my way."
And then-click.
The line went dead.
Bade Papa lowered the phone slowly, his hand clenched around it so tightly his knuckles were white.
Everyone in the room stared at him, waiting. Hoping.
"What did he say?" Aryan asked.
He didn't come.
Three days.
That's how long I've been sitting in this cold, grey corner.
Three days since they took me away.
Three days since I've been waiting.
And he didn't come.
Not even once.
My eyes burn from the lack of sleep, the lack of tears, the lack of him. I didn't think it was possible to miss someone this much.
I didn't think silence could hurt like this. But it does. It's loud. Deafening. Every passing hour stretches like a knife through my chest.
And still... nothing.
No calls.
No visits.
No sign.
The man who once wouldn't let me walk alone at night because he feared I might slip on the stairs... didn't come.
He didn't even ask if I was alive.
My hands tremble as I clutch the hem of my kurta, twisting it into a knot. I've been doing that unconsciously, again and again. Maybe trying to hold onto something, anything. I feel like I'm unraveling. Coming apart thread by thread.
He left you, Aarushi.
The voice in my head is cruel. Sharp. Brutally honest.
If he really loved you, he would've come running.
He would've fought the world. But he didn't. He didn't even look back.
My throat tightens. My chest aches.I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes.
I try to picture his face.
His smile.
The way his fingers always traced lazy circles on the back of my waist while we lay in bed. That little smile he'd get when I annoyed him. The way his voice changed when he whispered my name.
That was love.
No, it wasn't. The darker voice returns. It was a beautiful illusion. A performance. A lie you told yourself because it felt good.
Stop, another voice cries out from the corner of my mind. Softer, gentler. Don't do this. Don't doubt him. Don't doubt what you had. He loved you. He did. You saw it. Felt it. It wasn't fake.
Then where is he now? I want to scream. Where is that love when I need it the most?
I try to breathe, but it's shallow. My lungs feel tight. There's a constant pressure in my chest-like something heavy is sitting there. Crushing me. I don't know how long I can take this. My soul feels bruised.
I feel myself spiraling.
One part of me says: He left you when it mattered most. Accept it.
Another part whispers: No. He's still there. Somewhere. He must be. There's a reason. There has to be a reason.
Maybe he's protecting me.
Maybe he's trying to do something behind the scenes.
Maybe he's in pain too, trying to find a way out of this mess without exposing himself.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
But maybes don't warm cold hands.
Maybes don't erase the humiliation of being handcuffed in front of flashing cameras.
Maybes don't erase the sting of betrayal when the man you love disappears without a word.
I rest my head on my knees, curling into myself like I can somehow become smaller, disappear into the silence. My body aches. My heart screams. I miss him.
God, I miss him.
Not just his presence-but his voice. His stubbornness. The way he'd never let me sleep without tucking me in. The way he'd always walk me to the car every morning. Always bring my favourite brownies to change my mood without even saying a word.
You don't fake those things.
You don't fake the kind of love that wraps around your soul like sunlight.
Then why does it feel like all of it-us-was nothing more than a dream?
Because dreams end, Aarushi.
No, the softer voice cries. This wasn't a dream. It was real. He loved you. That kind of love doesn't die overnight. There's something wrong. Something bigger than this. He must be protecting you.
I want to believe that voice.
I want to believe in him.
But each passing minute without a call, without a message... makes the doubt louder.
And louder.
And louder.
Until it's screaming inside my head.
He's not coming, Aarushi. Stop waiting. He's not coming back.
"No..." I whisper out loud, voice cracking as my lips tremble. "He promised."
He did.
He promised he'd be there. Always.
Even when the world burned.
Even if everyone stood against us.
He said he'd never leave me.
So then... why am I here?
Alone.
Shamed.
Frightened.
With nothing but the sound of distant voices and metal bars between me and the rest of the world.
My heart feels like it's being torn apart in slow motion.
I clutch my chest, as if I can physically hold it together, stop it from breaking further. But it's no use. The cracks are spreading. The silence is deafening.
And yet... I still look at the door every few minutes. Still flinch when someone walks by.
Still hope that any moment now, he'll walk in and say, "It's over, baby. I'm here now."
Because if I stop believing that...
Then what do I have left?
Suddenly a murmur echoed down the hallway-low, casual, nothing out of the ordinary.
But then I heard it.
"Mr. Rathore is here with commissioner for some interrogation details."
My breath caught.
My knees nearly gave out.
Mr. Rathore...
Abhi.
My abhi.....
My heart slammed against my ribcage like a frantic bird finally seeing an open sky.
I scrambled to my feet, every muscle in my body suddenly awake, alive, desperate. My palms gripped the rusted iron bars so tight it hurt.
He came.
He finally came.
He was here.
All the voices inside me stilled-just for a moment. That cruel one, the one that kept saying he left you... it was silent now. Because he came. That's all I had wanted. Not answers, not even justice-not right now. Just him.
Just for him to look me in the eye and say, "I trust you, jaan"
To place his hand on mine through these godforsaken bars and remind me that I'm not alone.
To let me breathe again.
I looked toward the constable standing nearby, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please... my husband-Abhimanyu. Is he really here?"
The man glanced at me, chewing something in his mouth, and shrugged. "Yeah, he came about ten minutes ago. Had to talk to the commissioner or something. Official stuff."
I nodded, rapidly. "Can I-can I see him? Will he come-?"
But the constable had already turned, walking off toward the other end of the corridor, laughing about something with his colleague. I didn't care. I barely heard them anymore.
My eyes were fixed-on that one open space across the hall, the one spot where I could see the front desk, the comings and goings of this dusty, chaotic station. That small rectangular slice of visibility became my universe.
He's here.
I repeated that to myself like a chant.
My fingers clutched the bars, and I stood on my toes, trying to see better.
Every few seconds, a silhouette would cross. My heart would leap-Is it him?-only to deflate again.
But I didn't move.
I couldn't.
Hope had found a home in my chest again, fragile and trembling, but alive. He was here. That meant something. It had to.
Maybe... maybe he couldn't come earlier because it wasn't safe. Maybe now, he will walk in, hold my hand, and make all the noise in my head go quiet.
I stood there, unmoving, ignoring the ache in my back and the cold sweat on my skin.
Minutes passed. I don't know how many. Five? Ten?
Then I saw him.
He walked out with a senior officer, his expression unreadable. Cold. Focused.
But it was him.
My chest clenched. My lips parted.
Abhi...
I waited. I knew any second now, he would look this way. He'd see me standing there. He'd stop. Walk toward me. Say my name.
I kept watching. Begging silently with my eyes.
But he didn't look.
He didn't stop.
He walked right past that space-And out the door.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
I must've missed it.
No.....He saw. He knew I was here.
And still, he left.
He left me.
Again.
My hand slipped from the bars, my fingers numb, falling limp by my side. My breath hitched, and I realized I'd been holding it.
My eyes stayed locked on the door even after he was gone.
Gone.
He came to the same place... but not for me.
Not for me. Not even a glance. Not even an acknowledgement that I existed.
That I was his.
My throat burned. My knees buckled. I didn't cry-I couldn't. It was worse than crying. It was this hollow, dry gasp that escaped my lips. A soundless sob. My body shook, but the tears wouldn't come.
Just the image of his back turning away. He had been here.
And still, I had never felt more alone.
I leaned against the wall again, sliding down until I was curled in the same spot I had been for days, only now I was emptier than ever. Like that last thread I was holding onto-had snapped.
I stared at the floor.
At nothing.
And whispered, barely audible, "That love wasn't fake... right?"
The next morning was colder than usual—not by temperature, but by the stillness it carried. A biting silence hung over the police station.
It was as though even the wind outside had paused, waiting to see how the day would unfold.
Today was the hearing. Her first time being taken to court. Her first appearance in public after days of deafening media trials, betrayal, and silence.
The cell door creaked open.
"Chalo,"the constable said gruffly.
(Let's go)
Aarushi looked up, slowly. Her body moved, but not with purpose. There was no urgency in her limbs, only mechanical response.
She wrapped her dupatta tighter around herself, as if that thin fabric could shield her from what was coming.
Two lady constables walked beside her, one holding a scarf to partially cover her head. She didn’t object. Let the world see whatever version of her they wanted.
As she stepped out of the dull-lit corridor into the daylight, she blinked—blinded not by sunlight but by the storm of camera flashes. The real world had never felt this loud before.
The chaos was immediate.
Dozens of reporters pushed forward, their cameras clicking relentlessly. Microphones jutted out like spears. Voices screamed over each other.
"Aarushi! Why did you kill him?"
"Is your husband supporting you in court?"
"Is there a family feud behind the minister’s murder?"
"Why hasn’t Abhimanyu Rathore made a statement till now?"
Each question was an arrow—sharp, cruel, and personal.
The police formed a tight circle around her, pushing the media back. "Move back! Move back" they shouted. Aarushi kept her head low, eyes fixed on the cracked ground beneath her feet.
Her chest ached from the weight of eyes—judging, dissecting, condemning.
She didn’t answer a single question. Her silence screamed louder than words ever could.
As the police led her to the waiting jeep, a reporter shouted, "Mrs. Rathore, is it true that your husband refused to meet you even once?"
That one cut deeper than the rest.
She blinked rapidly. Her throat burned. But she said nothing.
The police opened the jeep’s back door, and she climbed in, the door slamming shut behind her like the final note of a song no one wanted to sing.
Inside, it was quiet.
The sirens began as the vehicle pulled out of the compound, trying to slice through the mob of vans, mics, and humans.
Aarushi sat still.
Her fingers curled into the edges of her shawl, gripping it like a lifeline. Her reflection stared back at her from the tinted glass—eyes hollow, lips pressed together, trying not to tremble.
Her gaze shifted slowly to the rearview mirror.
The Commissioner was looking at her.
He looked calm. Professional. But not unaffected.
Their eyes met in the mirror.
She didn’t expect anything from him. Not sympathy. Not words. But something about his eyes—empathetic and full of understanding—stung.
In that moment, he sighed.
Just a small, helpless breath.
Not loud, not theatrical. Just the quiet exhale of a man who had seen too much.
She looked away.
The world outside the window blurred into gray.
Buildings passed. People passed. The city was still moving, alive. But inside the car, time crawled. Her thoughts returned to one place. One man.
Abhimanyu.
Did he know today was the hearing? Did he remember what time it was? Did he even think of her? Will he attend today court hearing.
Her fingers curled tighter.
The car slowed.
The tall structure of the courthouse loomed ahead, stone and steel surrounded by barricades and buzzing tension. Reporters were already there, ready to capture her walk again—her fall.
The jeep came to a halt inside the court compound, within the barricaded circle.
Police officers quickly got out, clearing the way.
The door opened.
Aarushi stepped out.
The air was thick. Not with smoke, but anticipation. Journalists leaned over railings, cameramen hoisted themselves onto vans, every single eye fixed on the woman in a simple salwar suit with tired eyes and a shawl wrapped tight.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry.
She walked.
Each step toward the courtroom was a slap to the version of herself that once smiled freely.
That version had grown silent.
Still, in the corner of her heart—deep, bruised, and trembling—one whisper remained:
He’ll come today.
Even if late, he’ll come.
The courtroom was nothing like the sterile, grimy corridors of the police station. It held its own weight—a different kind of heaviness. The room was large, the walls lined with aged wood and pale yellow plaster that carried decades of silence, verdicts, and buried truths.
Rows of benches filled with legal assistants, junior lawyers, and murmuring spectators gave it the feel of a slow-burning theatre. But for Aarushi, every tick of the clock echoed like a drumbeat in her chest.
Her wrists still bore the mark of handcuffs. She was escorted by two officers into the courtroom through a side door, just moments before the hearing would begin.
Her movements were slow, hesitant—not from fear, but from the burden of too many emotions she didn’t know how to carry anymore.
And then… she saw them.
On the third bench to the left, her family sat huddled together—her father, mother, Rohan and Sid . Their presence in that moment felt like an anchor thrown to a drowning sailor.
Her father met her gaze first.
A firm nod. A tiny, almost invisible smile. His eyes said it again now, brimming with pain but holding tightly onto hope.
She remembered his voice from the last time they’d been allowed a visit—"We’ve arranged a good lawyer, Aarushi. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of this."
Her throat welled again.
Her mother sat beside him, clutching a handkerchief, her face pale and her eyes hollow from sleepless nights. She looked like someone who had cried too much to cry anymore. Aarushi’s heart clenched. She had never seen her mother look so… defeated.
Rohan sat next to her, one hand on their mother’s back, murmuring soft reassurances. When his eyes met Aarushi’s, he smiled. A crooked, pained smile—but a smile nonetheless. Sid sitting next to him mouthed something to her"We are here for you."
She blinked at him. Nodded. Just once.
And then her breath caught again—this time not from relief.
It was a presence.
A shift in energy.
Every neck in the room turned.
A tall figure entered through the main courtroom door, dressed sharply in black and charcoal tones. His gait was controlled, calm—yet every step of his seemed to ripple across the room like waves in still water.
Abhimanyu Rathore.
Aarushi’s heart stopped.
She turned instinctively. Her eyes searched only for him, drank him in. He looked the same—composed, powerful. But colder. Distant. A stranger in the skin of someone she once called her home.
Her lips parted.
"Abhi…" she whispered to herself, so faintly only her own ears could catch it. A single tear slipped down her cheek.
For a split second, she hoped.
But he didn’t look at her.
He walked straight past her, gaze fixed ahead, not even flinching at her presence.
Her family stared at him—confused, hopeful, and then… quietly heartbroken. Her father’s encouraging smile faltered. Her mother clenched the handkerchief harder. Rohan narrowed his eyes, watching Abhimanyu closely.
Right beside him, Aakash followed in silence, holding a leather file. As they passed Aarushi, Aakash spared a glance—his eyes carried an apology, maybe sympathy.
But she didn’t acknowledge it. Her eyes remained glued to the one man who hadn’t spared her even a glance.
Abhimanyu took a seat on the opposite bench, where the legal counsel typically sat. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at her.
Aarushi continued watching him like she could will him to look. To break. To show something—anything.
But then—
"All rise."
The judge entered.
Everyone stood.
The door at the far end opened, and the judge walked in with an air of practiced authority.
A man in his late sixties, in spotless black robes and spectacles perched on his nose, took his seat behind the bench. The air shifted immediately.
Silence swept over the room like a curtain.
Aarushi, too, stood up as instructed by the guard beside her, but her eyes—her eyes were still on him.
And just as everyone else’s gaze averted to the judge—
Abhimanyu looked at her.
A flicker.
His eyes lifted.
Their eyes met.
For barely a second.
And then he looked away.
No nod. No emotion. No sign of recognition.
She turned her face away before the pain could escape her eyes.
The bailiff began reading aloud:
"This is the preliminary hearing in the matter of State versus Aarushi Rathore, accused in the case of the murder of Honourable Home Minister Vishnu Shekhawat. Case Number 471/2025."
Every word felt like thunder.
"The accused stands charged under Sections 302 and 120B of the Indian Penal Code. Presenting for the State is Public Prosecutor Mr. Adil Bhardwaj. The defense counsel will be represented by Mr. Rajeev Vohra."
Aarushi’s legs trembled slightly as she was instructed to stand in the witness box.
She walked there slowly, flanked by constables. The wood beneath her feet creaked with each step. She placed both hands on the wooden railing in front of her, staring at the judge, willing herself to remain strong.
The judge’s voice echoed through the microphone.
"Let the hearing begin."
Public Prosecutor Adil Bhardwaj stepped forward, dressed in crisp black robes, his every move laced with arrogance and deadly precision.
"Your Honour, we will begin with establishing a motive, timeline, and physical evidence that places the accused at the scene of the crime—alone, unsupervised, and in possession of both opportunity and means."
He turned to Aarushi, a faint smile on his lips.
"Mrs. Aarushi Rathore. You said you were simply instructed to place a file in the Minister’s chamber. Am I correct?"
"Yes,"Aarushi replied softly.
"No further details? No signature? No formal order?"he asked.
"I wasn’t given any. It was verbal."
He circled her like a predator.
"You mean to say… in an event where even the menu required prior approval, you casually accepted an unnamed file from an unnamed person and entered the Home Minister’s private chamber without confirmation?"
"He asked for help,I didn’t think—"
"Exactly," Adil interrupted sharply, his voice echoing."“You didn’t think. Or maybe you did. Maybe you thought this was your perfect opportunity."
"Objection," Vohra mumbled, half-rising from his seat.
The judge didn’t even lift his head. "Sustained. Mr. Bhardwaj, stick to facts."
Adil smirked. "Of course. Let’s move to the facts then."
He signaled to an officer, who walked up with a transparent evidence pouch.
"This decorative ring—belonging to Mrs. Rathore—was recovered from beneath the Minister’s desk. Forensic teams confirmed it had fresh impressions in the carpet fiber, meaning it fell from her clutch. During her visit."
Aarushi’s eyes widened.
"That’s not possible. I didn’t even know I lost it—"
"Exactly," Adil said, voice growing stronger. "You didn’t know because you were too distracted… or in too much of a hurry after what you’d done?"
"No" she protested, her voice cracking. "That’s not true! I placed the file and left immediately"
Adil held up a printout.
"CCTV footage. Timestamped 10:37 PM. You entered. And you exited at 10:47. Ten minutes"
She felt her breath leave her.
"No. That’s not true. I wasn’t there for that long. I only stayed a minute or two."
Adil leaned forward, hands gripping the railing in front of her. "So the camera lies?"
"The footage is edited," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. "I wasn’t there for ten minutes. Someone tampered with it."
"You’re accusing a government facility of footage tampering?" he asked mockingly. "Mrs. Rathore, did it ever occur to you that you’re the only one who seems confused about the timeline?"
"I didn’t kill him" she said, desperate now. "Why would I even do that?"
Adil’s voice dropped dangerously low.
"That’s the question we’re all asking, Mrs. Rathore."
He turned to the judge.
"And Your Honour, if I may, we have something else—partial fingerprints recovered from the Minister’s desk. Only one clear match—hers. No other guest entered the room in that time frame."
"I touched the desk by mistake," she cried. "Maybe to steady myself while placing the file. That doesn’t prove anything"
"But it proves you were in the room. You were alone. And the Minister was found dead twenty minutes later."
Adil let those words hang in the air.
Dead silence.
Every face in the courtroom turned to her, and every stare felt like an arrow lodged in her chest.
She turned toward her defense counsel, eyes pleading.
Mr. Rajeev Vohra stood up, adjusted his spectacles, and cleared his throat.
"Your Honour… the defense believes that these pieces of evidence are circumstantial. A ring, a few fingerprints, and camera footage—none of which directly prove murder. My client was unknowingly caught in a situation that may have been orchestrated."
Adil raised an eyebrow. "Do you have proof of this orchestration?"
"Well… not currently. But we believe that with more time and investigation—"
"So your defense is based on a belief," Adil cut in, smirking. "Not facts. Not witnesses. Not logic."
Vohra stuttered. "We request the court for leniency and additional time to gather supporting materials."
From the gallery, Aarushi’s family stared in horror. Rohan looked like he was about to stand up himself. Her mother’s hands were shaking. Even Sid looked betrayed.
Was this their best hope? This man who sounded like he’d walked into the wrong courtroom?
Aarushi looked up again—towards Abhimanyu.
He sat still, shoulders straight, jaw locked, eyes blank to the world. But not to her she saw something indifferent but she quickly averted her gaze as prosecutor spoke.
"Your Honour," prosecutor began again, "in light of the events and emerging emotional complexities of this case, the prosecution would like to request the presence of a key witness. Someone who may provide insight into the accused’s state of mind, motives, and behavior in the days leading up to the murder. "
He turned, eyes narrowing with precision.
"We’d like to call Mr. Abhimanyu Rathore to the witness stand."
Her gaze immediately flew to him—Abhimanyu. He sat motionless at first, then slowly stood up, buttoning his coat with silent elegance.
His steps toward the witness box were measured, composed, each one sending a chill down Aarushi’s spine.
The judge nodded, granting permission. "Mr. Rathore, please take the stand."
Abhimanyu raised his right hand, swearing in with a quiet dignity that made the air around him still.
Aarushi couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Every inch of her wanted him to look at her, even once. Just once.
But he didn’t.
He looked straight ahead.
Not at her. Not at anyone else.
Just forward. Cold and unreadable.
Adil Bhardwaj approached.
"Mr. Rathore, you and Mrs. Aarushi Rathore attended the charity event together, is that correct?"
"Yes," Abhimanyu answered, voice low, deep, and unnervingly calm.
"You were both present in the ballroom until approximately 10:30 PM?"
"Yes."
"And then you claim you were handling a call while she was instructed to deliver a file to the Home Minister’s private chamber?"
"Yes, I didn't knew anything about that"
Adil circled him like a predator stalking its prey, but Abhimanyu never flinched.
"Did you find anything unusual about her behavior that day or after when she leaves the venue? Did she seem… nervous, agitated, maybe even unusually quiet?"
Abhimanyu’s jaw ticked once.
"No,"he said, tone clipped. "She behaved normally."
Adil frowned, probing further. "Have you ever suspected that your wife might be hiding something from you?"
A pause.
Aarushi’s eyes widened, heart hammering in her chest. Her nails dug into her palm, waiting for his answer.
"No,"Abhimanyu replied coolly. "She never gave me a reason to."
Aarushi inhaled shakily, relief flooding her chest.
But Adil wasn’t done.
"Mr. Rathore, do you believe your wife is capable of committing such a crime?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Everyone held their breath.
Then Abhimanyu said simply, "I don't know"
Aarushi blinked, her eyes stinging with fresh tears. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to hope that somewhere behind that emotionless mask, her Abhimanyu still existed.
But then—
Adil stepped back. "That will be all."
The judge nodded. "You may step down, Mr. Rathore."
Abhimanyu looked at the judge. Then, with terrifying calmness, he spoke.
"One moment, Your Honour. I have something to say."
"Your Honour," he began, voice steady, but unnervingly distant, "I wish to make something clear… not just to the court, but to myself."
He exhaled slowly, not even glancing at the woman who sat barely a few feet away from him—shaking, breaking.
"I believed I knew the woman I married."
Aarushi blinked hard, her entire body tightening, bracing herself.
"I believed she was kind… honest… incapable of violence."
He paused, his next words slicing the air like cold steel.
"But standing here today, hearing these accusations, seeing the evidence, I find myself questioning everything."
Aarushi shook her head slowly, her lips trembling. "No…" she whispered, but no one heard her.
"I cannot ignore the facts, nor the stain this is putting on my family’s legacy,"Abhimanyu continued, eyes still fixed on the judge, never once letting them falter to hers.
"It feels like… I never really knew her at all."
His words weren’t shouted. They weren’t emotional. They were worse—factual.
Detached.
Merciless.
"I can’t live with a shadow of doubt hovering over the person I share a home with. I cannot be married to someone who is capable of such a crime—alleged or not."
Aarushi's body swayed. It felt like the walls were closing in.
The courtroom was deathly silent. No one dared to move. Her family looked horrified. Her mother covered her mouth in shock. Rohan sat stiffly beside her father, who looked as if someone had punched him in the chest. Sid's jaw was clenched, fists trembling.
Aarushi stared at Abhimanyu with wet, wide eyes, her vision blurred with tears. She wasn’t breathing properly. Her hands trembled violently on the wooden railing in front of her.
"I would like to file for divorce," Abhimanyu said again, this time louder.
No.
Her lips parted, but the scream was stuck in her throat. Her knees buckled as if someone had ripped the floor beneath her.
She gasped loudly—painfully—as the word divorce hit her like a wrecking ball.
She searched his face for even a flicker of softness, for guilt, for hesitation—for love.
But she found only ice.
It was as though he had pulled a curtain between them.
The same man who used to press kisses to her forehead and pull her into his arms in the middle of the night had just declared, in front of the entire courtroom, that she was a stranger.
"I don’t know who she is anymore," he said softly, almost like to himself.
And just like that… her world collapsed.
The judge sighed, clearly affected by the heaviness in the air. He looked down at the file again, before speaking.
"This divorce request will be considered after the conclusion of this murder trial. For now, Mrs. Aarushi Rathore will remain in custody under Section 302 and 120B of the Indian Penal Code."
He cleared his throat.
"The next hearing is scheduled for Monday. Court is adjourned."
The gavel’s final strike still echoed faintly in the courtroom as the judge stood and exited through the side doors, flanked by his staff. The murmurs began to rise, footsteps shuffled, and benches creaked as the spectators stood to leave.
Abhimanyu stepped down from the witness box with his usual composed grace.
His face betrayed nothing. Just....stillness. Like a man who had made peace with his decision, no matter the weight of it.
But the moment his shoes touched the floor and he turned to leave, she moved.
Aarushi stumbled down from the witness stand, nearly falling as the hem of her suit caught on the wooden railing.
Her hands gripped the edge for support as she rushed forward, only to be abruptly blocked by the constable holding her arm.
"No, please—Abhi"she cried out, her voice cracking so loud that it turned heads across the courtroom.
He paused, just a few feet away. But he didn’t turn.
"Abhi, please…" she begged, fighting against the constable’s grip just to reach him , to hug him .
"Don’t do this. Don’t say those things. I didn’t do anything—please believe me!”
Her voice wasn’t strong anymore. It wasn’t even stable. It was shredded—fragments of sorrow, panic, and betrayal, barely holding together.
"I swear on everything I have, I didn’t do this… Please… Look at me"
Abhimanyu did turn now—slowly.
His dark eyes met hers.
But there was no anger. No hate. No love.
Just the hollow silence of a man who had sealed his heart.
Aarushi’s breath hitched as she stepped forward again, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Abhi, you know me. You know me. I didn’t kill anyone—I didn’t even know what that file was—I just dropped it like they told me—please."
The constable tugged her back. "Ma’am, enough. We have to go."
But Aarushi wouldn’t stop. She didn’t hear him. She didn’t feel anything but the emptiness of her husband’s gaze.
"Not like this. Please don’t say you don’t know me. You do. You know I could never—never—hurt someone. You promised you'd stand by me"
Still, he didn’t move.
He didn’t speak.
Aarushi broke further.
"Say something… Please…"she sobbed. "I'm begging you, Abhi. Just say you believe me once. Please. One word. Please, just look at me like you used to."
Her voice rose, full of desperation now, as she struggled harder. "Why are you doing this to me?! How could you?! Abhi, please—i can't!"
Her family stood nearby—helpless.
Rohan holding his mother, who had tears streaming silently down her face. Sid's jaw clenched as he watched her fall apart in front of him.
The constable tried again, more firmly now. "Madam, please. Let’s go."
"I’m not done! Let me talk to him!" Aarushi screamed. "Just give me one minute—please Abhi, please, Don’t let me go like this. I don’t care about the case, I don’t care what they say—I only care about you. Please don’t leave me. Please… I love you…"
Abhimanyu’s lips parted for a second—but no sound came.
He just looked at her. One last look.
A glance that held everything… and nothing.
Then he turned away.
And walked out of the courtroom.
Aarushi stood frozen for a second, staring at the doorway through which he disappeared.
Then her knees finally gave out.
She collapsed on the floor in tears.
"No… no… don’t take me away from him…tell him I didn't do an–anything, please s–stop him " she sobbed, her voice raw and broken.
After few minutes ~
The heavy wooden doors of the courtroom swung open with a creak, sunlight spilling into the dim hallway like a harsh spotlight.
Two uniformed officers walked ahead briskly, followed by Aarushi—her wrists still restrained, her steps wobbly, her soul utterly shattered.
Her eyes were swollen, lashes damp. Strands of hair clung to her cheeks, matted with tears and sweat.
Her dupatta was half slipping from her shoulder, her posture bent—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of disbelief still pressing on her chest.
The second she stepped into the open, flashes of cameras exploded in her face.
"Why were your fingerprints found on his desk"
"Is this why your husband filed for divorce?"
"Is this a political conspiracy? Who are you protecting?"
The press swarmed like a pack of vultures.
But she didn’t flinch.
She wasn’t even listening.
Because her eyes were fixed… on him.
Across the stairs, a few feet away, Abhimanyu Rathore stood in front of a group of reporters, dressed in a tailored black suit, his voice calm and commanding.
"I have full faith in the judiciary. I believe the law will take its course. And I’m cooperating fully with the authorities and yes I am filling for divorce "
The same voice that used to murmur sweet nothings into her ear. That used to make her smile even on the darkest days. Now, it cut like glass.
Aarushi stood still, her heart thudding painfully as she stared at him—stared like her soul was trying to scream out through her eyes.
As if he heard her, Abhimanyu paused mid-sentence.
He turned his head.
Their eyes met again.
This time, there were no tears in hers. Just devastation.
Raw. Undeniable.
For a moment, neither moved. The crowd, the media frenzy, the blaring horns—it all blurred around them. He looked at her as if something inside him cracked… but only for a second.
Then, without a word, he broke the gaze.
Turned his face.
Walked away.
She watched as he opened the door of his black car. The reporters turned with him, calling his name, shoving mics toward him, desperate for another quote.
But Abhimanyu said nothing more.
He ducked into the car and shut the door.
The engine purred to life. The car began to pull away.
And still, she stood there. Unblinking. Watching the love of her life fade into the street, swallowed by shadows and flashing lights.
A female constable gently touched her arm. "We have to go."
Aarushi nodded numbly. She didn’t resist. Didn’t fight.
She just kept looking straight ahead… to the empty road where his car had vanished.
A second later, as she sit in the van , the constable shut the metal door of the van.
That metallic sound echoed like the closing of a coffin.
Aarushi sighed softly. A trembling exhale.
Not of relief.
But of surrender.
Not to guilt…
But to grief.
And as the police van pulled out into the crowd.