Chapter-55
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The moment the car slowed near the police station gates, my heart began pounding so violently, I felt it in my throat.
I wiped at the stubborn tears clinging to my cheeks, trying to compose myself, but my body trembled as if I’d been thrown into an ice-cold ocean with no warning.
Why was this happening?
As soon as the car door opened, I stepped out cautiously—only to be blinded by a sea of flashing cameras and deafening voices.
"There she is! Aarushi Rathore—"
"Ma’am! Why did you kill the Home Minister?!"
"Is it true you were hidden by the Rathore family all this while? Was it a conspiracy?"
"Why would a mere schoolteacher commit a murder so high-profile?"
My ears rang with the barrage of questions, shouted over each other like a pack of wolves clawing for flesh.
The mics were thrust into my face, the cameras barely inches away, their harsh lights accentuating every bit of panic in my expression.
I tried to shield my face with my hands, but they followed like a shadow, relentless and merciless.
"I didn’t… I didn’t do anything," I managed to stammer, shaking my head. "I didn’t kill anyone please––"
But no one heard me. Or maybe they just didn’t care.
Some people standing outside the barricade began screaming, pointing fingers, hurling insults. "Murderer" someone spat. "She’s pretending to be innocent! Just look at her face"
I stumbled slightly as the police tried to shield me and guide me inside.
I could feel the camera lenses burning holes into my skin. Their words etched themselves into my mind like cuts.
Murderer.
Conspirator.
Liar.
My legs moved mechanically as I was led inside the station. I couldn’t feel my feet on the ground.
My ears were still ringing, heart still racing, and the world around me blurred.
The air inside the station was heavy—thick with tension and a certain kind of judgment that needed no words.
They led me to a small interrogation room with cream-colored walls and a fan that spun slowly overhead.
The hum of the news channel playing on an old television in the corner was the only sound, until they made me sit and shut the door behind me.
I folded my hands in my lap to stop them from trembling, but it didn’t help. And then—I looked up at the television.
My breath caught. My stomach twisted violently. I couldn’t look away.
The news anchor spoke with urgency and grave finality, his tone cutting deeper than a knife.
> “This is Aarushi Rathore—wife of Abhimanyu Rathore, heir to the Rathore empire. Until today, her identity was carefully hidden from the public eye, but tonight, that secrecy has been shattered. Aarushi attended a charity event earlier this evening alongside her husband and other dignitaries—including the late Home Minister Vishnu Shekhawat. The minister was reported missing shortly after the event. Later, his body was found in a private chamber of the venue.”
My heart dropped. I pressed a hand to my lips to stop myself from sobbing aloud.
> "Upon reviewing CCTV footage, the police discovered a shocking detail—Aarushi Rathore was seen entering the minister’s private chamber minutes before he was found dead.
The footage shows her leaving the room alone ten minutes later.
Soon after, she left the venue with her husband.
Was this a solo act, or was Abhimanyu Rathore involved too? "
> "Why would a schoolteacher kill one of the most powerful political figures in the country? Was this a politically motivated attack? A personal vendetta? Or something else entirely?"
I clenched my fists. “No… this isn’t true…”
> "The body was taken to the hospital for postmortem examination. Meanwhile, Aarushi Rathore was arrested late evening as she was seen leaving in a car. Reports suggest she was ‘on the run’ when the police intercepted her."
"I wasn’t running," I whispered, brokenly. "I didn’t even know what was happening…"
The screen shifted to another scene—outside Rathore Mansion. Protesters and media vans crowded the front gates.
Angry voices chanted slogans, demanding answers. Some waved placards with my name and the word "MURDERER" scrawled in red paint.
The reporter continued breathlessly, “Supporters of the Home Minister and his party members are furious. The family of the deceased has not issued any statement yet. Neither has the Rathore family and not her family. We also have a team outside the home where Aarushi’s parents reside.”
The screen changed again—to my home.
The house looked so small on TV. My mother’s garden was trampled by camera crews. Neighbors stood outside whispering. A few even gave interviews, gossiping like it was a TV drama.
“She always looked so sweet… we never thought she’d be capable of this.”
Someone else chimed in, "Who knows what happens behind closed doors with such rich families…"
I couldn’t breathe.
My lungs begged for air. My hands were cold. My eyes—glassy and lost.
I wanted to scream that it was all wrong. That I was innocent. That I didn’t knew anything . That I only delivered an envelope.
The reporter’s voice rang again, “We have our legal panel joining us soon to discuss the case, including whether the Rathores can be implicated—”
Click.
The screen went black.
I turned, startled, to find a stern-faced officer standing by the TV with a remote in his hand. He pulled up a chair opposite mine and sat down slowly, adjusting his cap.
His eyes weren’t unkind—but they weren’t gentle either.
He opened a file and spoke flatly, "Whatever you say next can and will be used against you in court. You may also make one phone call. Use it wisely."
He slid a landline phone across the table toward me.
My fingers trembled as they reached out. There was only one person I could call. Only one person whose voice I needed to hear.
Abhi.
He would believe me. He would understand. He would fix this. He always did.
I dialed the number with shaking hands, praying. Begging in silence.
The line didn’t connect.
I blinked.
No, no, no.
I tried again—this time, it rang.
And then—click.
"Hello," came his voice. Familiar. Deep. Calm.
"Abhi…" I breathed, a sob breaking out of me before I could stop it. "Abhi, they— they arrested me. They’re saying I killed the Home Minister. Abhi, I swear—I didn’t do anything. You know that, right? Please… please believe me. I don’t know what’s happening—please help me—please come—"
Click.
Silence.
My heart stopped.
I looked at the phone in confusion. Had the line dropped?
I tried calling again.
This time—the call was declined.
Again.
Declined.....
I sat there frozen, staring at the device in disbelief. I hadn’t even finished speaking. Why didn’t he pick up? Why did he cut the call?
I pressed the buttons again, desperate to try once more—but the officer snatched the phone away.
"That was your one call, ma’am," he said curtly.
“No—please—I don’t think he heard me properly—the line got cut—I need to—just one more time, please—"
He didn’t budge.
Instead, he opened a laptop and turned it toward me. A video played—grainy CCTV footage.
There I was—walking toward the minister’s chamber. The camera captured me placing the envelope on the table. And then—for some reason—it showed me walking further into the room, just out of frame.
Ten minutes passed.
Then I reappeared, bending to pick up my purse. I left calmly, brushing my hair back.
I stared at the footage, horrified.
"You’ve seen the footage," he said coldly. "Ten minutes. That’s how long you were inside with the Home Minister. Care to explain what happened in there?"
"I didn’t kill him," I said instantly, hoarsely, my voice cracking at the edges. "I swear —I didn’t… I just dropped off an envelope. That’s it"
He leaned in, his tone mocking. "An envelope? And what was in this mysterious envelope?"
"I… I don’t know exactly. Documents. For the charity. A person asked me to hand it to his PA"
"Name of the person?"
"I don’t… I didn’t get the name. He just stopped me in the corridor and said it's urgent , the Minister was in the room and his PA is waiting there for envelope "
"You didn’t get a name?" he scoffed. "Didn’t ask who you were delivering it to? Didn’t confirm it with anyone? How convenient."
I flinched, swallowing hard. "It wasn’t planned. I—I was trying to call someone outside. He saw me and asked for help. I didn’t think—"
"You didn’t think," he repeated, voice rising. "Exactly. And now someone’s dead."
My head spun.
"I went in. I didn’t even see anyone inside. The room was empty. I just placed the envelope on the table and turned to leave. That’s when… that’s when my purse fell near the chair. I bent to pick it up and then walked out. That’s all. Nothing else."
"Why didn’t you report that the room was empty" the officer behind him asked. "You saw no one. Not even the Minister. Did that not seem strange to you?"
"I thought he had stepped out. I didn’t want to disturb anyone or create a scene. I was already feeling out of place…"
He narrowed his eyes. "Feeling out of place, were you? Because you didn’t belong there? Or because you knew what you were about to do?"
"No" I slammed my palm against the table. "Don’t twist my words! I didn’t do anything!"
The officer in front of me stayed eerily calm.
"You had motive. You had access. You had time. Your fingerprints will be on the door handle, on the envelope, on the chair—"
"Because I touched those things," I cut in, frustrated. "Of course they’ll find my prints. But that doesn’t mean I killed him."
He suddenly stood, slamming his hands on the table. I flinched in shock.
"Then who did it?" he shouted. "The man was alive before you entered. Dead when they found him after you left. Ten minutes, Mrs. Rathore. What happened in those ten minutes?!"
Tears spilled again from my eyes, sliding down my cheeks uncontrollably. "I don’t know! I swear to God I don’t know! Please, I’m telling the truth—"
"You’re lying," he said with disgust. "You’re educated. A school teacher. Calm. Collected. You knew what you were doing. The precision, the timing—this wasn’t some accident."
"I didn’t even touch him!" I cried. “I never saw his body. I didn’t know he was dead!"
He started pacing.
"Did you two have a past connection? Did he harass you? Threaten you? Were you sent to deliver a warning? He was your mother in law brother right?"
I looked up, horrified. "Yes he is but I’ve never even spoken to him before"
"Then why you? Why would a person choose you of all people in a hall filled with staff and guests?"
"I—I don’t know," I stammered. "Maybe because I was alone in the corridor, maybe he thought—"
"Or maybe because you were supposed to do it," he snapped. "Maybe it was preplanned. Maybe your husband is involved too—"
"Don’t bring Abhimanyu into this!"I yelled, cutting him off. "He didn’t even know I went there. He was busy on a call at that time"
"That’s convenient," the second officer said. "An alibi provided by the very man we now suspect might have something to gain."
"What would he gain?" I whispered, my voice almost gone.
They exchanged a look. "Power. Silence. Control over someone. Maybe the Minister was in the way of something big."
"No," I said, trembling. "He’s not like that. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—"
"Then it’s just you," the first officer said flatly. "You snapped. Or maybe someone paid you. A pretty little teacher, planted in a business tycoon’s life. And now, the opportunity to do something big. Is that what this was?"
I stood up, my chair screeching loudly behind me." STOP. Just stop saying these things"
They said nothing. Let me stand there, breathing heavily, hands clenched.
Then the officer sat again and pushed a form toward me.
"This is your statement. You either sign it as it is, or we note down that you’re unwilling to cooperate. But the evidence speaks for itself."
I stared at the paper.
Black ink on white. Just words. Cold, damning words.
I didn’t even understand half the legal language.
"I want to call my husband again," I said quietly. "Please. Just once. I… I think he didn’t hear me earlier. I was crying. The line cut—"
The officer shook his head.
"You had your call, Mrs. Rathore. He didn’t answer. That should tell you enough."
My heart clenched. "Please. Please just one more time—he’ll come. I know he will."
"No," he snapped. “This isn’t a drama,. It’s a murder case."
I stared at him with hollow eyes. "So that’s it? You’ve already decided I’m guilty?"
"No. The evidence has," he said coldly. "Unless you tell us something useful, this only gets worse for you."
"I am telling you the truth!" I screamed, my voice breaking entirely. "Why won’t anyone believe me?!"
Silence.
The room felt colder. Smaller.
And I felt more alone than I ever had in my life.
After few minutes ~
The officers finally left the room after what felt like an endless storm of accusations and questions.
I stood there frozen, hands clenched, heart thudding wildly in my chest. Every bone in my body ached—not from injury, but from sheer exhaustion and shock.
One of them turned at the door.
"Your court hearing date will be processed in the morning," he said, almost casually. "Till then, you'll be in custody."
His words echoed in the empty room like a gavel hitting stone.
In custody.
I was no longer just being questioned. I was now a prisoner.
My knees buckled slightly, but I held on, pressing my lips together to stop the sob that was threatening to break free again.
Before I could even gather my thoughts, the door creaked open once more.
A female constable stepped in, holding a bundle of dull, faded clothes and a plastic tray.
"Change into this," she said curtly, avoiding eye contact.
I stared blankly at the uniform-like fabric in her hands. Grey. Lifeless. A far cry from the pastel saree I wore tonight for the event, chosen carefully after so much debate, paired with the matching earrings Abhimanyu liked.
"I—I don’t understand," I whispered, stepping back.
"It’s procedure," she said, her tone softening slightly, almost pitying. "You’re in custody now. These are the lock-up clothes—you’ll have to wear them until your family sends something for you. Come on, I’ll show you where to change."
We made out way to another room. I stood there as my eyes fell to the tray she had placed on the table.
A small pouch to put my jewellery in.
No… no, no.
I looked down at my fingers, still trembling. My wedding ring. Abhimanyu had slid it on my hand that morning, distractedly, while reading the paper, and I’d playfully nudged his elbow to make him pay attention.
My mangalsutra rested gently against my neck, the chain catching slightly in the soft cotton of my blouse.
I reached up to touch it.
"I won’t take these off," I said quietly, stubbornly. "These are… this is mine. I’m not a criminal."
The constable hesitated, then walked over gently. "I understand. But you have to. We store all personal belongings for safety. It’ll be returned once things are sorted."
I backed away.
"No. Please. Just this. Just the mangalsutra, let me—"
"I’m sorry," she said softly. "It’s the rule."
I shook my head as my eyes brimmed again. "Please don’t take it. It’s all I have left of… of him right now."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then, with practiced calm, she reached forward and began unclasping the back of the chain.
"No," I whispered, holding it protectively, " How can you—"
"It will be returned," she repeated, gently this time, "but right now, you need to cooperate."
She unhooked the mangalsutra and dropped it into the pouch, followed by my ring. The metallic clink sounded like a final nail to my heart.
My fingers felt empty. Naked. As if a part of my soul had been stripped off.
I changed in silence.
The constable waited outside as I slowly peeled off the saree and draped the loose-fitting, faded grey salwar kameez over my trembling frame.
The cotton fabric was stiff and smelled of detergent and something sterile—something lifeless. It scratched at my skin. My identity had been reduced to this—grey clothes, an evidence bag, and a name on a form.
When I stepped out, she gestured silently. I followed her down the corridor.
Each step echoed with shame.
The sounds of distant phones ringing. A typewriter clacking somewhere. The smell of ink, sweat, and steel filled the air.
I could hear the murmurs of other officers, hushed conversations about “the Rathore case” and “VIP murder.”
As if I were nothing more than a headline now.
We turned a corner, and the constable led me to a heavy iron-barred cell tucked behind a small desk. A single yellow bulb flickered overhead. The walls were chipped and stained. There was no bed. Just a bench along the wall.
She opened the door and motioned for me to step in.
She shut the cell with a dull clang on my face. The sound made my heart jump.
The constable walked away, shoes clicking faintly on the concrete. I was alone.
Completely… utterly alone.
I turned around slowly. The cell was cold. The light from the police desk flickered faintly beyond the bars, offering some sense of direction, of reality.
I could just barely see the back of a constable sitting at the desk, scribbling into a register.
I walked to the edge of the cell, fingers curling around the rusted iron bars, peering out like a caged animal.
He’ll come.
Abhimanyu will come.
He has to.
I sat down on the cold floor, curling my knees to my chest. My fingers instinctively reached for the ring that wasn’t there anymore, the chain that had always rested against my heart. The emptiness burned.
I closed my eyes, fighting the fresh wave of tears threatening to fall again.
"Please," I whispered to no one. "Just come. Please… come soon."
Every passing second felt like a year.
I replayed the morning in my mind. The way he kissed my forehead. The way he grumbled because I teased him but smiled when I made a joke.
That quiet moment when he reached over to hold my hand. He loved me. He’d never leave me to face this alone. He knew I wasn’t capable of something like this.
So where was he?
Had he even seen the news yet?
Was he fighting for me behind the scenes?
Or… did he believe the headlines?
The ache in my chest tightened, an unbearable pressure building inside.
I leaned my head back against the wall, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
And I waited.
The night had passed in unbearable silence. It's currently 6 am in the morning.
Aarushi hadn’t slept. Not even for a fleeting second.
She sat curled in a corner of the cold, hard police cell, knees pulled tightly to her chest, her head resting against the wall that reeked of dampness and peeling paint.
The thin fabric of the prison uniform clung uncomfortably to her skin—foreign, unfamiliar, humiliating. Her fingers, once adorned with gold and ring, were bare now.
She stared out through the narrow bars, her bloodshot eyes fixed on the police desk barely visible from her position. Sometimes a constable passed by with tea. Sometimes papers were shuffled. Phones rang. But none of it mattered.
Her world had shrunk down to one desperate, aching question.
When will he come?
He had to come.
Abhimanyu would never let her face this alone. He wasn’t like that.
Aarushi kept telling herself this over and over again. That he’d walk in any moment. That she'd see him at the gates—raging, powerful, unbending against the system that had dared to touch his wife.
She imagined it so vividly that for a moment she actually heard his voice.
But then another voice echoed through the corridor. Familiar. Older.
"Aarushi!"
Her eyes fluttered open, the breath in her chest catching. She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding.
And then she saw him.
Her father.
Standing outside the bars, shoulders slumped from exhaustion, hair disheveled, face pale—but eyes full of desperate concern. Beside him stood Sid, silent and grim.
"Papa…" she choked out, stumbling to the bars.
He rushed forward, gripping them with both hands as if he could tear them down and reach her.
Her voice cracked as the sobs pushed past her throat. "Papa, please… please take me out of here. I didn’t do anything. Papa, please, I don’t feel good here… I swear I didn’t—please believe me—"
"Shh, beta…" his voice trembled as he reached one hand through the gap to cup her cheek. "I know. I know. I believe you. We all do."
"I didn’t do anything, Papa" she sobbed, pressing her forehead to the bars. "You know I’d never—never—please take me out…"
"We will," he whispered, swallowing down his own tears. "We’re finding the best lawyer, someone who won’t rest until you’re home again. I promise you. This won’t last."
Her tears flowed endlessly, soaking her sleeves as she clutched her father’s hand with all the strength she had left. But even as he held her, her gaze flicked to Sid—uncertain, almost hesitant.
"Where’s Abhi?" she asked in a whisper.
Silence.
She looked at Sid again. "Sid… please. Tell me. Where is he?"
Sid looked down, his throat moving as he clenched his jaw.
"We tried," he said finally, "to contact him. And his family. But none of them are responding. His phone is switched off. Their landlines go unanswered."
Her stomach dropped.
"What?" she said, her voice suddenly thin and sharp. "No one? Not even one reply?"
"There’s a sea of media outside their mansion," Sid continued gently. "We can’t get through the gates, and they’re not talking to anyone. We barely got out of our own house an hour ago."
"Maa… is she okay?" Aarushi asked, her voice trembling.
Sid nodded slowly. "Rohan is with her. She’s worried but trying to be strong for you."
Aarushi turned back to her father, shaking her head slowly, disbelief clouding her eyes.
"But… he didn’t call? Not even a message?"
Papa hesitated.
"No,"he admitted softly.
Aarushi stepped back, her hand slowly falling from the bars as if all strength had left her limbs.
"I’ve been waiting for him all night," she murmured, staring blankly at the floor. "He wouldn’t do this to me. He… he knows I didn’t do this. He knows me."
Sid moved closer to the bars, his voice urgent. "We don’t know what’s going on in that house, Aaru. We don’t want to assume the worst."
She looked up at him, her tear-streaked face desperate.
"Please, Sid," she whispered. "Try again. He must be stuck. Or hurt. Or—something. Please just check. He would never stay away. Check if he is okay or not"
Sid nodded slowly. "I will. I promise. I’ll keep calling. I’ll talk to anyone I can reach. I’ll find out where he is."
Her father stepped in again, his hand gentle on her arm.
"We’ll get you out of here," he said quietly. "You are not alone, Aarushi. We trust you. We believe you. Hold on a little longer, beta. Just a little longer."
She closed her eyes, trying to hold in the next wave of emotion.
Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "Tell Maa not to cry too much"
"I will."
She paused, her fingers gripping the bars one more time.
"And tell Abhi…" Her lips trembled. “Tell him I am waiting for him" Her father’s gaze faltered. He nodded.
And then, after a few more seconds that felt like lifetimes, they began to step away. She watched them go. Her heart left with them.
On the other side ~
The atmosphere in the boardroom was tense. Stifling. The polished marble table gleamed under the lights, but the gleam couldn't mask the sharpness of the words being thrown across it.
The board members sat upright in their cushioned chairs, grim-faced and agitated.
At the head of the table, Abhimanyu Rathore sat still, fingers laced tightly, jaw clenched ever so subtly. His eyes were fixed ahead, expression unreadable, a cold mask carved in stone.
"We cannot ignore this any longer," Mr. Bajaj, one of the senior investors, said sharply. "Your wife has been arrested for murder, Abhimanyu. Murder. This isn’t a family matter anymore—this is a public scandal waiting to swallow Rathore Enterprises whole."
Others murmured in agreement.
"This is going to affect our share value,"another board member added. "Our partners are already asking questions. Sponsors are panicking. If this case drags on, media will connect your name to it more and more. And with how aggressive the coverage is—"
"—You’ll be dragged into it whether you like it or not," an older woman on the panel finished.
"You must step back," Mr. Bajaj pressed, voice louder now. "Put the company first. We suggest issuing a statement—denying involvement and reaffirming Rathore’s ethical values. We can't let this woman ruin our hardwork "
A few even smirked—waiting. Expecting the heir of the Rathore empire to lose his temper. To storm out. To defend her.
But Abhimanyu remained still.
He didn’t twitch.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
And then, finally, he spoke—his voice quiet, calm, but cutting.
"There is no need for me to step down," he said. "Rathore legacy and its image will not be tarnished because of a woman like her"
A silence fell like a guillotine.
Some exchanged glances, unsure if they’d heard correctly. A few shifted uncomfortably, surprised by the coldness of his tone.
"No press statement," Abhimanyu continued, rising from his chair. "No distancing. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll handle it."
And without another word, he turned and walked out—his face expressionless, his steps deliberate, but his jaw locked in furious restraint.
Abhimanyu stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. He walked to his desk and dropped into the chair like a man collapsing into shadow.
The early morning sunlight streamed in through the glass walls, but it didn’t touch him.
His hands moved automatically—opening his laptop, straightening the files, typing a few empty lines in a document.
It was as if nothing had happened.
As if his wife wasn’t locked in a cell right now.
As if her name hadn’t been slandered moments ago by a dozen men who didn’t know her.
He simply… sat there.
Like stone.
Like she didn’t exist.
The door burst open behind him.
"Sir"
It was Aakash..He looked furious.
Abhimanyu didn’t look up.
But Aakash’s voice rose—sharp, uncontrolled, teetering on the edge of something he had never dared to cross before.
"What are you doing, sir? Mam is in jail for a murder she didn’t commit, and you’re sitting here!"
Still no response.
"You refused to come to the police station when I called you!"Aakash’s voice cracked with disbelief. "And now you let them talk about her—say the worst things—and you didn’t say a word"
Abhimanyu’s fingers paused on the keyboard, but he still didn’t speak.
"She told me to call you, sir. She’s waiting for you. Still waiting for you. And you’re here—ignoring calls, hiding in this cabin, talking business as if none of this is happening"
But Abhimanyu’s patience snapped like a whip.
He stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor, eyes blazing with fury.
"Shut the fuck up, Aakash" he roared. "Don’t you fucking teach me what I should do! Mind your damn business"
Aakash froze.
The room filled with the sound of heavy breathing and crackling tension.
"Don’t speak about her to me again," Abhimanyu hissed, voice low and lethal. "And if you question me one more time—I will fire you so fast you won’t have time to pack your things."
Aakash stared at him, heart pounding, fists clenched by his sides. Rage simmered under his skin.
He had followed Abhimanyu for years. Watched him protect this empire like a hawk. Watched him care—deeply—for the woman he now pretended didn’t exist.
And now this?
This silence?
This abandonment?
Aakash swallowed hard, trying to control himself.
But the words escaped anyway.
"Sorry, sir," he said, his voice strained. "But I just… I can’t understand. Is all this—"he gestured around the office—"more important than your wife?"
Abhimanyu didn’t respond.
Not a word.
He just sat down again, as if Aakash were nothing more than a voice echoing in an empty hall.
Aakash stood for a second longer.
Then turned, teeth clenched, eyes burning.
And walked out.
The door shut behind him.
Abhimanyu remained in his chair, unmoving. He neither looks broken nor torn. He looked like he was exactly where he wanted to be.