CHAPTER 34
AARAV
The room smells like rusted metal and old rage.
I stand in front of him—Vikram. Pathetic, disgusting Vikram.
The guy who used to shove me into lockers like it was a game.
Who laughed when I bled? Who made it his mission to humiliate me just because I wasn’t loud enough or cruel enough in college?
And now? Now he’s tied to a damn chair in my godown, wrists bound, ankles too, and for the first time in his miserable life, he can’t run his mouth and walk away like nothing ever happened.
"So, how do we begin?" I ask, voice low and sharp, satisfaction curling in my chest like smoke. I don’t try to hide the smile that spreads slowly across my face—cold, cruel, and completely unbothered. He flinches. That’s new.
Back then, he never flinched. Back then, I was the quiet one.
The easy target. Now? Now he looks at me like I’m a monster.
Maybe I am. He hurt my wife. And that makes everything fair game.
His eyes flick around the room, searching for something—maybe a weapon, maybe an escape, maybe a shred of mercy.
There’s nothing here for him. Just concrete, shadows, my men standing guard, and me.
I can see the sweat dripping down the side of his face, soaking into the collar of his once-expensive shirt.
His chest rises in quick, shallow breaths.
"You’ll regret this, Aarav," he spits, still trying to act like the same smug bastard he used to be. "You still have time. Let me go. Don’t make this mistake."
I laugh. Not a normal laugh—a short, dark, humorless sound that echoes off the walls and makes him flinch again.
"A mistake?" I glance at the small metal table beside me. The tools are all lined up like twisted little trophies—hammer, pliers, lighter, blade. Clean, sharp, silent. My fingers brush over them slowly, one by one, until they land on the hammer. I pick it up. Heavier than I remember.
"You think this is a mistake?" I tilt my head, watching him squirm.
"You’re doing this because of that girl," he says, trying to sound mocking, but his voice cracks at the end.
"That girl is my wife," I snap. The hammer feels solid in my hand—real. Anchoring.
"You left her at the mandap like she was trash. You sent her messages that made her cry herself to sleep. You humiliated her. Scarred her. And you have the audacity to sit here and act like you’ve done nothing wrong?"
“I didn’t throw the acid!” he screams suddenly, jerking against the ropes. “I never touched her! I swear—”
I slam the hammer down on the metal table beside him. The sound rings out, sharp and violent. He jumps. I lean closer.
“But you did enough, didn’t you?” My voice drops to a whisper. “You didn’t have to throw it. You made her a target. You dragged her name through the mud. You enjoyed it.”
His mouth opens again, but I’m done listening. The first hit lands on his knee. His scream is raw, animalistic. I feel it, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I lean in, letting the fire in my chest speak louder than logic.
“That’s for college,” I mutter.
Another hit.
“That’s for every time you shoved me into lockers, for every time you made me feel like I was nothing.”
Another. He cries out, curses, and begs. I barely hear it.
“This one’s for Anika. For every night she shakes in her sleep, thinking you might come back.” He’s sobbing now. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. There’s no guilt. No hesitation. Just years of rage that’s been waiting for this exact moment to bleed out of me.
I switch to the blade. A shallow cut first—just enough to make him scream. Then deeper. His body jerks violently. His eyes roll. His voice is hoarse, broken.
"Who helped you?" I ask, my tone calm, almost casual. "Who threw the acid? Did you order someone?"
"I don’t know!" He gasps, voice trembling. "I didn’t do it, Aarav, I swear to God—"
“You’re lying.”
"I’m not!" he cries out. His lips are bleeding now, cracked and wet with spit and blood. “I didn’t hurt her. I left her, okay? That’s all I did.”
And somehow… that pisses me off more than anything else.
I shake my head, almost laughing at the irony. “That was probably the only good thing you ever did. Leaving her. She was always too good for you.”
But that doesn’t mean I’ll forgive him.
“She wasn’t some product you could pick one day and discard the next when things got hard. She wasn’t an object you could just abandon because you smelled danger. You don’t get to walk away and pretend like you weren’t part of it.”
I sigh, running a hand down my face. The blood smell is stronger now. “I don’t even know what I’m going to do with you, Vikram.”
He looks like he’s about to pass out. His eyes are glassy, barely focused. Blood is smeared across his cheek, staining his shirt, pooling on the floor. His mouth moves, but the words come out rough and slurred.
"I’m not the one sending the messages,” he rasps. “Hell, I don't even know what messages you are talking about; I didn’t hurt her. I swear on my life—"
“Swear on your life?” I echo quietly, tilting my head.
He nods weakly.
“Then let’s take it.” I pull the gun from my waistband. Suddenly, it’s quiet. Everything feels… still. I stare into his eyes—cloudy with pain, fear, maybe even sincerity. For a second, just a second, something in my chest tightens. What if he’s not lying?
But it’s too late.
Because even if he didn’t throw the acid, he still left her bleeding on her wedding day.
He still broke her. He still made her a target.
I still had to marry her, and although I am grateful for that, it's not how this was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be voluntary and happy. And I can’t risk letting him walk out of here and smile like he always does. Like, he always wins.
I pull the trigger. The sound is deafening in the small room. His head jerks back. His body slumps. Silence.
For a moment, I just stare. At the stillness. On the way, everything just... stops.
And then the doubt creeps in. Not regret. Not guilt. Just cold, creeping doubt. If it wasn’t him… then who? Who’s still out there? Who wants to hurt Anika badly enough to send those messages, to try and destroy her life?
I sink into the chair across from his body. My hands are shaking—not from what I did, but from what I don’t know. Because maybe this isn’t over. Maybe this was just the beginning. Maybe I just killed the wrong man.
And maybe the real monster is still out there. Watching. Waiting. Planning their next move. And I hate that.