CHAPTER 2 The Gilded Guillotine #2
“Nirmala protected you,” Ahana said. “The records are here. Birth certificates. Witness statements. Enough proof to satisfy anyone who wants a scandal.”
Mihika forced herself to breathe. “Rudransh will not care.”
“Perhaps not,” Birendra replied. “But investors care. Schools care. Society cares. And children suffer for the stains adults pretend not to see.”
Kanta folded her hands in her lap. “If you stay, this dossier reaches the press. The headlines will be vulgar. The stock will wobble. Rudransh will survive the money. He may not survive watching his son’s name dragged through it.”
“Aryan?” Mihika’s voice broke. “If the press comes here, they will dig into Revaa’s past too. They will dig into how he was born.”
“Then spare him,” Kanta said. “Leave before anyone has a reason to look.”
Ishana’s smile was almost sympathetic. “Elite schools remember everything. So do children. Is that the life you want for him?”
The words struck Mihika like blows. They had found the exact pressure points to break her. They were not only threatening Rudransh’s work. They were holding Aryan’s innocent future in their hands.
“You are monsters,” Mihika whispered.
Ahana stepped forward and held up Mihika’s phone, the screen already dark. “We have also disabled the house lines in this wing,” she said. “No dramatic calls. No noble notes. No warning him before you leave.”
“We are protectors of our legacy,” Kanta said.
“The driver has already been told where to take you. Two guards will walk you to the servant’s entrance.
You have two hours to pack one bag. You will leave the city.
You will not contact Rudransh. You will not leave a note.
If you try to send one message, make one call, or turn back at the gate, the dossier goes to every paper, every school trustee, and every investor within the minute. ”
Mihika stood paralyzed in the center of the room. Betrayal, sharp and agonizing, sliced through her heart. She had spent years absorbing their venom, trying to be the bridge that kept Rudra connected to his family. She had thought they loved him. But they loved nothing but their pride.
She looked at the faces of the people who held all the power in the world. She was an orphan. She had no money, no influence, no power to fight them. If she stayed, she would detonate a bomb that would destroy the two people she loved most in the universe.
Mihika slowly looked down at her left hand. Her trembling fingers reached over, and with a heart-shattering finality, she slid the antique diamond off her finger. She placed it gently on the coffee table next to the manila envelope.
“I will go,” she whispered, the words tasting like ash.
***
The rain had begun to fall by the time Mihika walked down the servant’s corridor for the last time. She carried a small canvas duffel bag containing nothing but a few changes of clothes and a framed photograph of Rudra and Aryan.
Before she left, she crept into Aryan’s room one last time.
The little boy was still playing on the floor with his new tiger. When he saw her, his face lit up. “Mama! Look, I made a fort for him.”
Mihika fell to her knees, pulling the boy into a desperate, crushing hug. She buried her face in his small neck, breathing in the scent of him, committing it to memory. The physical pain in her chest was so sharp she thought she might be dying.
“Mama?” Aryan asked, pulling back slightly, his small brows furrowing. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not, my sweet boy,” she lied, forcing a broken smile, wiping her tears furiously. “I just... I love you so much, Aryan. You have to remember that. Always be good for your Papa. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“I love you too, Mama,” he said, patting her cheek with a small, sticky hand.
Mihika stood up, backing away toward the door, unable to tear her eyes away from him. Every step felt like walking through broken glass. She turned and ran.
She left no note. She left no trace. By the time Rudransh Rathore-Chauhan returned home at six o’clock, eager to celebrate his future, the love of his life had vanished into the ether.
***
One Year Later.
The penthouse of the glass-and-steel monolith overlooking the Arabian Sea was a stark contrast to the oppressive, historic grandeur of the Chauhan estate.
Here, there was no dark mahogany or heavy velvet.
Everything was sleek, modern, cold, and immaculate.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the crashing waves hundreds of feet below.
Rudransh Rathore-Chauhan stood by the glass, holding a tumbler of scotch. He was thirty-two now, but the past year had aged his soul by a decade.
He was wealthier than ever. He was a billionaire who had completely consolidated his power, ruthlessly expanding his empire across continents.
He was striking, his sharp features now carved with an unforgiving, icy hardness.
Women threw themselves at him constantly—models, heiresses, actresses.
They saw the wealth, the power, the tragic allure of the handsome single father.
But Rudra fended them off with a coldness that was legendary in social circles. He looked at other women and saw nothing but static. He was a fortress with the gates permanently welded shut.
Because the queen had committed treason.
“Sir?”
Rudra didn’t turn around as his executive assistant, a highly efficient, terrified young man, stepped into the living room. “What is it, Neel?”