Sanya stepped out of the bathroom, her hands clenched at her sides. The air in the room felt colder than before, as if reflecting the icy silence between them.
Aarush was sitting on the couch, his shirt now slightly unbuttoned, his fingers lazily swirling the golden liquid in his glass. The scent of whiskey mixed with the faint aroma of roses that lingered from their forced wedding.
His gaze flickered to her—once, just for a second—before he smirked.
"Cried enough?" His voice was taunting, cruel.
Sanya remained silent. She had nothing left to say.
Aarush let out a sharp chuckle, leaning back against the couch. "Good. At least you understand what kind of life awaits you now."
She swallowed the lump in her throat, her fingers curling around the fabric of her lehenga. "Why, Aarush?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Why do you hate me so much?"
His smirk disappeared. His grip on the glass tightened.
"Why?" He repeated the word like it was a joke. Then, in a blink, he slammed the glass onto the table with such force that it shattered into pieces, the sound slicing through the silence like a knife.
Sanya flinched.
Aarush stood up, towering over her. His presence was suffocating, his eyes burning with a rage so deep it sent chills down her spine.
"You dare ask me why?" His voice was dangerously low, filled with unspoken fury. "Because of you, Sanya. Because of you, my family is gone. Because of you, my world was torn apart!"
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I didn't—"
His hand shot up, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Don't lie to me," he hissed. "You can pretend all you want, play the victim, but I know the truth. And trust me, you will pay for what you did."
She shivered at his words.
His touch was harsh, but it wasn't the pain that hurt her—it was his hatred.
This was the same boy who had once shielded her from pain, who had smiled at her, who had unknowingly become the center of her innocent dreams.
But now—that boy was gone.
In his place stood a man with a heart of stone, a man who saw her as nothing more than a curse upon his life.
Aarush released her with a scoff, turning away as if the sight of her disgusted him. "You can sleep on the floor," he said coldly. "A bed is too much of a privilege for someone like you."
Sanya remained still, her nails digging into her palm.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted to make him understand that she wasn't the reason for his pain.
But what was the point?
He had already made up his mind.
He had already decided to destroy her.
So, without another word, Sanya sank to the cold, hard floor.
She pulled her dupatta around her fragile body, curling into herself as silent tears slipped down her cheeks.
The night stretched endlessly, but she knew—her suffering was only beginning.
The room was silent except for the faint sound of her breathing—soft, uneven, almost broken. Aarush sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, his fingers curled into fists. The shattered glass on the table reflected the storm raging inside him, sharp fragments glistening under the dim light, much like the pieces of his ruined life.
His jaw tightened as his gaze flickered to the curled figure on the floor.
Sanya.
The girl who had once looked at him with stars in her eyes. The girl who had once followed him like a shadow, wide-eyed and trusting, as if he were some kind of hero.
He scoffed. A hero?
Heroes saved people. Heroes protected their loved ones.
But he hadn't been able to save his family.
His hands clenched the bedsheet, his mind unwillingly dragging him back to that night.
The night that had changed everything.
Five Years Ago
Laughter echoed through the grand hall of the Rathore mansion, glasses clinking, the scent of expensive wine and fresh marigolds filling the air. His mother was laughing, her eyes twinkling as she nudged his father playfully. His father, ever the serious man, was smiling—something that rarely happened.
Aarush had never seen them this happy before.
And then—everything went wrong.
A phone call. A hushed conversation. A sudden change in expressions.
His father's face had darkened as he strode away. His mother's smile had faded into worry. Aarush had felt the shift in the air, the unsettling tension that crept in like a silent storm.
Then came the explosion.
A deafening roar. A blast of heat. The smell of smoke and blood.
His father had been the first to fall. His mother had screamed his name, reaching for him. But before she could even take a step—a bullet had pierced through her chest.
Aarush had frozen, his world shattering in slow motion.
No. No. NO.
He had rushed to them, his hands shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding, tried to bring them back, tried to wake them up.
But they were gone. Just like that.
The police investigation had followed, whispers of betrayal, of someone from the inside tipping off their enemies.
And the name that had been whispered in the shadows?
Sanya's father.
His blood had turned cold. His vision had blurred with rage.
The man he had once trusted, the man who had visited their home, who had shared meals with them—had been the one to betray his family.
And when the truth had come out, when justice had been served, when Sanya's father had paid the price for his sins—Aarush had still been left with nothing.
No parents. No family.
Just a hollow heart and an unquenchable fire of hatred.
And Sanya?
She had been spared. She had walked away unscathed while he had been left to drown in the ruins of his once-perfect life.
So when fate had pushed her into his hands, when the opportunity had come to claim her as his wife, he had done it without hesitation.
Not out of love. Not out of duty.
But out of vengeance.
Because if he had to suffer, then so would she.
She would know what it felt like to be trapped in a life she never wanted.
She would know what it meant to lose everything.
Just like he did.
Present
Aarush exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, shaking off the haunting memories.
He glanced at Sanya again—her frail figure curled up on the cold floor, the golden embroidery of her bridal lehenga now dull, lifeless, like the girl who wore it.
For a fleeting second, something inside him twisted.
A voice—one he had long buried—whispered, She's not her father.
He clenched his jaw, shoving the thought away.
It didn't matter.
Whether she was innocent or not, she carried the blood of the man who destroyed him. She knew about the blast but she didn't tell him.
And for that—she would never know peace.