The evening was suffocatingly humid, the kind of Delhi heat that clung to your skin like a second layer, unrelenting even as the sun dipped below the horizon. Inside the Sharma household, a modest two-story flat in the bustling heart of Lajpat Nagar, the air was thick with something far heavier than the weather-dread. Vritika Sharma stood in the living room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her hazel eyes blazing with a defiance that could ignite a forest fire. At twenty-four, she was a storm personified-a rising star at The Indian Herald, one of the country's most prestigious media houses. Her name was whispered in newsrooms with awe, her fearless exposés and razor-sharp intellect carving a legacy few could rival. Her dark hair, a cascade of untamed waves, framed her face like a warrior's banner, and her presence demanded attention without her ever asking for it.
She'd always been the architect of her own destiny, a woman who bent the world to her will rather than the other way around. But tonight, that world was crumbling, and the hammer was wielded by the people she trusted most-her parents.
The living room was a battlefield of faded furniture and unspoken tension. The old ceiling fan creaked monotonously above, its blades slicing through the stale air with a rhythm that grated on Vritika's nerves. Her mother, Savita Sharma, sat on the worn-out sofa, her hands wringing the edge of her dupatta, the soft beige fabric stained with years of worry. Her father, Rajesh Sharma, stood by the window, his silhouette rigid against the flickering streetlights outside, his once-proud shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. The faint hum of traffic from the street below mingled with the distant clatter of a street vendor's cart, but inside, silence reigned-until it didn't.
"Vritika, beta, sit down," Savita began, her voice trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. Her eyes, red-rimmed from sleepless nights, darted nervously to her husband, as if seeking permission to continue. "We need to talk."
"I'll stand," Vritika replied curtly, her tone clipped, her stance unyielding. She could sense it-the undercurrent of something awful lurking beneath her mother's plea. Her journalist's instincts, honed by years of sniffing out lies, screamed at her to brace herself. "What's going on?"
Rajesh turned slowly, his face etched with lines deeper than Vritika remembered. Once a jovial man who'd regaled her with stories of his modest textile business, he now looked like a stranger-hollowed out, defeated. He adjusted his glasses, the lenses smudged and crooked, and took a step forward, his slippers scuffing against the cracked tile floor. "We're in trouble, beta," he said, his voice low, gravelly, as if the words were being dragged from his throat. "Big trouble."
Vritika's brow furrowed, her arms uncrossing as she took an involuntary step toward him. "What kind of trouble? Tell me."
Savita let out a choked sob, pressing her dupatta to her mouth, her bangles clinking softly in the dim light of the single bulb overhead. Rajesh shot her a sharp glance before continuing, his hands trembling as he clasped them together. "The business... it's gone under. Loans-too many loans. We borrowed from the wrong people this time, Vritika. People who don't wait for repayment. People who take."
Her stomach twisted, a cold dread slithering up her spine. She knew the underbelly of Delhi well-her reporting had exposed enough loan sharks and corrupt financiers to understand the stakes. "How much?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.
"Fifty lakhs," Rajesh whispered, the number hanging in the air like a death sentence. "And that's just the principal. The interest... it's doubled now. We can't pay it back. We've sold everything-the shop, the car, even your mother's jewelry. There's nothing left."
Vritika's mind raced, her sharp wit already calculating possibilities-contacts she could call, stories she could leverage for quick cash. "We'll figure it out," she said firmly, stepping closer to her father. "I'll talk to the bank, get an extension, or-"
"No!" Savita's cry cut through her words, sharp and desperate. She lurched to her feet, her dupatta slipping to reveal graying hair pulled into a tight bun. "It's not a bank, Vritika. It's him."
"Him?" Vritika's eyes narrowed, her pulse quickening. "Who's 'him'?"
Rajesh swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he avoided her gaze. "Aarav Malhotra," he said finally, the name dropping like a thunderclap in the small room.
The air seemed to vanish. Vritika froze, her breath catching in her throat as the name clawed its way out of her past-a ghost she'd buried deep, a wound she'd thought long healed. Aarav Malhotra. The golden boy of St. Stephen's College, the arrogant heir to a business empire who'd strutted through their university corridors like he owned them. Tall, imposing, with a jawline that could cut diamonds and coal-black eyes that burned with a quiet, unrelenting intensity, he'd been her nemesis. Their clashes had been legendary-verbal sparring matches that left bystanders in awe and professors in despair. But it was the debate that had sealed their enmity: the day she'd torn him apart in front of the entire college, exposing his shallow privilege and cruel disdain for those beneath him. The auditorium had roared with laughter as he stood there, his pride in tatters, humiliated by a scholarship girl who refused to bow.
She'd thought she'd won. She'd thought he'd faded into irrelevance.
She was wrong.
"What does Aarav Malhotra have to do with this?" she asked, her voice low, dangerous, each word laced with a fury she could barely contain.
Rajesh's hands shook as he reached for a glass of water on the chipped coffee table, the liquid sloshing over the rim as he brought it to his lips. "He... he's the one we borrowed from. Not directly, of course-through one of his companies. We didn't know at first, beta. It was a trap, a web he spun around us. And now he's called in the debt."
Savita sank back onto the sofa, her sobs muffled as she buried her face in her hands. "He came here two days ago," she whispered between gasps. "In that big black car of his, with men in suits like they were from some gangster film. He sat right there-" She pointed a trembling finger at the armchair in the corner, its faded green upholstery now seeming ominous. "He smiled, Vritika. Smiled like he'd won something."
Vritika's fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep her composure. "What did he say?"
Rajesh set the glass down with a clatter, water pooling on the table. "He said there's only one way out. He'll forgive the debt-every paisa of it-if we... if you..." His voice cracked, and he looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
"If I what?" Vritika snapped, her patience fraying like a thread pulled too tight.
Savita lifted her tear-streaked face, her voice barely above a whisper. "If you marry him."
The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the air from Vritika's lungs. She staggered back, her hip colliding with the edge of the dining table, the old wood creaking under her weight. "What?" she breathed, her voice a mix of disbelief and rage. "Marry him? Aarav Malhotra? Are you insane?"
"We don't have a choice!" Rajesh roared, his sudden outburst startling both women. He stepped forward, his face contorted with desperation, his glasses fogging with the heat of his breath. "Do you think we want this? Do you think I'd sell my daughter if there was any other way? They'll kill us, Vritika! His men-they showed me pictures. Our house, your office, even you walking home last week. They've been watching us. If we don't agree, they'll take everything-our home, our lives. And you... God knows what they'll do to you."
Savita reached for Vritika's hand, her fingers cold and clammy as they closed around her wrist. "Beta, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "He's powerful now-richer than we could ever imagine. A billionaire, they say. He owns half this city. We can't fight him. Just... just say yes, and we'll be free."
"Free?" Vritika yanked her hand away, her eyes flashing with a fury that could melt steel. "You think tying me to that monster is freedom? He's a predator, Ma! A snake in a suit! You don't know him-I do. He's hated me since college, since I humiliated him. This isn't about the money-it's about revenge!"
"Maybe it is," Rajesh said quietly, his voice heavy with resignation. "But it's his game, and we're the pawns. He made that clear. Either you marry him, or we're finished. All of us."
The room spun around her, the walls closing in as the weight of their words sank deeper. She could see it now-Aarav's cold, calculating smirk, the same one he'd worn in college when he thought he was untouchable. Only now, he wasn't a boy anymore. He was a titan, a billionaire at twenty-five, his broad shoulders filling out bespoke suits, his presence commanding boardrooms and bending cities to his will. To the world, he was polished charm incarnate. To her, he was a nightmare made flesh.
Her parents' pleas echoed in her ears, their fear a palpable thing that wrapped around her throat like a noose. She wanted to scream, to shatter the glass on the table, to run into the night and never look back. But she couldn't. Not when her father's haunted eyes begged her to save them. Not when her mother's sobs painted a picture of a family on the brink.
"How long do I have?" she asked finally, her voice a hollow shell of its usual fire.
"Two days," Rajesh replied, his shoulders sagging further. "He's sending his people to finalize it. The wedding's already planned."
Two days. Forty-eight hours until her life-her independence, her dreams-were shackled to Aarav Malhotra. The boy she'd crushed had risen from the ashes, and now he held her fate in his hands.
As the fan whirred overhead and the city buzzed beyond the window, Vritika stood alone in the wreckage of her world, the taste of betrayal bitter on her tongue. This wasn't a marriage. It was a sentence.
And Aarav Malhotra was her executioner.
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