Chapter 3 - THE PALACE OF SECRETS
A witness.
The word stayed.
It made no sense then.
On the wedding day, Arnav remained cold.
Not cruel.
Cold.
During the pheras, his wheelchair was guided carefully beside the sacred fire while priests adjusted ritual movements to accommodate what everyone believed was his disability. Aarohi walked where she was told. Circled where she was told. Repeated vows that felt less like promises than clauses.
Arnav’s hand brushed hers once while exchanging garlands.
His fingers were warm.
Strong.
He did not squeeze.
He did not comfort.
That angered her more than if he had.
After the ceremony, relatives praised Aarohi’s sacrifice with oily voices.
“Such a noble girl.”
“God gives special strength to special brides.”
“Now Arnav ji will have companionship.”
“She will bring light back to him.”
No one asked whether Aarohi wanted to be light.
Kavita watched everything with a tight smile.
Too tight.
Not relief.
Anxiety.
Aarohi noticed it then but did not understand.
The bridal suite revealed why.
Kavita had not been anxious that Aarohi would suffer.
She was anxious that Aarohi would discover.
After Arnav’s leg moved, after the cane appeared under the bed, after the stepmother vanished from the doorway, Aarohi stood slowly.
Her knees shook, but she forced herself upright.
Arnav remained seated on the carpet, one hand braced behind him, legs arranged again into stillness.
The performance now looked insulting.
Aarohi looked toward the door.
“Did she know?”
Arnav’s jaw tightened.
“Close the door.”
“No.”
“Aarohi.”
The sound of her name in his voice did something strange to the room.
Not intimacy.
Urgency.
She stepped toward the door and pulled it open.
The palace corridor outside was empty except for the attendant with linens, who lowered her eyes too quickly.
“Who was here?” Aarohi asked.
The attendant swallowed.
“No one, madam.”
Aarohi looked at the woman’s hands.
They trembled around the folded cloth.
“What is your name?”
“Meera.”
“Meera, I am asking because I saw someone.”
Meera glanced past Aarohi into the room, toward Arnav on the floor.
Fear crossed her face.
Not of Aarohi.
Of the truth.
Then she whispered, “Your stepmother was outside.”
Arnav closed his eyes.
Aarohi turned back to him.
“So she knew.”
He said nothing.
Aarohi laughed softly.
It sounded nothing like joy.
“My stepmother sold me to a man pretending to be paralyzed, and she knew before I did.”
Arnav’s face hardened.
“I did not buy you.”
“No? Then what was the price called? Settlement? Rescue? Alliance?”
He pushed himself toward the bed with his arms, still refusing to use his legs openly though the lie had already broken.
Aarohi looked at him with disbelief.
“Stop acting.”
He froze.
“Stand up.”
“No.”
“Because you cannot?”
“Because walls in this palace listen.”
She stared at him.
The sentence landed differently from the others.
Not denial.
Warning.
Aarohi looked at Meera.
The attendant’s eyes filled with the same fear.
She lowered her voice.
“Shut the door, madam. Please.”
Aarohi did not move.
Arnav said quietly, “If they know you know tonight, you won’t leave this room safely.”
The candles flickered.
Outside, the palace corridors were quiet with the false peace of old buildings after weddings.
Aarohi closed the door.
Then turned the latch.
When she faced Arnav again, her anger had not faded.
It had become sharper.
“Explain.”
Arnav looked at the carpet.
“No.”
She crossed the room, reached beneath the bed, and pulled out the folded walking cane before he could stop her.
Dark wood.
Silver handle engraved with a small black bird.
Not decorative.
Used.
She held it up.
“You have ten seconds before I open that door and scream.”
“You won’t.”
“You do not know me.”
His eyes lifted.
“I know you protected my head during the fall before you protected yourself.”
The words stopped her.
She hated that he had seen kindness in her when she wanted him to see only fury.
“That does not make me foolish.”
“No,” he said. “It makes you dangerous here.”
Aarohi tightened her grip on the cane.
“Why pretend?”
Arnav looked toward the window.
Moonlight rested on the jharokha lattice, cutting pale patterns across the cream bedding and rose petals.
“My father died because he found out who was stealing from the Malhotra trust.”
Aarohi’s breath caught.
“The accident?”
“Was not an accident.”
He looked back at her.
“And I was not meant to survive it.”
The room changed.
Not softened.
Deepened.
Aarohi lowered the cane slowly.
Arnav continued.
“Three years ago, I discovered money moving out of the palace restoration fund through shell vendors. Heritage grants, hotel renovation payments, charitable education accounts. All routed through people close to my uncle, Vikram Malhotra.”
Aarohi knew the name.
Everyone in Rajasthan hospitality knew Vikram Malhotra. Arnav’s father’s younger brother. Charming, philanthropic, constantly photographed beside ministers, royals, film stars, foreign investors.
“He controls the palace now,” Aarohi said.
“Publicly, yes.”
“And you?”
“I became inconvenient.”
“You were injured?”
“Yes.”
“Paralyzed?”
His mouth tightened.
“For six months, they believed I might be. The spinal trauma was real. The recovery was private.”
“Private from whom?”
May you like
“Everyone who wanted me dependent.”
Aarohi looked at the wheelchair.
