Chapter 4 - THE WITNESS HE NEEDED
“You let them believe it.”
“I needed them to stop trying to kill a man they thought already destroyed.”
The bluntness of it made her go still.
He continued.
“My doctor, my old physiotherapist, and two loyal staff know I can stand. A few others suspect. Your stepmother knows because she helped arrange the marriage terms with Vikram.”
Aarohi’s stomach turned.
“Kavita knows Vikram?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Through your father’s business.”
“My father?”
Arnav watched her carefully.
“Your father’s company was used to move textiles that did not exist through invoices that did.”
“No.”
“I am not saying he knew.”
“You are saying his name is inside your fraud.”
“I am saying his company was trapped inside it.”
Aarohi sat on the edge of the bed because her legs suddenly felt unreliable.
Her father’s debts.
The missing shipments.
The forged signatures.
The pressure.
Kavita.
The Malhotras.
The marriage.
Everything moved at once.
Arnav spoke more quietly.
“I needed access to Sharma records before Vikram destroyed them. Your stepmother wanted the debts cleared and protection. Vikram wanted me married to someone he believed he could control through shame and money.”
Aarohi looked at him.
“And you wanted a witness.”
He nodded once.
“I wanted someone outside the palace bloodline, tied to the Sharma accounts, close enough to see what they hide.”
Rage rose again.
“You wanted a tool.”
His face tightened.
“I wanted an ally.”
“You did not ask me.”
“No.”
“Then you wanted a tool.”
He accepted that.
Silence stretched between them.
Aarohi stood.
Walked to the mirror.
Looked at herself.
Deep-red bridal saree.
Gold embroidery.
Loosened hair.
Bangles from a wedding she had entered like a prisoner.
Behind her, Arnav sat on the carpet beside a wheelchair he did not fully need, carrying a lie that had become a body.
She turned.
“I will not be used by you because my stepmother used me first.”
“I know.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know enough to say I was wrong.”
The apology was too clean.
Too early.
She did not accept it.
Outside the door, a soft footstep passed.
Both of them went still.
Arnav reached for the cane.
Aarohi held it out of reach.
His eyes flashed.
She whispered, “If the walls listen, then stop reacting like you have secrets lying on the floor.”
He looked at her.
For the first time, something like respect entered his face.
Aarohi moved quickly.
She slid the cane under the cream bedding at the foot of the bed, where its outline vanished beneath folds. Then she kicked rose petals over the spot where his foot had planted hard enough to disturb the carpet.
Arnav watched.
“You’ve hidden evidence before,” he said.
“My father ran a business,” she answered. “My stepmother ran a household. I survived both.”
Meera knocked softly.
Aarohi opened the door only a few inches.
The attendant stood outside, face pale.
“Kavita madam is asking if everything is fine.”
Aarohi looked over her shoulder at Arnav.
He had pulled himself upright against the bed, legs stretched convincingly still, face cold again.
The performance returned.
This time, Aarohi understood the cost.
She turned back to Meera.
“Tell her my husband fell during transfer. I managed. No one should disturb us.”
Meera nodded.
Relief flickered in her eyes.
“Ji, madam.”
“And Meera?”
“Yes?”
“If she asks whether I saw anything, say I cried too much to notice.”
Meera’s mouth parted.
Then she smiled faintly.
For the first time that night, someone in the palace looked at Aarohi not as a purchased bride.
As a participant.
The next morning, the palace treated the wedding night like a successful transaction.
Women brought milk with saffron.
Aunties smiled too widely.
Kavita entered last, wearing the same controlled expression she used after every manipulation.
Aarohi sat beside the window in a pale morning saree, hair braided simply, face composed. Arnav sat in his wheelchair near the bed, white kurta replaced by a cream one, expression distant.
Kavita’s eyes moved quickly.
Bed.
Wheelchair.
Carpet.
Aarohi’s face.
Arnav’s legs.
Too quickly.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
Aarohi smiled.
“No.”
Kavita seemed pleased by the wrong implication.
“First nights are difficult.”
“Yes,” Aarohi said. “Some truths make rest impossible.”
Kavita’s gaze sharpened.
Arnav’s hand tightened slightly on the wheelchair arm.
Aarohi lifted the saffron milk and took one sip.
Then made a face.
“Too sweet.”
Kavita relaxed.
Just a little.
Good.
Let her think Aarohi was still only angry about marriage.
Not awake to conspiracy.
After Kavita left, Arnav said quietly, “You play dangerously.”
Aarohi set down the glass.
“You married dangerously.”
“I told you I did not—”
“You accepted the arrangement.”
“Yes.”
“Then you married dangerously.”
He had no answer.
Good.
That day, Aarohi began observing the palace.
Not as a bride.
As an architecture student.
Old buildings confess through circulation.
Who uses which corridor.
Which doors remain locked.
Which servants lower their voices near which rooms.
May you like
Where CCTV cameras point, and more importantly, where they do not.
The Jaipur palace was part private residence, part heritage hotel, part political theater. Tourists saw courtyards, murals, fountains, curated history. Guests saw chandeliers, carved beds, silver trays, silk cushions. Family saw inheritance.
