Chapter 6 - LEARNING TO TRUST
That answer mattered.
The blue ledger was retrieved through audacity.
Aarohi did not sneak out.
She requested a post-wedding visit to her father’s house for a ritual blessing.
Kavita objected too quickly.
“Later. You are newly married.”
Aarohi smiled in front of Vikram’s wife, Devika, and three aunties.
“My mother’s photo is still there. I want to take blessings before the reception dinner. Surely no one will stop a bride from honoring her dead mother.”
Social weapons work best when dipped in virtue.
The aunties approved.
Kavita could not refuse without looking monstrous.
Arnav insisted on accompanying her.
Publicly, this looked like devotion from a disabled husband.
Privately, it enraged Kavita.
Good.
They went in a palace car with two attendants and one guard loyal to Vikram.
Aarohi entered her father’s office and almost broke.
The desk still smelled faintly of sandalwood and ink.
A layer of dust covered ledgers, invoice stamps, framed photographs, and the old brass paperweight Dev used to let her play with as a child.
Kavita hovered at the doorway.
“Hurry.”
Aarohi picked up her mother’s framed photograph first.
Then a prayer book.
Then a box of pens.
The blue ledger was not on the shelf.
Of course.
She looked at Arnav.
He sat in the wheelchair near the office entrance, expression blank, but his eyes moved once.
Down.
Aarohi followed the line.
The bottom drawer.
Locked.
Kavita watched.
Aarohi said loudly, “Papa kept my school certificates here. I want them.”
Kavita stiffened.
“We can send later.”
“No.”
Aarohi lifted the brass paperweight and smashed the drawer lock.
The crack echoed through the office.
Kavita gasped.
“Aarohi!”
Arnav coughed.
Maybe to hide a smile.
Inside the drawer lay old certificates, tax papers, and beneath them, wrapped in newspaper, the blue ledger.
Aarohi pulled everything out together so the ledger remained hidden inside the stack.
Kavita stepped forward.
“What is that?”
“My life before you sold it.”
The room froze.
Too open.
Too true.
Kavita’s eyes flashed toward the guard.
Arnav spoke before she could.
“We are leaving.”
His voice was cold enough to remind everyone of Malhotra rank.
Kavita lowered her hand.
For now.
In the car, Aarohi kept the ledger under the framed photograph of her mother.
Arnav did not look at it until they returned to the palace and locked the bridal suite door.
The ledger contained invoice numbers, shipment dates, fabric descriptions, and notes in Dev Sharma’s handwriting.
Three columns mattered.
Ordered.
Paid.
Delivered.
The delivered column was blank across twelve high-value entries tied to Malhotra restoration projects.
In the margins, Dev had written initials.
V.M.
K.S.
M.R.
A.M.?
Aarohi pointed.
“Vikram Malhotra. Kavita Sharma.”
Arnav’s face darkened.
“M.R. is Manish Rao, the trust accountant.”
“And A.M.?”
Silence.
Arnav looked at the letters.
A.M.
Arnav Malhotra.
Aarohi looked at him slowly.
“Why would my father write your initials?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you involved?”
“No.”
“Were you investigating before your accident?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know?”
“I contacted him once.”
Aarohi’s throat tightened.
“You were the person inside the office.”
Arnav looked at the ledger.
“I used a secure line. I told him to check the fabric delivery entries.”
“My father died after contacting you.”
Pain crossed his face.
“Yes.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Aarohi stood, suddenly unable to breathe.
Arnav said, “I did not know they would—”
“You involved him.”
“He was already involved. They used his company.”
“You pulled him closer.”
“I tried to warn him.”
“And then he died.”
He flinched.
Good.
She wanted him to.
For three days after that, Aarohi spoke to him only when necessary.
She did not reveal the ledger.
Did not destroy it.
Did not forgive him.
Arnav accepted the silence.
That irritated her.
She wanted defense.
Argument.
Something to strike against.
Instead, he trained at night, swallowed pain quietly, and arranged for the ledger copies to be made through Meera’s cousin in the city without once asking Aarohi to trust him again.
On the fourth night, Aarohi found him sitting beside the window, cane across his lap.
“I was the last person your father called,” he said.
She stopped at the doorway.
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
He held out a small recorder.
Aarohi stared.
“What is that?”
“My father gave it to me before he died. He recorded meetings when he suspected Vikram. I found this one in a safe after my accident but could not identify the second voice until I heard your father’s office phone in old Sharma recordings.”
Aarohi did not move.
Arnav placed the recorder on the table.
“I should have told you earlier.”
“Yes.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of you hating me before you heard it.”
“I already hate you.”
“I know.”
The honesty stopped her again.
She picked up the recorder.
Pressed play.
Static.
Then her father’s voice.
Older than memory.
Careful.
“Arnav ji, if I send the ledger, will your board protect my company?”
Then Arnav’s voice, younger, urgent.
“Do not send anything electronically. Keep original books. Do not speak to Kavita ji about this.”
Her father:
“She already knows enough.”
Arnav:
“Then leave Jaipur for a few days.”
Her father:
“My daughter is here.”
May you like
Aarohi’s hand flew to her mouth.
Her father’s voice continued.
