Chapter 3: Anvi’s Revelation

Clang, clang.

The iron door outside opened, the familiar screech sounding like nails on a chalkboard. Heavy, steady footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. Someone was coming.

Listening carefully, I realised it wasn’t Yusuf, the one who usually brought me stale rotis and watery dal. These steps were heavier, more confident, the kind that made your skin prickle with fear.

I shrank into the corner, my back pressed against the cold wall, watching fearfully as the figure approached. He held a whiskey bottle, its amber liquid glinting in the faint torchlight, the smell of alcohol filling the cell and tickling my nose.

He took out a Gold Flake cigarette and lit it, the tiny flame briefly lighting up his face—sharp features, a chiseled jaw with the first hints of a beard, eyes like a wolf, cold and piercing, always searching for weakness.

Even after five years, I recognised him at once. My former lover, boss of the Rajpur Syndicate: Arjun Singh. He looked older now, maybe a bit more tired, but that dangerous glint in his eyes hadn’t faded.

He leaned against the bars, smoking. The cell was silent, except for the faint crackle of burning tobacco and the distant sound of an auto’s horn blaring outside somewhere.

"Ritika, long time no see."

His voice was low and hoarse, the kind of tone that could make anyone’s blood run cold.

I said nothing. I was no longer used to speaking, and even if I could, what would I say? What did he want to hear?

"We’re leaving," he continued, almost casually. "This place is getting less and less safe. We’re planning to run far away—we’ve made enough money. But they don’t want me to take you. Everyone wants you dead."

Kill me? That would be a relief. I’d rather die. My silence must have annoyed him.

"But I want your death to mean something. So, before you die, you have to help me with one thing."

He stepped closer, pinched my chin between his rough fingers, forcing me to look at him. His breath reeked of alcohol, his presence was suffocating—like a heavy, scratchy woolen blanket on a hot summer day.

"I need you to lure Rajeev out."

I was calm—neither humble nor proud, neither sad nor happy. My heart felt like a dried leaf, crumbling at the slightest touch.

He grew furious. In a rage, he slapped me across the face. My head snapped back, and blood suddenly gushed from my nose, warm and metallic.

He hesitated. "I didn’t hit you that hard..."

He really hadn’t. This nosebleed wasn’t from his slap. It was my illness.

I knew I was gravely ill. Death was near. Some part of me almost welcomed it. Since I was doomed anyway, why would I help Arjun Singh harm my husband?

Arjun Singh wiped my blood away with his white shirt sleeve, the stark contrast almost comical, and pulled me into his arms. I struggled, but he held me tight, his chin pressed against my head, the stubble scratching my scalp.

"Ritika, listen to me, listen to me." His voice was almost coaxing, as if he were promising a child a toffee. "Did you see that little girl just now? Her name is Anvi. She’s your child. What you gave birth to that year wasn’t a dead baby—she survived. If you help me take down Rajeev, I’ll spare Anvi’s life. If you refuse, I’ll tie you and Anvi together and throw you off Vashi bridge..."

I stopped struggling. My mind reeled. My child? Alive? In that moment, even pain took a backseat to the wild, desperate hope surging through me.