Just because Kailashnath married another woman immediately after the death of his first wife might sound logical to some. Cold logic, maybe. But something about it didn't sit right with me.
Especially if the man in question is Aarav.
Because I know, for a fact, this man cannot love. He isn't wired for it. And there shouldn't be exceptions.
At least… there weren't in the novel.
But now—now something feels off. Like I'm standing in front of a puzzle with one piece stubbornly missing. I keep staring, trying to make sense of it all, but I can't. My thoughts keep circling back to Iqbal. What was his grand plan in all this?
Too many questions. Not a single answer.
And who do I even ask when I've inherited none of this body's memories? It's like living a life with the lights turned off.
End of POV
---
After a thirty-minute drive, we reached Arundhati's house.
It wasn't as grand as Aarav's mansion. No polished marble floors, no sprawling lawns. But what it did have was something neither the Trivedi mansion nor Kailashnath's estate could offer.
Warmth.
Family.
It was the kind of house where laughter seemed to linger in the walls, where silence wasn't cold but comforting. A place I could've called home in another life. A life where this man didn't ruin everything.
If only Aarav hadn't messed up… I could've stayed here for a millennium without complaint. It's every orphan's dream—to belong. I was no different.
We were welcomed at the door, though not warmly. Arundhati's mother kept her distance. Her father, on the other hand, didn't even try to hide his disapproval. And then there were two unexpected faces in the background, smiling.
For a moment, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. People… smiling at me?
But the flicker of joy I felt was quickly extinguished when I recognized them—Arundhati's aunt and her cousin. Minor villains in the original story. The kind of people who celebrated her misfortune and scowled at her happiness. I remembered how they rejoiced when Aarav broke off his engagement with her.
Their smiles weren't for me. They were for what I represented: chaos, scandal, and pain for Arundhati.
Her parents briefly mentioned that she and I would be participating in a prayer ritual the next morning, and then they retreated to their rooms. The moment they left, the villain duo also disappeared, though not before casting lingering, almost admiring glances my way.
It was unsettling.
---
"It's already midnight, Aarav. Let's go," Arundhati said, climbing the stairs with a tired sigh.
Aarav didn't follow. "You go ahead. I'll join you after I finish something."
She paused. Turned.
She looked at him for a long moment, questions rising in her eyes—but she pushed them down.
This man was unpredictable. Dangerous, even. She'd come to accept that. And while she was prepared to deal with whatever storm he brought, she was determined to keep her family out of it.
Without another word, she turned and walked away.
---
Once alone, Aarav took out his phone and dialed.
Iqbal answered almost instantly. "Aarav? It's past midnight. Is something wrong?"
His voice held concern—genuine confusion about why someone like Aarav would call at such an hour.
What he got in return was a cold, emotionless command.
> "Log into your trading account. I'm manipulating the market tonight. If we do this right, our company will skyrocket into the top fifty. That's critical for the next phase of our plan. Get to work."
Before Iqbal could respond, Aarav ended the call.
Then, with quiet efficiency, he pulled out his laptop, a tablet, and two phones, setting them on the dining table like weapons laid out before a silent war.
---
> They dared to humiliate the heroine… no.
My wife.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
He was going to make them pay. Not with fists, not with threats—but with ruin.
Their pride came from wealth, from numbers in bank accounts and boardrooms. So that's what he would take from them.
Every last coin.
---
Aarav knew their companies inside and out. Over the past week, he'd spent night studying this world, the companies and the working system. He quietly acquired small holdings through shell accounts. Tonight, he would weaponize those positions.
He started selling massive amounts of their stocks at low prices—triggering panic among small-time investors watching automated alerts. The moment fear took root, he fueled it by initiating short-selling positions, betting their stocks would fall. Automated trading bots began responding, causing a snowball effect.
Meanwhile, from dummy accounts, he spread rumors on trading forums—leaks about false lawsuits, missing audits, and upcoming regulatory investigations. Fake articles, paid social media campaigns—all designed to look real just long enough.
Investor confidence shattered. Prices plummeted.
Big shareholders panicked and began liquidating.
Within hours, the companies' valuations had dropped by 90%.
By dawn, their assets were bleeding. They had no buyers, no exit route. Even if they wanted to sell, they wouldn't get a dime. They'd be forced to crawl, to beg, to surrender everything—if they wanted even a slim chance at recovery.
---
The clock read nearly 7:00 a.m. when Aarav finally leaned back.
His company—and Iqbal's—had both profited massively from the collapse. But none of the money went to the Trivedis.
Every rupee flowed straight into his own private firm.
He shut one device. Then another.
Just as he reached for the laptop—he heard a voice behind him.
> "Aarav...? What are you doing here?"