Chapter 9: A Letter from the Dead
2282 Words
The next morning at Shantivan dawned deceptively calm.
Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting golden streaks across cold marble floors. But beneath that quiet elegance, unease lingered like smoke after a fire. The house, once filled with the buzz of servants and soft laughter, now moved like a body holding its breath.
Khushi woke with a start, her heart pounding as though it remembered a nightmare her mind couldn’t recall. For a long moment, she just lay still, staring at the ceiling. But her chest felt heavy, as if grief had slept beside her.
She rubbed her eyes and sat up slowly. The events of the previous day replayed like a scratched record—flashes of flashing cameras, shouting reporters, Buaji’s terrified cries, and Arnav… Arnav standing in front of her like a shield forged in fire.
She exhaled shakily.
It should’ve made her feel safe. But all it did was remind her—someone out there still wanted her broken.
As she stepped out of her room, the muted sounds of the household came to life. The faint clink of teacups. Distant footsteps. Whispered voices.
Descending the stairs, she paused at the corner of the hallway where the garden met the glass arch.
Her eyes caught a small, gentle moment: Akash and Payal, standing together by the corner patch of roses. Payal held a small watering can; Akash reached out to steady her hand. Their eyes met, and something passed between them—soft, unspoken, yet unmistakably warm.
Khushi’s lips twitched. For a moment, she let the warmth bloom.
But peace never stayed long.
A sharp knock echoed at the front door.
HP opened it. A courier in a brown jacket stood on the porch.
> “For Khushi Kumari Gupta,” the man said, holding out a faded, yellowed envelope.
Khushi frowned, her brows knitting.
> “Who sent it?”
> “No return address, ma’am. But it’s urgent.”
She hesitated, then reached out. The envelope was thick, the paper aged and brittle. It looked… decades old. The wax seal was cracked. Her name was written in bold ink, slanting just slightly, like someone trying too hard to stay steady.
She felt a chill slide down her spine.
> “Thank you,” she murmured. The door closed behind the courier, and the world narrowed to just the weight of that envelope in her hands.
---
Akash found Payal standing barefoot on the garden , her hands wrapped around a mug, her eyes fixed on the rising sun. She didn’t look at him when he joined her. He didn’t speak either.
Not yet.
Finally, she whispered, “You know, for years... I thought silence meant peace. But now, it just feels like waiting for something terrible to happen.”
Akash’s voice was soft but steady.
> “Or something good.”
> “You still believe that?” she asked, her smile weary.
> “I believe in you. And I believe Khushi deserves the truth. Not the whispers, not the shame, but the truth that clears the smoke.”
She looked at him then. Her eyes, red-rimmed but brave.
> “Promise me you won’t get pulled into this storm.”
He reached out, brushing her knuckles with his.
> “Too late. I already followed you into it.”
---
Back in Her Room
Khushi sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers slowly peeling open the flap. A single sheet of folded paper slid out. She unfolded it with care.
And the world went quiet.
The handwriting was sharp. Bold. Familiar in a way that made her skin crawl.
Ratan Malhotra.
Her breath caught.
> “No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible.”
He was dead. Declared gone in an official report. Heart attack. Closed casket. Cremated quietly with just a few whispered condolences.
So why…?
Her eyes fell to the words scrawled in the center of the page:
---
> "You don’t know everything, child.
You’ve only scratched the surface.
The truth has layers—
Layers even your Arnav doesn’t know.
Follow the trail. But be warned—
Some roots should never be unearthed."
---
Her fingers trembled.
The paper nearly slipped from her hands.
Ratan Malhotra. Her father’s closest associate. Her childhood boogeyman in a tailored suit. The man who’d disappeared in scandal and silence.
She swallowed hard. “Why now?” she muttered aloud. “Why me?”
As if in answer, her phone buzzed violently on the nightstand.
She grabbed it, heart still racing.
Unknown number. One message.ll
> “The ashes never buried the truth, Khushi. They only covered the fire.”
She stared at the screen, a cold sweat blooming down her spine. Her throat tightened.
“Arnav...” she whispered without meaning to. She looked toward the closed door.
She didn’t know what scared her more—what the letter suggested... or the possibility that it might be right.
---
Elsewhere — Arnav’s Study
The blinds were pulled halfway, sunlight slicing across dark mahogany as Arnav Singh Raizada stood with his back to the desk, sleeves rolled up, jaw tense.
His phone was on speaker. Aman’s voice filled the space.
> “Sir, we traced the leak. Anonymous burner tip to multiple outlets—video, photos, full timeline. But there’s a strange connection.”
> “Strange how?” Arnav’s tone was razor-sharp.
> “The digital footprint traces back to an archived PR contact list—an account once linked to Ratan Malhotra’s old media team. The leak might’ve been orchestrated using that thread.”
Arnav’s jaw ticked.
> “He’s been dead for years.”
> “Yes, sir. That’s why this doesn’t make sense. Either someone used his network… or someone wants you to think it’s him.”
Arnav turned, his eyes colder than glass.
> “I want the list of everyone who accessed those files in the last year. Trace the calls. Trace the payments. I want those journalists hit with legal notices so hard they forget how to spell TRP.”
> “Already preparing—”
> “No. I want control of the narrative. By tonight. Push the angle that Khushi was targeted—framed. I don’t care what you have to spin. From this moment, the world sees her as untouchable.”
> “Understood.”
Arnav’s voice dropped lower.
> “And Aman... whoever did this? I don’t care how long it takes. Burn them from the inside out.”
---
Back Upstairs — Khushi’s Room
She stared at the letter again.
At the name.
At the warning.
Her mind churned with old memories—glimpses of Ratan visiting their home late at night. Her father’s worried glances. Whispers behind closed doors. Her mother’s pale face.
Something inside her shifted.
This wasn’t over.
This wasn’t random.
And worst of all… this wasn’t just about her anymore.
The fire hadn’t died. It had just been waiting.
---
The afternoon at Shantivan passed in uneasy silence.
The earlier chaos had stilled, but calm was only an illusion. The walls felt too quiet, the ticking of the clock too loud.
Khushi had retreated to her room hours ago, the faded yellow envelope still clutched in her trembling hands. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Her thoughts spun like a dust storm she couldn’t escape.
By the time the sun began its slow descent, fatigue finally claimed her. Her head rested on the armrest of the divan, the letter open on the table nearby, as amber light washed over the room.
And as sleep crept in, peace did not come.
---
The dream, the world was gold.
Not soft or warm—but searing. Blinding.
She was six again. Standing at the edge of Sheesh Mahal’s grand courtyard. Her feet bare against cool marble. Music floated in the air—something classical, elegant—but discordant.
And then: voices. Loud. Angry. Male.
She turned and crept toward the old library door, barely ajar.
Inside, her father—Shashi Gupta—stood tall, but his shoulders were hunched in despair.
Facing him, a sharply dressed man in a grey waistcoat. Ratan Malhotra.
The devil in gentleman's clothes.
> “You were supposed to protect the deal, Shashi,” Ratan sneered.
> “It wasn’t ethical. You forged accounts—I couldn’t let it pass.”
> “And now you think exposing me will absolve your name?”
> “I think it will save my family’s I built!”
> “Wrong,” Ratan said coldly. “It will destroy you.”
There was a scuffle. Papers scattered across the floor like dying birds.
And then her father’s voice, broken—
> “Please… don’t do this to my family.”
But Ratan just walked away.
And as he passed Khushi’s hiding place in the shadows, he looked directly at her—as if he knew she was there all along.
> “Children shouldn’t watch their fathers fall,” he whispered.
The dream changed.
Fire licked the curtains of the mahal.
Men in suits dragged her father down stone steps, screamed. A black car waited outside.
She tried to run to him, but her legs wouldn’t move.
Ratan’s voice came again—louder now, in every corner of the burning dream.
> “You’ve only scratched the surface, child.
The truth has layers.
Even your Arnav doesn’t know them all.”
---
Evening Falls, and So Does the Past
Khushi jolted awake.
The room was bathed in soft orange hues of sunset. Her mouth was dry, her heartbeat erratic.
The letter still sat on the table—mocking her.
She rose unsteadily, her breath catching.
It wasn’t just a memory. It was a warning.
There had always been something off about the way her father had lost everything. No legal case. No clear public scandal. Just… silence.
And now, a dead man had written her a letter.
---
The air in Shantivan had changed. Not with sound, but with silence.
Khushi walked into the living room like a ghost—barefoot, letter crushed in one hand, heart thundering in her ears. The shadows stretched long across the marble, swallowing the golden threads of late afternoon sun.
Arnav was at the base of the stairs, speaking with HP about some dinner arrangements. He looked up—and froze.
He saw her face.
Pale. Trembling. The storm she’d held back now trembling behind her eyes.
> “Khushi?”
She didn’t stop until she stood in front of him.
> “Tell me the truth,” she said, holding out the letter.
Her voice didn’t shake—but her hands did.
Arnav took the envelope slowly. Read the name.
His brow furrowed.
> “Ratan Malhotra…? But he’s—”
> “Dead? Yes,” she snapped. “And yet somehow he found a way to speak from the grave.”
Her eyes bore into him.
> “Did you know? Did you ever know about him and my father? About what really happened back then?”
Arnav's jaw tensed.
> “No.”
> “You’re sure?” Her voice cracked. “Not even a whisper from your lawyers, your files, your family?”
> “Khushi—”
> “Because I trusted you, Arnav! I let you hold my pain, protect me… but I never asked—were you part of the silence too?”
That hit him. He took a step forward.
> “Never,” he said firmly. “I didn’t know. If I did—”
> “Would you have told me?”
> “Yes.”
> “Like you told me about your father's business ties to the Malhotras?” she fired, eyes blazing.
A pause.
Arnav inhaled sharply.
> “That deal was long before I took over. My father was ruthless. I’ve spent half my life cleaning what he left behind.”
Khushi's voice broke.
> “And yet your name’s been clean while my father’s name was ruined.”
She turned away. The burn in her throat had nothing to do with tears—it was the betrayal of doubt.
> “You didn’t watch him break, Arnav. I did. You didn’t hear people whisper that he took bribes, that he was a coward. That we were tainted. I did.”
> “And I would have stood with you if I had known—”
> “But you didn’t,” she said quietly.
Silence.
Then Khushi turned back to him, eyes glassy but defiant.
> “This letter… it’s not just a warning. It’s a test. Of memory. Of truth. Of us.”
Arnav stepped forward, closing the space between them.
> “Then let’s face it. Together.”
Khushi looked up at him. He didn’t flinch. His eyes didn’t lie. But still—her heart warred with itself.
> “I want to believe you,” she whispered. “But after everything… I don’t know if I should.”
> “Then don’t believe my words,” he said softly, but with steel. “Believe what I do next.”
And just like that—without asking permission—he pulled out his phone.
> “Aman. Get me the sealed Malhotra files. And reopen every record linked to Shashi Gupta’s case. I want the truth, and I want it now.”
He ended the call.
> “No more shadows, Khushi. Not for you. Not for us.”
The letter sat between them on the table like a ghost of their past.
But for the first time, they both stared it down.
Together.
---
- Writer
