The Forgotten Vows

Chapter 10: Shadows Beneath the Silence

Shantivan

The house slept under a soft velvet hush, unaware that something was shifting.

Khushi stood at the threshold of her room, duffel bag in hand, her eyes sweeping over the familiar space for what might be the last time—for now. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but her expression remained determined.

She had left a note on her pillow. Not because she didn’t care. But because she knew if she saw him—if she saw any of them—she wouldn’t be able to leave.

> “I’m not running,” she whispered to herself. “I’m remembering.”

One last glance toward Arnav’s closed door across the corridor, and then she slipped down the hallway like a ghost.

HP was nowhere in sight. The kitchen lights were off. Not even the early tea preparations had begun. It was the perfect window.

The Front Gate, Shantivan

Her fingers trembled as she opened the gate. The taxi driver she had arranged through a burner number was waiting silently, as instructed. She slid into the seat, barely exhaling until the car rolled onto the main road.

She looked down at the letter again—the creased yellow page still etched with Ratan Malhotra’s name. A name she hadn’t heard .

---

Khushi’s Nightmare, Few Hours Earlier

The streets of Lucknow were loud that day—too loud. But inside their house, silence had taken over. Her mother wept in the kitchen, face buried in her dupatta. Payal sat stiffly near the stairs, clutching Khushi’s hand too tightly.

Then the shouting started.

> “You said it was a safe investment, Ratan ji!” her father’s voice thundered from behind the study door. “You promised!”

> “I said low risk. Not no risk, Shashi! You should’ve read the fine print.”

The door flung open. Her father stumbled out, pale, defeated. Ratan Malhotra stood behind him, adjusting his expensive coat, expression unreadable.

> “Sometimes, you lose. That’s business.”

> “This wasn’t just business,” Shashi snapped. “This was our lives.”

Ratan didn’t flinch. He looked past Shashi—and locked eyes with Khushi. A glint of something dark. Something cold.

Then came the police. The accusations. The collapse of Gupta family. And just like that, Ratan Malhotra vanished.

---

Back to Present – Highway to Lucknow

The cab sped along the nearly empty highway, the rhythmic thrum of tires on asphalt filling the silence. Inside, Khushi stirred from a restless nap, her forehead beaded with sweat despite the early morning chill.

She gasped, sitting up straighter, heart racing, breath shallow.

Her dream—or was it a memory?—lingered like smoke. The accusing voice of her father, the calculated indifference of Ratan Malhotra, the tears in her mother’s eyes. It was no ordinary nightmare. It was a flashpoint in her life. A turning.

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest and whispered into the quiet of the car:

> “That look he gave me... why did it feel like a warning? Like he knew what was coming...”

The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror, concerned, but said nothing.

Khushi pulled her scarf tighter around her shoulders and looked out the window. The first glimpses of Lucknow's skyline were beginning to peek through the soft morning haze. Her childhood city. A city she once adored, now layered in shadows of betrayal and grief.

Her fingers closed around the letter again—the old, crinkled paper that had reignited her search. A name she had buried for years was now the only path left.

> Ratan Malhotra.

---

Shantivan – Morning

The first rays of sunlight spilled into Arnav’s bedroom, falling across the neatly folded duvet beside him.

He stirred, groggy, one arm reaching for his phone. The screen lit up with two missed calls from Aman and a low battery warning. He rubbed his eyes and called Aman back.

Before the line could connect, there was a knock on his door.

> “Bhai?”

Akash’s voice came muffled through the wood, laced with something odd—worry.

Arnav’s heart jolted.

> “Come in.”

Akash stepped in, clearly anxious. “Is Khushi with you?”

Arnav’s brows furrowed. “No. Why would she be?”

Akash hesitated. “HP says he didn’t see her this morning. Her room is unlocked. Her bag is missing. And her phone... it’s not there.”

Arnav was on his feet before Akash finished. He crossed the hallway in long strides and pushed open Khushi’s door. The bed was perfectly made. Too perfect.

The silence was deceptive.

The kind of silence that comes not from peace, but absence.

Arnav Singh Raizada sat at the edge of Khushi’s vacant bed, the crumpled note still clenched in his hand. It was the only thing she’d left behind—and even that had felt like a dagger.

on the pillow, lay a folded note.

His fingers hesitated for only a second before picking it up. As his eyes scanned the handwriting, his jaw clenched.

> “I’m sorry. I have to find the truth myself. I’ll come back when I know who destroyed my family. Please don’t follow me.”

The note trembled in his hand.

> “Dammit, Khushi...” he muttered, voice thick.

> “I have to find the truth myself. I’ll come back when I know who destroyed my family. Please don’t follow me.”

His jaw ticked. That word—please—wasn’t a plea. It was a challenge. And Khushi, in her stubbornness, thought she could go through hell alone.

She had no idea how far he was willing to go to drag her back.

> “Aman,” he said, voice cold over the speakerphone, “I want the details. Train logs. Highway tolls. Private car hires between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m. Every single booking.”

> “Already on it, ASR,” Aman responded. “We’ve narrowed it down to two possible cab services she could’ve used. The trail leads toward Lucknow.”

> “I’ll be on the road in twenty minutes. Tell Akash to cover here.”

> “Sir... you think she’ll talk to someone from the past?”

> “She went to burn ghosts. I’ll find her before they burn her.”

> “And Aman...”

> “Yes, ASR?”

> “Pull out every record you can on Ratan Malhotra. Anyone who had ties to Gupta family, any financial fraud, shell company—everything.”

> “Understood.”

> “And Aman...” His voice dropped an octave. “If anyone threatens her safety—anyone—I want them watched. Shadowed. Quietly.”

He didn’t wait for Aman’s reply.

By the time the black SUV sped through Delhi’s early morning traffic, Arnav’s mind was already miles ahead—lost in a tangle of memory and guilt.

---

Flashback – Twelve Years Ago, Lucknow

The corridors of Sheesh Mahal had echoed that night.

A younger Arnav, barely ten, stood outside the study, fists clenched.

Inside, Shashi Gupta’s voice rang with quiet fury. “You think I’d sell out my own clients? For what—money from a man like Ratan Malhotra?”

His uncle’s voice—Arnav’s Mamaji—was low and poisoned. “It’s not about the money, Shashi-ji. It’s about loyalty. You spoke where you shouldn’t have.”

That was the night Khushi’s father had been thrown out. The night her family had packed their lives into a trunk and driven into the dark—and never come back.

Arnav had watched Khushi cry from the second-floor window, her face pale in the moonlight, her small hands pressed against the glass of the departing car.

He hadn't moved.

Not when her eyes searched the shadows for him.

Not when the crash came ...

---

The road stretched endlessly ahead, a long ribbon of asphalt winding through flat fields and sleepy towns. Dust clung to the SUV’s tires as Arnav Singh Raizada sped down the highway, the engine humming with quiet urgency.

Inside the car, the world was strangely still.

The AC whirred faintly, but the music that usually kept him grounded on long drives was absent—replaced by the constant tap, tap, tap of his fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a broken rhythm. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, shirt creased from a night with no sleep, and his dark eyes—usually so guarded—burned red-rimmed from equal parts exhaustion and fury.

Every few kilometers, he checked the GPS Aman had sent him, the small blue dot getting closer to Lucknow with each passing mile. But no digital map could prepare him for what he might find at the destination.

He gripped the wheel tighter, jaw locked.

> Damn it, Khushi. Why couldn’t you just wait?

It wasn’t just worry. It was something deeper. More dangerous.

She had left him behind—not just physically, but emotionally. That note she had scribbled in haste still echoed in his mind:

> “I’m sorry. I have to find the truth myself. I’ll come back when I know who destroyed my family. Please don’t follow me.”

The sheer irony.

She knew he would. She knew him too well. Maybe even better than he liked to admit.

And still, she went.

> Did she not trust me? Or did she think I wouldn't care enough to follow?

No, dammit. This wasn’t about trust. It was guilt. Pain. That same need she had to carry everything alone.

His phone buzzed again, breaking the silence.

He grabbed the Bluetooth switch on the dashboard. “Aman?” he barked.

Aman’s voice came through, calm and professional as always, but with an undercurrent of tension.

> “Confirmed, sir. She was dropped at a place called Premchand’s Book Bindery. It’s located in the old quarter of Hazratganj, not far from where Shashi Gupta’s law office used to be. I triple-checked with the cab driver. He confirmed the passenger matched her description.”

Arnav’s grip on the steering tightened. “Who owns the bindery?”

> “An elderly man. Premchand Verma. Records show he used to run an independent publishing press decades ago. But more importantly—he used to be associated with Khushi’s father.”

Arnav’s brows furrowed. “In what capacity?”

> “Still unclear. There’s a ledger from almost fifteen years ago that shows Premchand’s business was once audited by Shashi Gupta. I think there’s more—possibly something off the books.”

Arnav cursed under his breath. “Send me the exact coordinates.”

> “Already sent, sir. But…” Aman hesitated. “There’s one more thing.”

Arnav’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

> “Premchand received threats a few days ago. Anonymous notes. Hand-delivered. They warned him to stay silent. About ‘the past.’ About someone named—R.M.”

The initials hit like a punch to the chest.

R.M.

Ratan Malhotra.

> The man everyone thought was dead.

The man who once controlled half of Lucknow’s legal-political mess like a puppeteer with invisible strings.

And the man Khushi’s father had allegedly tried to expose… before his mysterious death.

Arnav’s knuckles whitened.

> “They’re watching Premchand.”

> “Yes, sir. We think Khushi walked into a trap she doesn’t know exists yet.”

Arnav’s mind raced.

> Was Ratan really dead? Or was someone using his legacy to keep the truth buried?

Or worse… what if he was alive and watching this unfold from the shadows?

> “If she’s hurt—” he muttered, voice dangerously low.

> “We won’t let that happen, ASR,” Aman said quickly. “I’ve already contacted two trusted security aides in Lucknow. They’re en route. Quietly.”

> “No backup near her,” Arnav ordered. “I don’t want her to panic. She’ll see it as interference.”

> “Understood.”

There was a pause.

> “Arnav sir…” Aman said more softly this time, “you don’t have to do this alone. You’re not that boy from twelve years ago anymore. This isn’t your burden to fix.”

But Arnav didn’t respond.

Because part of him still was that boy.

The one who had watched from behind a velvet curtain as Khushi’s family had been thrown out of Sheesh Mahal.

The one who hadn’t said a word in her defense.

The one who had wanted to believe he was powerless—when, in truth, he had simply been afraid.

He couldn’t afford that fear now.

Not when Khushi had walked into the very heart of what had destroyed her childhood.

> “I’ll call you when I reach,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Keep eyes on the bindery. If she’s still there, I’ll get her out.”

> “And if she’s not?”

> “Then I’ll tear Lucknow apart, brick by brick.”

He ended the call.

The GPS beeped, signaling a left turn off the main highway. Arnav followed the curve, heart thudding.

Lucknow was close now.

And so were the answers.

But so were the ghosts.

----

Lucknow – Narrow Alley, Evening

Khushi stepped out of the rickshaw, her feet hitting the cracked stones of the old bazaar lane. The smell of turmeric, dust, and old paper stirred something deep inside. This place hadn’t changed. And yet she had.

She wrapped her dupatta tighter around her head and walked down the alley. Shopkeepers hardly spared her a glance—anonymity worked in her favor today.

At the end of the street stood a weathered building, its facade chipped with age, but the small rusted plaque above it remained:

> “Premchand’s Book Bindery.”

Her pulse kicked.

She pushed the door open, the old bell above it jingling softly. Inside, the scent of ink, glue, and parchment hung in the air like time frozen.

Behind the counter, an elderly man looked up from his reading glasses. He squinted through the dim light, then leaned forward.

> “Khushi bitiya?”

Her breath caught. “You remember me?”

> “Of course,” he said with a trembling smile. “You came with your father once. He trusted me. Brought ledgers. Important ones.”

“Ledgers?” Khushi stepped closer. “Do you... do you still have them?”

His face shadowed.

> “I might. But you’re not the only one who’s been looking for them.”

Khushi’s fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “Who else?”

The man looked over his shoulder, voice dropping to a whisper.

> “Men. Suited. Polite on the surface, but dangerous underneath. Asked about the ledgers. About your father. "

What do you mean?”

Before he could answer, the bell on the door jingled behind her.

She turned.

A tall man in a trench coat stepped in.

> “Well, well. The Gupta girl returns to the scene.”

Khushi's heart dropped.

---