The Forgotten Vows

chapter 11: Shadows of Truth

Lucknow

The alleyway was a ghost of the past, and Arnav could feel it in the pit of his stomach. The street was narrow, suffocating, hemmed in by buildings that leaned into each other like whispered secrets. The bindery stood at the end—tired and slouched, its rusted iron signage barely hanging on, letters so faded they were almost swallowed by time.

He parked his SUV a little distance away. The engine clicked as it cooled behind him. Arnav walked forward with sharp, determined strides. His shoes echoed on the old stone path, and yet the silence screamed around him.

Each step tightened the grip on his chest.

He had come to stop her.

He had come to finally face the ghosts neither of them wanted to name.

The door to Premchand’s Bindery creaked open with the wind. No bell rang. No welcome followed.

Inside, was chaos

---

The air reeked of old paper and tension.

Khushi stood near the back wall, frozen. Her chest rose and fell too fast, her eyes wide. Premchand—older than Arnav remembered from old photographs—clutched the edge of a drawer like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

And between them stood a man.

Tall. Broad. Dark trench coat. His hair was slicked back, and his face bore the calm cruelty of someone who had watched justice rot and called it balance.

In his hand, a small black revolver. The metal glinted under the flickering yellow light.

> “Well, well,” the man drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Arnav Singh Raizada arrives to protect what’s left of a broken legacy.”

The words were coated in venom.

Khushi’s head jerked toward the voice.

> “Arnav—?” she gasped.

He didn’t waste a second. He stepped in.

> “Move behind me,” Arnav ordered, voice flat and deadly.

She didn’t argue. She moved behind him like her body instinctively trusted him more than her own breath.

The man’s grin didn’t waver.

> “She’s very brave, your girl. Just like her father. Too bad he couldn’t outrun his past. You really don’t know, do you?”

Arnav’s hands clenched. His blood boiled.

> “Put the gun down.”

The man tilted his head mockingly.

> “Or what? You’ll ruin me like you tried with Ratan?” he snapped. “You and your perfect empire. Always covering up messes that weren’t yours to begin with. But not this time.”

Khushi’s voice, tight and cracking, cut through the air.

> “What is he talking about, Arnav?”

He didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Because the words forming in his throat were ones he wasn’t sure she was ready to hear.

The gun shifted—pointing higher.

> “One more step,” the man hissed, “and I pull the trigger. And you’ll be the third loved one's that she watches die.”

For a single second, time fractured.

Khushi’s breath hitched. Her knees almost gave way.

And then—

A loud c***k.

The shot rang out, deafening.

---

Aman – Back in Delhi

Aman’s hand froze on his keyboard as the call from Lucknow dropped. Then a single word from his assistant—

> “Sir… there was a gunshot.”

---

Arnav’s ears rang. His heart thundered in his chest.

But there was no pain.

The bullet had missed. It had struck the glass cabinet behind him—shattering paperweights and dust-covered relics into glimmering pieces on the floor.

The man in the trench coat cursed, turned—and ran.

Coward.

Arnav spun, checking Khushi. She was breathing, shaking, clutching the hem of her dupatta like it was the only thing grounding her.

Premchand had collapsed into the nearest chair, muttering prayers.

---

Khushi’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The street was quieter now, but the echo of the shot still lingered. Her heart raced with a strange cocktail of terror and defiance.

Arnav stood near the doorway, phone to his ear, his voice a low snarl.

> “Track that bastard. I want his name, address, and blood group on my desk in an hour,” he snapped to Aman. “He aimed a gun at her.”

Then, disconnecting, he turned to Khushi.

His tone shifted. Still stern, but laced with something else. Something raw.

“I told you not to follow me—”

“You left me no choice.”

> “You should’ve told me.”

Her eyes flashed.

> “You would’ve stopped me.”

> “Damn right I would’ve,” he snapped. “You walked into a graveyard wearing a target.”

> “Because my father died without justice!” Her voice cracked. “Because every time I close my eyes, I see his face in that fire—and I don’t know if he was betrayed—”

> “He was,” Arnav said quietly.

She stilled.

> “But not by you.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

> “What do you know?”

His eyes locked with hers. And suddenly, there were no walls. No Raizada pride. No clever retorts.

Just truth.

And the weight of everything he had begun to uncover.

---

The sun had dipped behind the roofs, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch like secrets down the dusty alleyway. The air was still thick from the chaos earlier—the shattered glass, the echo of a gunshot, the racing hearts. But now, it held a different kind of tension. One that settled in the bones.

Khushi stepped outside, the chill of dusk clinging to her skin despite the summer warmth. Her breath hitched as a figure emerged from the far end of the lane. Not hurried. Not hiding. He walked with the calm of someone who believed nothing could touch him.

Crisp white shirt, slightly rumpled beneath a weathered trench coat. His hair was neatly combed, the graying temples only sharpening the sharpness of his jawline. His eyes—cold, calculating—rested on her.

> “You’re Khushi Kumari Gupta, aren’t you?”

His voice was cultured. Measured. Like a lawyer used to talking around the truth.

Khushi straightened.

> “Who are you?” she asked, forcing steel into her voice.

> “Let’s just say… someone who cleaned up the mess Ratan Malhotra left behind,” he replied, stepping closer.

From behind the door, Premchand moved into view. The old man’s expression tightened the moment he recognized the newcomer.

> “Leave the girl be, Vikram,” he warned, stepping beside her with a protective edge. “She came for answers, not threats.”

The man—Vikram—paused, his smirk faint but unmistakable.

> “Answers can be dangerous,” he said quietly. “Your father was warned. Ratan didn’t die for no reason.”

Khushi’s breath caught.

> “What do you mean, ‘didn’t die for no reason’? He had a heart attack—”

> “That’s what the death certificate says,” Vikram interrupted smoothly. “But certificates… records… they’re just pieces of paper. They don’t always tell the story. Ratan Malhotra didn’t just run a sell company. He ran a system. One that made enemies.”

He let the words settle, like dust over a fresh grave.

Then—

> “Step away from her.”

The voice cracked through the stillness like thunder across a dry field.

Arnav stood at the entrance, dressed in black, shoulders squared, eyes blazing. The evening light behind him turned his silhouette into something larger, darker. His fury wasn’t loud—it pulsed under his skin, contained but lethal.

Khushi felt her chest tighten with relief. With something deeper.

> “Arnav…” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

He didn’t look at her. His eyes were on Vikram.

The other man shifted slightly. Even he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the power radiating off Arnav Singh Raizada.

> “This doesn’t concern you, Mr. Raizada,” Vikram said, his voice less confident now.

> “She’s my wife,” Arnav bit out. “Everything concerning her concerns me.”

> “Not legally,” Vikram said with a sly lift of his brow.

> “Then legally will change,” Arnav snapped. “You’ve got five seconds to walk away before I dismantle whatever protection you think you have. Brick by brick.”

Premchand cleared his throat nervously.

> “Maybe we all calm down—”

> “Not until I get what I came for,” Khushi said, her voice cracking slightly. “My father… he died humiliated. Broken. And if you know anything—”

> “What if you can’t handle the truth?” Vikram asked. His gaze was unreadable. “What if it burns everything down?”

> “Then let it burn,” she replied, voice trembling but sure. “But I won’t keep living in the ashes without knowing how the fire started.”

A flicker of respect—or maybe pity—crossed Vikram’s face. He looked at Arnav, who had silently stepped beside her, fingers brushing hers with quiet reassurance.

> “You’re just like your father,” Vikram murmured, almost thoughtfully. “Naïve. Brave. Reckless.”

He turned then, walking past them.

But just before vanishing into the dark alley, he called over his shoulder.

> “Look in the ledgers, Khushi. But once you do… nothing stays the same.”

And then he was gone—like a ghost slipping into the fog.

Khushi stared after him, the name Ratan Malhotra heavy on her tongue. Her fists clenched at her sides. The night was silent again—but it was no longer peaceful.

It was the beginning of war.

---

The musty scent of paper and glue hung heavy in the air. The flickering bulb overhead cast a tired yellow glow across the room. Shadows danced on the walls as Premchand knelt by the bottom shelf of an old wooden cabinet, his fingers moving past worn dictionaries and cracked encyclopedias with practiced familiarity.

With a soft grunt, he pulled out a small metal box, edges rusted, the lock broken years ago. It was wrapped in faded newspaper pages from a decade past.

He stood slowly, setting the box gently on the table like it was something sacred.

> “These were your father’s,” he said quietly, reverently. “He hid them here after the last time we spoke. Said he couldn’t risk taking them home. Said… too many eyes were watching.”

Khushi stared at the box, her throat tightening. Her hands reached out before she could stop them. The metal felt cold, even after all these years. She flipped open the lid.

Inside were stacks of papers—yellowed invoices, handwritten notes, and an old leather-bound ledger, its spine cracked but intact.

She picked it up with trembling fingers, flipping past pages inked in her father’s neat, precise handwriting.

Then—she paused.

> “S.Gupta,” she whispered. “That’s my father’s name…”

Her brows furrowed as her eyes scanned the next few entries.

> “This ledger—it’s not just names. It’s dates. Payment amounts. Crossed-off initials. R.M., V.S., K.M.—these are people. Politicians. Businessmen. Bribes. Blackmail.”

She looked up, her eyes filled with disbelief, horror.

> “He wasn’t just fighting Ratan Malhotra. He was tracking all of them.”

Arnav had moved behind her, silent until now. He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, grounding her.

> “This isn’t just about your family anymore,” he said, voice low but steady. “This is about corruption so deep it swallowed everyone who tried to expose it. Your father... he wasn’t paranoid. He was hunted.”

Khushi’s hands clenched the ledger tighter.

> “They ruined him,” she whispered. “He lost everything. No one believed him. They branded him a traitor... and he still tried to protect us.”

Tears filled her eyes, falling unchecked.

Arnav stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her as she crumpled softly against him.

> “But I believe him,” he said. “I believe you. And this time—this time, we finish what he started.”

Behind them, Premchand closed the cabinet quietly—like sealing a tomb.

But the truth inside the bindery had just come alive.

----

A Shadow Watching

Across the street, partially hidden behind the rusted shell of a shuttered paan shop, a black sedan sat idle. The windows were tinted, the engine silent. But inside, two men watched.

One leaned forward, eyes narrowed as he observed Arnav and Khushi through a pair of compact binoculars. He adjusted the lens just in time to catch Vikram vanish into the alley shadows.

The second man, seated behind the wheel, tapped the Bluetooth earpiece in his ear as a faint buzz filled the car.

> “They found the ledgers,” said a deep, gravelly voice on the other end.

The man in the passenger seat gave a humorless smile, his fingers drumming lightly on the leather console.

> “Let them dig,” replied a second voice, this one colder, more refined. “Curiosity always comes with a price. And they’ve just crossed a line.”

A flicker of streetlight glinted off the metallic flash of something tucked beneath the seat—an object long and slim, wrapped in cloth.

> “Is the house still clean?” the voice asked.

> “Sterile,” the driver answered. “Nothing to trace. But if they push, we’ll need to act.”

The call ended.

In the distance, the bindery’s door shut with a soft clang.

Inside, truth waited to be unleashed.

Outside, so did the men who’d kill to keep it buried.

----

The ride to the hotel had been quiet, but not empty. Silence clung to the space between them like an unfinished sentence, heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

Arnav booked the room under a false name—an old habit from a life where trust was never given freely. When they reached the room, Khushi drifted toward the window, drawn to the shimmer of Lucknow’s lights. The city looked so alive—so unaware of the ghosts she had stirred.

She wrapped her arms around herself, staring down at the streets.

> “You didn’t have to come,” she murmured.

> “You left without a word,” Arnav replied, pulling off his jacket. “Do you really think I’d let you walk into danger alone?”

She turned, meeting his gaze.

> “You’re always saving me.”

He crossed the room slowly, eyes steady.

> “No. I’m walking beside you. That’s different.”

The weight of his words made her throat tighten.

> “I’m scared, Arnav,” she admitted. “What if finding the truth destroys everything we know?”

He sat beside her, his hand brushing hers—not forcefully, but there.

> “It might,” he said honestly. “But silence would’ve destroyed us anyway.”

Just then, his phone buzzed. A message from Aman lit up the screen.

> “ASR, you were right. Someone forged the death certificate. Ratan Malhotra… is alive.”

Arnav stared, jaw tightening.

> “Khushi…” he said, his voice strangely calm.

She turned slowly.

> “What?”

> “He’s not dead. We’ve been chasing a ghost… but he’s still out there.”

Khushi's breath caught. Her fingers clenched around the edge of the cushion.

> “Then it’s not over,” she whispered. “It’s just beginning.”

Behind her, the city continued to flicker—alive, restless. Just like the truth.