Falling Destiny

Episode 43 : "The Morning After the Storm"

(Neha’s POV)

The wind was cold.

Too cold.

I curled tighter into myself, trying to stop the shivering. My soaked lehenga clung to my skin like a second layer of shame. My hair was matted, my arms numb. Somewhere in the distance, the call of early birds rose, marking a new day.

A new morning.

But for me, it was the same nightmare.

I blinked my eyes open slowly. The world around me was blurry—too much pain, too little rest. I was on the balcony, lying on the hard, cracked floor of Veer's room. Last night came back in broken flashes: his rage, the threats, the forced vows, the blood… the silence.

I was married.

To a man who had locked me in a dungeon.

To a man who had stolen my choice.

My body still ached from where the shackles had bruised me.

My hand went to my neck out of habit, where my chain used to rest. Gone. Instead, there was only the tight mangalsutra he had forced around me. Heavy. Like a noose.

I wiped at my eyes, only to realize I was already dry. No more tears left. My soul had wept them all last night.

I tried to sit up when—

SPLASH.

Ice.

Water.

Shockingly cold, freezing me to my bones.

I gasped aloud, my body jolting upright with panic as I blinked the freezing droplets from my lashes. I was shivering violently, unable to catch my breath. My soaked clothes clung tighter, making me feel more exposed.

And then I saw her.

Ruhani.

Standing in the doorway like a queen admiring a defeated enemy. Arms crossed. Expression sharp. Eyes full of something I couldn’t quite recognize.

She came closer. My heart lurched.

But then… something inside me fluttered.

Hope.

She’s back. She’s here.

She'll help me. She has to.

I stood up slowly, clutching my arms, and stepped toward her. “Ruhani…” My voice was barely a whisper. My legs shook. “You’re back… I—I thought I lost you too…”

I reached out.

For comfort.

For familiarity.

For someone who used to call me sister.

But instead of an embrace, I was shoved. Hard.

I stumbled back, crashing into the iron balcony rail. My back burned with impact.

Her voice cut sharper than Veer’s ever could.

"Stay away from me, b***h. You deserve worse than this."

I froze. My lips parted, but no sound came. I couldn’t even understand.

This… was Ruhani?

Mary, the old maid, stood awkwardly near the door. Her face was pale, her eyes unsure.

Ruhani turned to her. “Get her some clothes. Old ones. From the storeroom.”

“Madam, please,” Mary whispered. “She’s in pain. The house is too big for anyone to clean alone…”

“She’s a maid now,” Ruhani said, voice like ice. “Give her a handkerchief and tell her to clean every inch of this place.”

Handkerchief?

Surely I misheard.

Mary looked at me, horrified. “How can anyone clean this entire mansion with—”

“Do it,” Ruhani snapped.

Mary bowed her head, trembling, and left.

I stood there in silence, drenched and shaking. The sun had fully risen now. Its light filtered through the balcony railings, casting long shadows across the floor. I looked down at myself—bloodstained, soaked, disheveled.

And now?

A maid.

A few minutes later, Mary returned, holding a faded kurti and leggings, along with a small, thin cotton handkerchief. She couldn’t meet my eyes as she handed them over. “I’m sorry,” she whispered before leaving.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

I dragged myself to the guest bathroom, stripped out of the wet wedding clothes, and slipped into the worn-out ones. The fabric scratched my skin. My wedding bangles clinked against the sink. My face in the mirror looked like a stranger’s—hair messy, lips cracked, blood still crusted at the corner of my mouth.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t scream.

I just breathed.

That was all I could do.

I walked down the grand staircase, barefoot, with the handkerchief in my hand. My knees shook with each step. The hall stretched endlessly before me, spotless marble floors gleaming in the morning light.

How was I supposed to clean this?

I knelt. Placed the handkerchief on the floor. And began.

Rub.

Wipe.

Rub.

The cloth barely made a difference. The floor didn’t need cleaning. That wasn’t the point.

This was punishment.

Humiliation.

Control.

Footsteps echoed behind me. I didn’t have to look to know it was Ruhani. She walked past me and, with a flick of her hand, knocked a glass off the table. It shattered. A thousand sharp pieces scattered across the floor.

I flinched.

She walked to the shelf. Dropped a vase. Then a photo frame.

Crash.

Crash.

Crash.

Each noise louder than the last.

I trembled.

Then I finally spoke. “Ruhani… you were like a sister to me. Why are you doing this? What have I done?”

Her footsteps stopped. Silence. Then—

SLAP.

Pain bloomed across my cheek, sharp and immediate. I gasped.

“You dare ask me that?” she hissed. “You ruin lives, Neha. And now you cry when yours falls apart?”

My hand went to my cheek. “I—I never meant—”

SLAP.

This one made me fall to the floor.

“You’re nothing but a maid now. You don't get to ask questions.” Her voice was venomous. “And you—w***e—how many lives have you destroyed? Huh? So many you can’t remember?”

I stared at her, my heart pounding, tears forming again despite myself. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what she was talking about.

But I couldn’t ask again.

She’d only hit harder.

So I turned back to the floor.

Rub.

Wipe.

Rub.

The handkerchief was soaked with tears and dust now. My knees ached. My palms turned red. My soul?

Already shattered.

And yet—somewhere deep inside—I held onto one last thing.

Disha.

The baby.

They were safe. Because of me.

Even if no one believed in me anymore…

Even if I was now nothing but a shadow in this grand house…

I would survive.

For them.

For truth.

For justice.

Even if it meant crawling.

---

At Neha and Disha home

(Disha POV)

The baby had finally fallen asleep after a restless night. I held him close to my chest, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing. My eyelids were heavy, but something inside me wouldn’t rest. A faint unease had been growing since morning, like a thread pulling at my chest. Neha hadn’t returned. No texts. No calls.

I tried to convince myself she’d gone to the market or taken a morning walk to clear her head. She had seemed a little off last night, but I had chalked it up to exhaustion.

That’s when I noticed the letter.

It sat neatly folded on the side table, cream-colored and chillingly still. My name was scrawled across the front.

"Disha."

I stared at it for a full minute before my fingers dared to move. I felt like I was about to open a wound I hadn’t even realized was bleeding.

I unfolded it. The words were clear. Cold. Detached.

> "Disha,

I’m sorry. I feel suffocated. This life, you, the baby—everything is too much. I need space. I need to be free. Please don’t try to contact me. I’ve found something better, and I don’t plan on coming back.

Take care of yourself. Don’t wait for me."

I read it once. Then again. And again.

Each word echoed like glass shattering inside me. Suffocated? Everything is too much? Found something better?

I felt the floor tilt. I clutched the edge of the table to steady myself. My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor, the baby still sleeping peacefully in his cradle beside me while my world fell apart.

“This… can’t be her,” I whispered. My voice cracked, barely audible.

This wasn’t Neha. This wasn’t my Neha.

She had held my hand in the hospital when no one else came. She had made silly faces to get my baby to laugh, had worked double shifts to pay for his formula without ever complaining. She was the only reason I was still standing after everything.

And now she says she’s suffocated by us?

I looked down at the letter, and suddenly, I saw it—not just the words, but the way they were written. It wasn’t her handwriting. Not completely. It was close. Close enough to fool someone who didn’t know her heart. But I did. Her loops weren’t that sharp. Her letters didn’t tilt like that.

This wasn’t her goodbye.

This was a cover-up.

Tears welled in my eyes, not just from grief but from fear. Someone had forced her to leave. Or worse, made it look like she did. And now she was out there—alone, scared, maybe in danger—and I had no idea where to find her.

I pressed the letter to my chest and closed my eyes, whispering her name like a prayer.

“Neha, I don’t care what this paper says. I know you. I will find you. I swear to God, I’ll bring you back.”

I kissed my son’s forehead and stood up with a quiet resolve that I hadn’t felt in weeks.

She didn’t leave me.

Someone took her away.