Chapter 4 : The Mirror's Divided Soul
1120 Words
The atmosphere in the surveillance room of Rathore Group was suffocating. The only light came from a wall of monitors, casting a ghostly blue glow on Aryan’s face. He stood with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the screen like a hawk.
"Rewind it. Now," Aryan commanded.
Viraj tapped the keyboard. The footage from the lobby rolled back. On the left screen, a girl in a pink cotton suit—Surmidhi—was seen walking out of the elevator, her head bowed, wiping her eyes. Simultaneously, on the right screen, a girl in a green coat—Srishti—was seen stepping out of a black luxury car and walking into the main entrance.
Aryan froze. He leaned closer to the screen, his heart thudding against his ribs.
"Stop," he whispered.
The images were frozen. Two identical faces. Two different outfits. Two different lives. In that one frame, the impossible was laid bare.
"Sir..." Viraj’s voice was trembling. "It’s not magic. And it’s not a ghost. There are two of them."
"No," Aryan’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with a dangerous intensity. "There is one truth and one imitation. No one is born with a face like that by accident. This is a setup, Viraj. One of them is a Malhotra... and the other is a weapon being used against me."
"But Sir, the girl in the cotton suit... she looked genuinely broken," Viraj noted softly.
"Looks can be deceiving," Aryan snapped. "Find out where the 'poor' one went. I want to see where she hides when the mask is off."
The Fragile Silence
Surmidhi sat on a secluded bench in a small, overgrown park far from the gleaming towers of the business district. The scattered papers of her portfolio lay beside her, a mocking reminder of her ruined dreams. The sun was harsh, but she felt a bone-deep chill.
She whispered to herself __" Why... why should he do this to me ?"
"Why he's calling me srishti again and again , i don't know the lady ,
she bow down her head and said_,"I didn't get it, who is she ?
"Mr.Aryan Singh Rathor.... you didn't know anything about me ,
tears felt down her eyes , she rubbed and whisper _,"you have no right to judge me , just saw me in the club , you have no right , no right...
She hadn't eaten since yesterday. The stress of the disqualification, the toxicity at home, and now the brutal rejection from Aryan had drained the last of her strength. Her head felt heavy, a dull ache throbbing behind her eyes.
'You’re not even fit to be a peon here.'
Aryan’s words echoed in her mind, sharper than any physical wound. She tried to stand up, wanting to find a water fountain, but the world suddenly tilted. The green trees blurred into a messy smudge of color.
A black SUV pulled up silently at the edge of the park. Aryan sat inside, watching her through the tinted glass. He had intended to confront her, to demand who had sent her to mimic Srishti Malhotra. But as he watched her, his anger faltered.
She looked pale—dangerously so. Her skin had a translucent, sickly quality under the sunlight.
He saw her try to stand, her hand clutching the back of the bench. Then, like a flower snapped at the stem, she crumpled.
"Surmidhi!"
The name left his lips before he could stop it. Aryan didn't think. He didn't analyze. He threw open the car door and ran toward her. By the time he reached the bench, she was lying on the grass, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and ragged.
The Hospital Vow
"Viraj! Get the car closer! Now!" Aryan roared, lifting Surmidhi into his arms.
She felt frighteningly light, as if she were made of nothing but air and sorrow. Her skin was ice-cold to the touch. As he carried her to the SUV, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the way her collarbones protruded. This wasn't the look of a con artist living a double life. This was the look of someone who was slowly fading away.
Minutes later, they skidded to a halt in front of a private hospital.
"Get the best doctor! I don't care about the cost!" Aryan shouted as the orderlies rushed out with a stretcher.
He paced the hallway of the VIP wing, his mind a chaotic mess. He hated her—or at least, he told himself he did. She was a mystery he couldn't solve, a dancer in a club, a girl with a face that shouldn't exist. So why did his hands shake when he saw her fall?
After an hour, a senior doctor stepped out, removing his mask. "Mr. Rathore? The patient is stable, but she is severely malnourished. She has a critical iron deficiency—Anemia. It looks like she hasn't had a proper meal or rest in days. Her body simply gave up."
Aryan stood still, the doctor’s words hitting him harder than he expected. Malnourished? "Can I see her?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically low.
"She’s unconscious, but yes. We’ve started the IV fluids and iron supplements."
Aryan walked into the quiet room. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound. Surmidhi lay on the white sheets, looking even smaller than before. Her hand, with a needle inserted, looked fragile.
He sat in the chair beside her bed, his gaze fixed on her face. For the first time, he didn't see a 'con artist' or a 'dancer.' He saw a girl who was fighting a war the world knew nothing about.
He reached out, his hand hovering over hers for a split second before he pulled back.
"Who are you, Surmidhi Singh Chauhan?" he whispered to the silent room. "And why do you have the face of a woman who belongs to the Malhotras, while you live a life of a beggar?"
He stayed there for hours, watching the drip of the IV. He paid the bills in full, ensuring his name was kept off the records. He didn't want her gratitude. He wanted answers.
As the first light of the next morning began to peek through the blinds, Aryan stood up to leave. He looked at her one last time—a sleeping enigma.
"Get well soon," he muttered, his voice cold again, but his eyes holding a trace of something he wasn't ready to call 'care.' "Because when you wake up, the questions won't stop."
He walked out just as the nurse entered, leaving behind a trail of mystery and a silent vow to uncover the truth of the two faces.
[To Be Continued...]
- Writer
