Broken dreams, Twisted vows

Chapter 3 : The Ghost in the Hallway

The morning brought a heavy, suffocating silence to the Chauhan household. Surmidhi stood in the kitchen, her hands trembling slightly as she poured tea. The events of the previous night—the rain, the unconscious man, and the mysterious mansion—felt like a fever dream. She had no idea how she had reached home or who had helped her, but the dread in her heart was very real.

"Still standing there like a statue? Do you think the walls are going to do the chores for you?"

Urvashi’s voice cut through the air like a jagged blade. She walked into the kitchen, her expensive silk saree rustling, her eyes sharp with their habitual coldness.

"I was just... I’m leaving for the interview, Chachi," Surmidhi whispered, her head lowered.

"Interview? For what?" Urvashi scoffed, leaning against the counter. "You think a girl who spends her nights 'wandering' in the rain is fit for a respectable job? Don't disgrace your father's name more than you already have. Just like your mother... always looking for excuses to run away."

Surmidhi’s grip tightened on the tea towel. The mention of her mother always felt like a fresh wound being salted. She didn't look up, didn't argue. She knew that in this house, her voice carried no weight.

"I'll be back by evening," she said softly, stepping past her aunt. She didn't wait for a response. She couldn't. If she stayed a moment longer, the tears she was holding back would finally fall, and she refused to let Urvashi see her break.

The Rathore Group of Industries

The glass and steel tower of Rathore Group stood tall, reflecting the harsh sunlight. Inside, the atmosphere was clinical and high-pressure. Surmidhi straightened her simple cotton suit, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and walked toward the reception.

She had no idea that she was walking straight into the lion's den.

Upstairs, in the executive wing, Aryan Singh Rathore was a man possessed. He had been in his office since 7:00 AM, but he hadn't looked at a single file. His mind was a battlefield of conflicting images. The dancer with the mask. The wealthy girl in the silk robes. Srishti Malhotra.

Who is she? "Sir, the candidates for the junior architect position are here," Viraj said, stepping into the office. He noticed Aryan’s rigid posture and the way he was staring out the window.

"Start the interviews, Viraj. I’ll join when I'm ready," Aryan replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Actually, Sir... there's one girl. She doesn't have an appointment, but she says she was told to come today for the final verification. The manager is confused," Viraj added.

Aryan turned around slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Name?"

"Surmidhi Singh Chauhan."

Aryan’s jaw tightened. The dancer. So she had actually shown up. He felt a surge of cold fury. In his mind, she was a con-artist—someone who had used her 'Srishti Malhotra' facade last night to gain his sympathy, and now she was here to claim a job.

"Send her in," Aryan said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And Viraj... stay outside. I want to handle this personally."

The Confusion Begins

Surmidhi walked into the cabin, her heart drumming against her ribs. She had never seen an office this grand. But the moment she saw the man sitting behind the desk, her breath hitched.

It was him. The man from the competition. The man from the rain.

"Good morning, Sir," she managed to say, her voice barely audible.

The air inside Aryan’s cabin was cold, filtered by the silent central cooling system, but for Surmidhi, it felt suffocating. She stood before the massive mahogany desk, her hands clasped tightly over her simple cotton dupatta.

Aryan Singh Rathore didn't look up from his file for a long time. The silence stretched, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of a vintage clock on the wall. Finally, he closed the folder with a sharp thud and leaned back, his piercing gaze locking onto her.

"Surmidhi Singh Chauhan," he said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. "You have quite the nerve showing up here today."

Surmidhi blinked, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Sir? I... I was told to come for the final verification. I’ve worked hard on my portfolio, and—"

"Hard work?" Aryan cut her off, a mocking tilt to his lips. "Is that what you call it? Or is 'acting' your primary profession? Because last night, you seemed very comfortable playing a completely different role."

Surmidhi felt a chill. Last night? She remembered finding him in the rain, the fear she felt when he collapsed, but she didn't understand the venom in his voice. "Sir, if this is about last night, I only wanted to help—"

"Help?" Aryan stood up, walking around the desk slowly, like a predator circling its prey. "You saved me, and then you played the part of 'Srishti Malhotra' in a mansion that clearly doesn't belong to a struggling architect. You used a fake name, a fake identity, and a fake life. Tell me, do you do this to every wealthy man you find in the rain? Is this your way of 'securing' a job?"

The blood drained from Surmidhi’s face. "Fake name? Sir, I never said I was Srishti. I never lied! I don't even know who that is!"

"Stop it!" Aryan roared, his voice echoing off the glass walls. "I am not a fool. I saw your face. I heard that name. You think a change of clothes and a timid expression can wash away the fact that you’re a dancer from a club who pretends to be a princess at night? You’re not worthy of this office. You’re not even fit to be a peon here."

He picked up her portfolio—the drawings she had spent months perfecting—and tossed them across the desk. The papers scattered like broken wings.

"You're rejected. Now, get out of my sight before I have security throw you out."

Surmidhi felt as if her soul had been crushed under his expensive shoes. The humiliation was so deep it felt physical. She didn't cry—she didn't have the strength left for tears. She gathered her scattered papers with trembling hands, her dignity in shreds, and walked out of the cabin without a word.

The Mirage in the Hallway

The Manager, who had been eavesdropping near the door, watched her leave with a sneer. He saw a girl in a faded pink cotton suit, her eyes red, her spirit broken. He watched her step into the elevator and saw the doors close.

"Good riddance," the Manager muttered, turning back to his desk.

But exactly sixty seconds later, the other elevator pinged.

The doors slid open, and a girl stepped out. The entire office floor seemed to freeze.

She wasn't wearing a faded suit. She was wearing a bottle-green designer coat set that screamed luxury. Her hair was styled in perfect, bouncing curls. She carried a leather wallet in one hand and a smartphone in the other. She walked with a stride so confident it made the employees look down at their keyboards.

The Manager’s jaw dropped. He looked at the elevator Surmidhi had just used, then at this girl.

"Y-you?!" the Manager stammered, stumbling over his feet. "How? You just... the pink suit? The crying? How did you change in one minute?!"

Srishti Malhotra stopped, looking at the Manager with profound disgust. "Excuse me? Are you having a stroke? I just arrived. And I don't wear 'pink suits.' Now, tell Aryan Singh Rathore that Srishti Malhotra is here to return his property."

She didn't wait for permission. She marched straight toward the cabin.

The Second Encounter

Inside, Aryan was trying to calm his breathing. The sight of her had stirred a frustration he couldn't name. When the door swung open again, he didn't even look up.

"I thought I told you to leave, Surmidhi! Don't make me call the guards!"

"My name is Srishti. And I suggest you watch your tone," a sharp, melodic voice replied.

Aryan’s head snapped up. He felt a jolt of electricity run through his spine. He looked at the girl. Same face. Same hazel eyes. But the aura was entirely different. The girl he had just insulted was a broken reed; the girl standing here was a sharpened blade.

"Srishti?" Aryan whispered, his mind reeling. "But... you just left. You were wearing cotton. You were... you were crying."

Srishti tossed his wallet onto the desk. "I think the fever has affected your brain, Mr. Rathore. I haven't been 'crying,' and I certainly haven't been wearing cotton. I came here to return your wallet. I see now that your office is as chaotic as your health."

Aryan stood up, his legs feeling weak. He rushed to the door and pulled it open. "Manager! Come here!"

The Manager ran over, looking like he was about to faint. "Sir! Sir, I saw it too! The other one went down, and this one came up! It’s magic, Sir! She’s a witch!"

"Shut up!" Aryan hissed. He looked back at Srishti, who was looking at the Manager like he was a stray dog.

Aryan felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He had seen Surmidhi leave. He was looking at Srishti now. He didn't know about the twins. He didn't know about the separate lives. To him, it felt like his sanity was slipping through his fingers.

"Get out," Aryan said, his voice trembling. "Both of you... just get out!"

Srishti narrowed her eyes. "With pleasure. I have better things to do than stand in a room full of lunatics."

She turned on her heel and walked out, her head held high. As she disappeared into the elevator, Aryan sank into his chair, his head in his hands.

"Viraj!" he shouted.

Viraj appeared instantly. "Yes, Sir?"

"Check the cameras," Aryan whispered, his voice dark and obsessed. "Every floor. Every second. I want to see how she did it. I want to know who the hell I am talking to!"

"To be continued....