The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

CHAPTER 28: THE FLASHBACK

Rishaan Malhotra jerked his hand back as if burned. The brief touch of Aarya’s fingers against his sent a lightning bolt straight through his soul. For a split second, the world around him — the luxurious boardroom, the glowing Mumbai skyline outside the glass walls, the scattered blueprints — completely disappeared.

He was somewhere else.

Golden sunrise.

The ancient stone temple bathed in warm amber light. Marigold garlands hung in vibrant loops from intricately carved pillars, swaying gently in the morning breeze. The air was thick with the sweet, heady scent of incense — sandalwood and jasmine. Temple bells rang softly in the distance, their echoes weaving through the hills like a sacred melody.

A havan kund burned brightly in the center. Flames danced rhythmically.

And there she was — a woman in a simple ivory saree adorned with delicate pearls. Her long dark hair was loosely braided with jasmine flowers. Tears shimmered in her deep brown eyes, but she was smiling through them, a smile so full of love and trust that it made his chest ache.

He watched his own hands — younger, trembling slightly — as they fastened a mangalsutra around her neck. The black beads and gold pendant settled against her skin. His fingers brushed her collarbone, lingering with reverence.

“Ab tum meri ho… poori tarah,” (Now you are mine… completely,) he heard his own voice whisper in the vision, thick with overwhelming emotion.

The woman looked up at him, her eyes locking with his. Joy, nervousness, and profound love radiated from her face. She placed her hand over his, squeezing gently.

The scene shifted.

They were circling the sacred fire. Seven steps. Each step heavier with promises. Laughter mixed with tears. Her pallu fluttering in the breeze. His arm around her waist, protective and possessive.

Then another flash — a hilltop villa overlooking a serene lake. Sunlight streaming through large windows. The same woman laughing as he lifted her onto a kitchen counter, chocolate smeared on her nose. “Badmash!” (Rogue!) he teased in the memory, pulling her close for a deep kiss.

“Rishaan…” her voice, soft and full of love.

The images came faster now, overlapping, overwhelming.

Temple bells. Incense smoke. Her tears. His vows. “Main tumse bahut pyaar karta hoon… chahe kuchh bhi ho jaaye.” (I love you so much… no matter what happens.)

And then — nothing.

The vision shattered like glass.

Rishaan gasped sharply, gripping the edge of the mahogany table so hard his knuckles turned white. The boardroom snapped back into focus. Aarya was still standing across from him, her face pale, eyes wide with concern and something deeper.

“Mr. Malhotra? Aap theek hain?” (Mr. Malhotra? Are you okay?) she asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her professional composure.

He stared at her, chest heaving. For one terrifying moment, he wanted to reach out, pull her into his arms, and demand answers. But the words wouldn’t come. The memory had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only fragments and an aching emptiness.

“Haan… main theek hoon,” (Yes… I’m fine,) he managed, his voice hoarse. He straightened his suit jacket, forcing the cold billionaire mask back into place. “Bas… thoda sa chakkar aa gaya. Continue karte hain.”

But he couldn’t continue. Not really.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. Rishaan nodded at appropriate times, asked mechanical questions, but his mind was elsewhere — trapped in that golden sunrise, the scent of marigolds, and the woman whose face he still couldn’t fully see. When Aarya finally left the room after the meeting, he remained seated, staring at the door long after it closed.

That night, in the silence of his penthouse, the frustration boiled over.

Rishaan paced the expansive living room like a caged tiger, the city lights mocking him from beyond the glass walls. He poured himself a drink but left it untouched on the marble counter. The flashes kept returning — incomplete, tormenting.

Marigold flowers. Wedding fire. A woman smiling through tears. The feel of a mangalsutra in his hands. Her voice whispering his name with so much love it hurt.

“Kaun thi woh?” (Who was she?) he growled into the empty room, slamming his fist on the counter. The glass trembled. “Aur Aarya Sharma… uske paas kya connection hai?”

He couldn’t explain the pull. Being near her felt like breathing after years underwater. Every small gesture — the way she tucked her hair, the determination in her eyes when defending her designs, the subtle jasmine scent — felt like echoes of something sacred he had lost.

His obsession grew with every passing hour.

The next morning, instead of delegating, he personally reviewed every file related to Aarya Designs. By afternoon, he had instructed his most trusted private investigator — a discreet man who had worked for the family for decades — to dig deeper.

“Sab kuchh chahiye,” (I want everything,) Rishaan told him over a secure call. “Uski past, family, medical records, har jagah jahan woh thi pichhle paanch saalon mein. Quietly. No one should know.”

“Ji, sir. Main shuru karta hoon,” (Yes, sir. I’ll start immediately,) the investigator replied.

Days blurred. Rishaan threw himself into work, but every meeting with Aarya became torture and salvation. He found excuses to extend discussions, to ask for private clarifications. He noticed everything — how she sometimes rubbed her left wrist when stressed (a habit he somehow knew), how her eyes softened when talking about sustainable community spaces, how she never wore heavy jewelry except for a simple pearl ring that looked hauntingly familiar.

One evening, after a particularly intense site visit, he drove her back to her office himself. The car was filled with heavy silence broken only by soft music.

“Aap bahut chup hain aaj,” (You are very quiet today,) Aarya said softly, looking out the window.

Rishaan glanced at her. “Bas… kuchh soch raha tha. Aapko lagta hai humara collaboration successful hoga?” (Just… thinking about something. Do you think our collaboration will be successful?)

She turned to him, her deep brown eyes meeting his. “Hoga. Jab dil se kaam karte hain, toh cheezein sahi hoti hain.” (It will. When we work from the heart, things turn out right.)

Her words hit him again. Dil se.

That night, the dreams returned stronger. The woman in the ivory saree. The temple. The fire. Her smile through tears. He woke up drenched in sweat, whispering, “Aarya…”

His investigator’s report arrived two days later.

Rishaan locked himself in his study and opened the file with trembling hands. The details were thorough. Aarya Sharma — literature student from Delhi, modest family. Then, five years ago, she had suddenly vanished from Jaipur after a helicopter accident involving him. No records of her for several months. She reappeared in Shimla with a newborn son. No marriage records. No father listed on the child’s documents.

Rishaan’s heart pounded violently as he read the final line:

“Subject appears to have vanished from all records in Jaipur approximately five years ago, shortly after the Malhotra helicopter incident.”

He stared at the paper, the room spinning around him.

To be continued...