The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

Chapter 15: Goodbye

The small apartment in Delhi felt like a tomb of broken dreams that night. Moonlight filtered weakly through the cracked window, casting pale silver shadows across the faded walls where Aarya once pinned photographs of her future with Rishaan. After the devastating confrontation in the library wing of the Malhotra mansion, she had walked home in a daze, her ivory saree dragging behind her like a funeral shroud. The words still rang in her ears like temple bells turned cruel: "I never loved you." Each syllable carved deeper into her soul, reopening wounds that had barely begun to scar.

Aarya collapsed onto the worn mattress, her body shaking with silent sobs. Her hand instinctively moved to her stomach, cradling the tiny life growing within—the only remaining piece of Rishaan that was truly hers. “Beta… tumhare papa ne kaha ki unhone kabhi pyaar nahi kiya,” (Child… your father said he never loved me,) she whispered through tears, her voice hoarse and broken. The pregnancy had made her more fragile, every emotion amplified, but it also gave her a fierce resolve. She couldn’t stay here anymore. The threats from Mr. Malhotra, the public humiliations, and now Rishaan’s final rejection—it was too much. For the sake of her child, she had to leave Delhi behind.

With trembling hands, she pulled out an old suitcase from under the bed. The packing began slowly, each item a dagger to her heart. She started with the photographs. There was the one from their first secret meeting in Udaipur—the blurry image of Rishaan smiling at her over cups of chai at the roadside stall. His hazel eyes had sparkled with genuine warmth that day. “Yeh kitab dil ko chhoo leti hai, hai na?” (This book touches the heart, doesn’t it?) he had said when their hands brushed over Devdas. She traced his face with her finger, tears splashing onto the paper. “Tum itne khush lag rahe the… kaise bhool gaye sab kuchh?” (You looked so happy… how did you forget everything?)

Next came the silver bookmark he had gifted her after their one-month anniversary. The engraved lines still gleamed: “Pyaar woh nahi jo mil jaaye, pyaar woh hai jo intezaar kare.” (Love is not what is found, love is what waits.) She wrapped it carefully in an old scarf, remembering how he had slipped it into her hand with a shy smile. “Tumhari tarah yeh bhi dil ko chhoo lega,” (Like you, this will also touch the heart,) he had whispered. Flashbacks flooded her: stolen kisses in hidden cafes, late-night phone calls where his deep voice read shayaris that made her blush.

The letters came next—a thick bundle tied with a red ribbon. She unfolded one of his, the paper worn from countless readings. “Aarya, duniya ke against ladne ko taiyaar hoon main tumhare liye. Tum meri taakat ho.” (Aarya, I am ready to fight the world for you. You are my strength.) Written during the darkest days when his mother had tried to bribe her away. Aarya pressed the letter to her chest, sobbing openly now. “Kahan gaya woh Rishaan? Jo mere aansu pochhta tha, jo villa mein mujhe apni duniya kehta tha?” (Where did that Rishaan go? The one who wiped my tears, who called me his world in the villa?)

She packed the pearl necklace he had bought her to match her wedding saree. The delicate pearls felt cool against her palm, reminding her of the ivory saree she still wore, now tear-stained. The ancient temple in the Aravalli Hills rose in her memory—golden sunrise painting the carved stone pillars, marigold garlands swaying gently in the breeze, incense smoke curling like blessings from above. Temple bells had echoed softly as Rishaan fastened the mangalsutra around her neck. “Ab tum meri ho, poori tarah.” (Now you are mine, completely.) His eyes had held the universe that day. She folded the necklace into a small velvet pouch, whispering, “Yeh tumhare papa ka pyaar tha… ab sirf yaadein bachi hain.” (This was your father’s love… now only memories remain.)

One by one, the gifts and mementos disappeared into the suitcase. A small bottle of his favorite cologne that she had kept to smell on lonely nights. The handwritten recipe for aloo paratha they had attempted (and burned) together in the hilltop villa kitchen. “Arre, yeh kaise kiya tune?” (Hey, how did you do that?) she had laughed, correcting his grip on the knife. He had pulled her onto the counter instead, nuzzling her neck until laughter turned into passionate kisses. “Tum meri duniya ho, Aarya.” (You are my world, Aarya.)

The packing took hours. Aarya moved through the tiny apartment like a ghost, touching every surface. The rusty sink where she had vomited from morning sickness. The cracked mirror where she had first spoken to her unborn child. “Tumhare papa ko yaad nahi… par main hoon na,” (Your father doesn’t remember… but I am here,) she had whispered then. Now she stood before it again, one hand on her stomach, the other wiping endless tears. “Hum yahan se ja rahe hain, beta. Naya shahar, naya life. Main tumhe strong banaungi. Tumhare papa ki tarah stubborn aur meri tarah kind.” (We are leaving from here, child. New city, new life. I will make you strong. Stubborn like your father and kind like me.)

She wrote the letter at 3 a.m., sitting on the floor with a notebook balanced on her knees. The words flowed like blood from an open wound:

Priye Rishaan,

Aaj main tumse alag ho rahi hoon, hamesha ke liye. Temple ke vaade, villa ke sapne, humara pyaar—sab kuchh tum bhool chuke ho. Tumne kaha ‘I never loved you.’ Woh shabd mere dil ko tod kar rakh gaye hain. Par main tumse nafrat nahi kar sakti. Tum mere pehle aur akhri pyaar ho. *

*Main pregnant hoon, Rishaan. Tumhara bachcha mere andar hai. Woh tumhara hissa hai jo amnesia nahi chheen sakta. Main ise akela nahi chhodungi. Main ja rahi hoon Delhi se, kahin door, jahan tumhari family humein pareshan na kar sake. *

Agar kabhi yaadein wapas aayi toh… hum intezaar karenge. Par ab main apne bachche ke liye jeena chahti hoon. Tumhari hansi, tumhare chhote touches, tumhara soft side—sab main ise sikhungi. *

Hamesha tumhari,*

Aarya*

She folded the letter carefully, sealed it in an envelope, and placed it inside her purse. She would never send it. Some goodbyes were meant to remain silent.

As dawn approached, Aarya stood in the center of the apartment, taking one last look. “Yeh ghar humare sapnon ka ghar tha,” (This home was the home of our dreams,) she whispered, her voice cracking. “Yahan maine tumhara intezaar kiya tha roz. Ab yeh sirf khali deewarein hain.” (Here I waited for you every day. Now these are just empty walls.) She touched the kitchen counter where she imagined him lifting her, the window overlooking the noisy street where she once dreamed of their future children playing. Tears fell as she locked the door for the last time, the click sounding like the final page of their story.

The suitcase felt heavier than her broken heart as she dragged it down the stairs. The city was still waking up, but at the railway station, the platform buzzed with early travelers. Aarya bought a ticket to a small, quiet town in the hills of Himachal—far from Delhi’s elite, far from the Malhotras, far from the man who had shattered her.

She boarded the train just as the first rays of sunrise painted the sky in soft gold, mirroring the sunrise of their wedding day. Finding a window seat, she sat down, one hand on her stomach, the other clutching her purse with the unsent letter. The train whistle blew, wheels beginning to turn slowly.

As the train pulled out of the station, carrying her toward an uncertain future, Aarya looked back at the disappearing city lights. Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks.

To be continued...