The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

Chapter 13: The Public Humiliation

The elegant cream-colored envelope arrived at Aarya’s modest apartment two days after the violent banging on her door — an incident that had turned out to be a drunk neighbor, but had left her shaken and more protective than ever of the tiny life growing inside her. Her hands trembled as she opened it under the dim bulb light. Gold embossed letters invited her to the Malhotra Foundation’s Annual Charity Gala, a grand event for children’s education.

*Why invite me?* she wondered, hope flickering weakly in her exhausted heart. Perhaps Rishaan had insisted. Perhaps this was the universe giving her one more chance to reach him before the Malhotra threats closed in completely. She placed a gentle hand over her stomach, whispering, “Aaj shayad papa se milwaa doon tujhe… indirectly.” (Today I might introduce you to papa… indirectly.)

Despite the financial strain — she had skipped meals to save for prenatal vitamins — Aarya decided to attend. She wore her simple ivory saree once more, the delicate pearls along the pallu now a symbol of both her wedding joy and enduring pain. The fabric draped loosely, carefully hiding the subtle changes in her body. No one knew about the baby yet. Not even Rishaan.

The gala was held at the opulent Grand Imperial Ballroom in central Delhi. As Aarya stepped out of the modest auto-rickshaw, the contrast was blinding. Crystal chandeliers hung like cascading stars from the high domed ceiling, scattering rainbow prisms across the marble floors. Designer gowns in silks, chiffons, and intricate embroidery shimmered under the lights — deep reds, emerald greens, and royal blues worn by Delhi’s elite. Wealthy guests mingled with effortless grace: businessmen in tailored sherwanis, socialites dripping in diamonds and emeralds, laughter tinkling like expensive champagne glasses. A live orchestra played soft classical fusion music, while servers in white gloves offered hors d’oeuvres on silver trays. Towering floral centerpieces of imported roses and orchids filled the air with intoxicating fragrance. It was a world of excess, far removed from her tiny apartment and the ancient temple where her love story had begun.

Aarya felt small and out of place, her simple saree drawing subtle glances. Her back ached slightly from the pregnancy, and waves of nausea threatened despite the light dinner she had forced down earlier. Yet she moved forward with quiet dignity, searching the crowd for Rishaan. *Bas ek baar baat karne do, Bhagwan. Ek chance aur.* (Just let me talk to him once, God. One more chance.)

She spotted him near the main stage, looking devastatingly handsome in a black designer kurta that accentuated his broad shoulders. His hazel eyes scanned the room with familiar intensity, though confusion still lingered in them. Her heart clenched. This was the man who had once whispered “Meri jaan” (My life) against her lips in the hilltop villa.

“Rishaan…” she breathed, approaching him cautiously through the glittering crowd. Her voice was soft but carried the weight of two years of love, a secret marriage, and a child he didn’t remember.

He turned. For a split second, something flickered in his gaze — recognition? discomfort? — before it hardened. Before he could respond, Mrs. Malhotra appeared like a storm in an exquisite gold saree, her diamonds flashing dangerously.

“Rishaan beta, door ho jao is ladki se,” (Rishaan son, stay away from this girl,) she said loudly, her voice carrying across the nearby groups. Heads turned. The orchestra seemed to soften as guests leaned in. “Yeh Aarya Sharma hai — ek gold digger jo tumhare accident ka faayda utha rahi hai. Paise ke liye sab natak kar rahi hai. Shaadi ka jhootha claim, fake photos… sab kuchh.” (This is Aarya Sharma — a gold digger taking advantage of your accident. She’s doing all this drama for money. False claims of marriage, fake photos… everything.)

The words landed like a slap. Aarya froze, her hand instinctively moving toward her stomach before she caught herself. Whispers erupted around them like wildfire.

“Gold digger? Phir se yeh drama?” (Gold digger? This drama again?) a woman in a red lehenga murmured to her companion, loud enough for Aarya to hear.

“Malhotra family itni patient kaise hai? Police ko call karna chahiye,” (How is the Malhotra family so patient? They should call the police,) another guest added, sipping champagne with a sneer.

Aarya’s cheeks burned with humiliation, but she lifted her chin, fighting to maintain her dignity. Inside, exhaustion and pregnancy hormones made her want to crumble. Her legs felt weak, nausea rising again. Yet she stood tall for the child she carried — Rishaan’s child. “Mrs. Malhotra, yeh jhooth hai. Aap jaanti hain sach. Humne Aravalli Hills ke temple mein shaadi ki thi. Sunrise ke time, marigold garlands, temple bells… Rishaan ne khud mangalsutra pehnaya tha.” (Mrs. Malhotra, this is a lie. You know the truth. We got married in the temple in the Aravalli Hills. At sunrise, with marigold garlands, temple bells… Rishaan himself put the mangalsutra on me.)

Her voice trembled but remained clear. Flashbacks surged: Rishaan’s warm fingers in her hair as he applied sindoor, his eyes locked with hers promising forever. “Hamesha tak, har janam tak,” (Forever, in every lifetime,) he had vowed. Now those same eyes watched her with uncertainty while the glamorous crowd turned into a jury of cruelty.

Rishaan remained silent, his jaw tight. He glanced between his mother and Aarya, clearly torn. The family’s lies had deep roots in his fractured memory. “Main… mujhe kuchh samajh nahi aa raha,” (I… I don’t understand anything,) he finally muttered, not defending her but not fully condemning her either. His silence hurt worse than words.

The whispers grew louder, more vicious.

“Dekho uski saree — itni simple. Paise ke liye yeh natak,” (Look at her saree — so simple. All this drama for money,) a man in a black suit chuckled.

“Pregnant lag rahi hai kya? Shayad kisi aur ka bachcha hai aur blame Rishaan pe,” (Does she look pregnant? Maybe it’s someone else’s child and she’s blaming Rishaan,) a woman whispered loudly, her words slicing through Aarya like a knife. Though her pregnancy was still hidden, the comment made her protective instincts flare. She placed a subtle hand over her belly, drawing strength from the tiny heartbeat within.

Tears burned in Aarya’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall in front of these people. Emotional exhaustion weighed on her — sleepless nights in her tiny apartment, financial fears, the constant threat from Mr. Malhotra. Yet she spoke again, voice steady for the sake of her dignity and her child. “Main Rishaan se pyaar karti hoon. Paisa nahi. Humara pyaar sach tha. Villa ke din, secret meetings, temple ke vaade — sab yaad dilane ki koshish kar rahi hoon main. Rishaan, please… andar kahin toh tumhe feel ho raha hoga.” (I love Rishaan. Not money. Our love was true. I’m trying to remind him of the villa days, secret meetings, temple promises. Rishaan, please… somewhere inside you must be feeling it.)

Mrs. Malhotra laughed coldly, stepping closer so the entire circle of guests could hear. “Pyaar? Yeh toh bilkul filmi dialogue hai. Rishaan, beta, ise ignore karo. Doctors ne kaha hai stress mat lo. Yeh sirf tumhara wealth chahti hai.” (Love? These are straight out of a movie dialogue. Rishaan son, ignore her. The doctors said not to take stress. She only wants your wealth.)

The glamorous ballroom, with its crystal chandeliers and designer gowns, had become a stage for Aarya’s public destruction. Guests formed a loose circle, phones discreetly recording, whispers turning into open judgment. Aarya’s heart pounded painfully. She felt every stare like a physical blow. Her pregnancy made her more vulnerable — the slight fatigue, the need to protect the baby making her want to run, yet she stood rooted for the sake of truth.

Rishaan still said nothing, his hazel eyes conflicted. The man who had once fought his entire family for her now stood paralyzed by doubt and manipulation.

Just as Aarya felt she might collapse under the weight of humiliation, one guest — a middle-aged woman in an expensive emerald gown — stepped forward and asked loudly, her voice cutting through the murmurs:

“If she’s lying, why does she have a wedding ring?”

The question hung in the air like a thunderclap. All eyes dropped to Aarya’s finger, where the simple pearl ring from their wedding still gleamed softly — a quiet, undeniable piece of evidence.

To be continued...