The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

CHAPTER 20: A PROMISE

Several months had passed since that stormy night in the Shimla hospital when Aarav Malhotra entered the world with a strong, defiant cry. The pine-scented hills had watched silently as Aarya transformed from a heartbroken young woman into a fierce, unbreakable mother. The small apartment that once echoed with lonely sobs now rang with the soft gurgles and occasional cries of a healthy baby boy. Life was still hard — financially strained, emotionally heavy — but Aarya had grown roots deep into the mountain soil of resilience.

Mornings began early, long before the sun kissed the deodar trees. Aarav, now five months old, would wake with hungry demands, his tiny fists waving in the air. Aarya would lift him from the simple wooden cradle Mrs. Kapoor had gifted her, cradling him close to her chest. “Subah ho gayi, mera sher. Bhookh lagi hai na?” (Morning has come, my lion. You’re hungry, aren’t you?) she whispered, her voice soft and full of love as she fed him. His hazel eyes — so strikingly like his father’s — would lock onto hers, and in those moments, the world felt complete.

Balancing motherhood with survival was a daily tightrope walk. After feeding and bathing Aarav, Aarya would prepare for her tutoring sessions. She had expanded her small teaching circle, now handling five families in the colony. While she taught Hindi poetry and English stories to eager children sitting cross-legged on mats, Aarav slept peacefully in a makeshift carrier strapped to her chest. “Dekho bacchon, yeh kavita pyaar ke baare mein hai,” (Look children, this poem is about love,) she would explain, her voice steady even as exhaustion tugged at her. The children adored “Aarav bhaiya,” often cooing at him between lessons, giving Aarya precious moments of normalcy.

Evenings were for her writing work and household chores. After putting Aarav down for a nap, she would sit at the small wooden table, typing articles and poems on her old laptop while keeping one ear tuned to his breathing. Mrs. Kapoor had become a constant pillar — bringing fresh vegetables, watching Aarav for an hour so Aarya could rest, and offering quiet wisdom. “Beti, tu bahut badal gayi hai. Pehle jo ladki dar rahi thi, ab woh maa ban kar sher ban gayi hai,” (Daughter, you have changed so much. The girl who was scared has become a lioness as a mother,) the older woman would say with pride.

Touching mother-son moments filled the cracks of hardship. In the golden afternoon light on the balcony, Aarya would rock Aarav gently, singing soft lullabies she remembered from her own childhood. “Soja re chanda… maa tere paas hai,” (Sleep, little moon… mother is with you,) she hummed, her fingers tracing his dark tuft of hair. He looked so much like Rishaan — the same sharp nose, the way his brows furrowed when he was fussy, the rare dimple that appeared when he smiled. “Tum bilkul apne papa jaise ho, Aarav. Unki aankhein, unki taakat… par tumhare dil mein meri narmi hogi,” (You are exactly like your papa, Aarav. His eyes, his strength… but your heart will have my softness,) she would whisper, kissing his forehead.

There were nights when loneliness still crept in. After Aarav fell asleep, Aarya would stand by the window, the silver bookmark from Rishaan clutched in her hand. Memories of the hilltop villa and the ancient temple would wash over her — his warm laughter, the way he had abandoned his cold billionaire image just for her. “Tum kahan ho ab, Rishaan? Tumhara beta yahan tumhara intezaar kar raha hai,” (Where are you now, Rishaan? Your son is waiting for you here,) she would murmur, tears falling silently. But she no longer broke. Instead, she wiped her tears, straightened her shoulders, and returned to her son’s side. Motherhood had forged her into steel wrapped in silk.

Financially, things were slowly stabilizing. Her writing had gained a small following online, and the extra income from tutoring allowed her to buy better nutrition and warm clothes for Aarav. She had become stronger — no longer the trembling girl who fled Delhi in tears. She negotiated better rates with families, managed her time with military precision, and even started teaching a small evening class for underprivileged girls, determined to give back what life had taken from her. “Main tumhe ek aisi duniya dungi jahan tumhe kabhi sharminda nahi hona padega,” (I will give you a world where you will never have to feel ashamed,) she promised Aarav daily.

One quiet evening, as the sun dipped behind the pine-covered hills, painting the sky in hues of orange and rose, Aarya stepped onto the balcony with Aarav in her arms. The cool breeze ruffled his soft hair. She held him close, his little head nestled against her shoulder, his tiny hand gripping her dupatta. The distant city lights of Shimla twinkled below like scattered stars, a modest skyline compared to Delhi’s grandeur, but full of quiet promise.

She rocked him gently, her voice low and filled with emotion. “Aarav beta, dekho yeh pahadiyan. Hum yahan nayi zindagi shuru kar rahe hain. Main vaada karti hoon tumse — ek din main tumhare liye aisa ghar banaungi, aisi zindagi, jisme na tumhe, na mujhe kabhi sharminda hona padega. Na kisi ke wealth ke aage jhukna padega, na kisi ke jhooth ke saamne haarna padega. Tumhare papa ki yaadein humein kamzor nahi banayengi — unki taakat humein aur mazboot banayegi.” (Aarav child, look at these hills. We are starting a new life here. I promise you — one day I will build such a home for you, such a life, where neither you nor I will ever have to feel ashamed. We won’t have to bow before anyone’s wealth, nor lose to anyone’s lies. Your father’s memories will not weaken us — his strength will make us even stronger.)

Tears glistened in her eyes, but they were not only of sorrow. There was pride now. Pride in surviving, in becoming the mother her son deserved. Aarav cooed softly, as if understanding her solemn vow, his tiny fingers reaching for her face. Aarya smiled through the tears, kissing his forehead. “Hum jeetenge, mera sher. Hamesha.” (We will win, my lion. Always.)

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Far across the country, in the opulent Malhotra mansion in Delhi, Rishaan stood alone in his private study. The room was filled with the scent of aged wood and expensive leather. He had been searching for an old business file when his hand brushed against a hidden drawer at the back of his desk — a drawer he didn’t remember locking.

Curious, he pulled it open. Inside lay a single photograph, slightly faded but unmistakable.

In the picture, he was standing on the terrace of the hilltop villa, golden sunlight bathing everything. He was kissing Aarya gently on her forehead, his arms wrapped protectively around her. Her eyes were closed in pure bliss, a soft smile on her lips. They looked radiantly happy — like two people who had fought the world and won.

Rishaan froze. A sharp jolt passed through him. His fingers tightened on the photo as fragments — faint, blurry, but real — began to surface. The scent of jasmine in her hair. The warmth of her laughter. The way her hand fit perfectly in his. A temple at sunrise. Marigold garlands. A whispered promise.

For the first time since the accident, a faint memory returned.

His breath caught. “Aarya…” he whispered, the name slipping out like a long-forgotten prayer.

To be continued...