The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

Chapter 8: Remember Me

The hospital corridors felt colder than ever as Aarya slipped through a side entrance two days later, her heart pounding with a mix of fierce determination and bone-deep desperation. The Malhotra family had tightened security like a noose—official orders barring her from Rishaan’s private ward, guards posted at every entrance, and strict instructions to the staff that “no outsiders” were allowed near the recovering heir. But love like hers didn’t bow to power. She had bribed a kind-hearted junior nurse with her last remaining cash and a tearful plea, gaining a narrow window of ten minutes while the family was in a meeting with doctors.

In her arms, she clutched a worn cloth bag filled with the remnants of their stolen happiness. Her simple white kurti was crumpled from sleepless nights, her eyes swollen from constant crying, but her spirit refused to break. “Yeh sab yaad dilayega usse… pyaar itna kamzor nahi ho sakta,” (This will make him remember… love cannot be this weak,) she whispered to herself like a mantra, clutching the bag tighter as she hurried down the dimly lit hallway.

She pushed open the door to Rishaan’s room quietly. He was sitting up now, staring out the rain-streaked window, his bandaged head resting against the pillows. The sterile white room smelled of medicines and defeat. Monitors still beeped softly, but his hazel eyes held a new hardness—courtesy of days filled with his family’s carefully planted lies.

“Rishaan…” Aarya’s voice cracked with overwhelming emotion as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Tears welled up instantly at the sight of him. “Main aa gayi. Family ne mana kiya, par main bina mile nahi reh sakti. Dekho, main laayi hoon hamari yaadein. Sab kuchh jo humara tha.” (Rishaan… I’ve come. The family forbade me, but I couldn’t stay away. Look, I’ve brought our memories. Everything that was ours.)

She approached the bed slowly, her hands trembling as she opened the bag. First, she pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped box—the gift he had given her on their one-month anniversary, months before the secret wedding.

“Yeh dekho, jaan. Tumne mujhe yeh diya tha Udaipur ke us chhote se bookstore ke bahar. Humari pehli mulakat ke baad.” (Look at this, my love. You gave me this outside that small bookstore in Udaipur after our first meeting.) She opened it carefully, revealing a delicate silver bookmark engraved with lines from *Devdas*: “*Pyaar woh nahi jo mil jaaye, pyaar woh hai jo intezaar kare.*” (Love is not what is found, love is what waits.) The metal still gleamed softly, polished by her loving fingers over countless nights. “Tumne kaha tha, ‘Tumhari tarah yeh bhi dil ko chhoo lega.’ Us din hum chai peethe hue ghanton baatein karte rahe the. Tumne mujhe apni family ki pressure ke baare mein bataya tha, aur maine tumhe apne sapnon ke baare mein. Yaad hai?” (You said, ‘Like you, this will also touch the heart.’ That day we talked for hours over chai. You told me about the pressure from your family, and I told you about my dreams. Remember?)

*Flashback:* The dusty bookstore shelves, his strong hand brushing hers as they reached for the same book. His warm smile that melted her world. The roadside stall where rain had started suddenly, forcing them under one umbrella, laughter mixing with the downpour.

Rishaan stared at the bookmark, his expression flickering with vague discomfort, but no spark of recognition. “Yeh sab kya hai? Phir se shuru kar rahi ho tum?” (What is all this? Starting again?)

Aarya didn’t stop. She pulled out a stack of handwritten letters, tied with a red ribbon—her letters to him during their secret phase, and his replies smuggled through trusted friends. She unfolded one, her voice thick with sobs. “Yeh tumhara letter hai. Padho na. ‘Aarya, duniya ke against ladne ko taiyaar hoon main tumhare liye. Tum meri taakat ho.’ Tumne likha tha jab maa ne mujhe bribe dene ki koshish ki thi. Maine rokar yeh letter padha tha raat bhar.” (This is your letter. Read it. ‘Aarya, I am ready to fight the world for you. You are my strength.’ You wrote this when mom tried to bribe me. I cried reading this letter all night.)

She read aloud, her voice breaking at every line, describing the moment in detail: how he had driven through a storm to meet her after that confrontation, pulling her into his arms in a hidden café, whispering promises while thunder roared outside. “Tumne mujhe kaha tha, ‘Tumhare aansu dekh kar dil toot jaata hai mera. Main kabhi tumhe akela nahi chhodunga.’” (You told me, ‘My heart breaks seeing your tears. I will never leave you alone.’)

Letter after letter followed—her poetry scribbled on scented paper, his short but heartfelt notes promising forever. Each one a thread of their two-year love story. She described their first secret date in Jaipur, where he had bought her a simple pearl necklace to match her future wedding saree. She held up the necklace now, the delicate pearls catching the light. “Yeh uske saath match karta tha jo maine shaadi ke din pehna tha. Ivory saree, pearls embroidered. Temple mein tumne mujhe dekha tha aur kaha tha, ‘Suraj tumhare liye uga hai aaj.’” (This matched the one I wore on our wedding day. Ivory saree with embroidered pearls. In the temple you saw me and said, ‘The sun has risen for you today.’)

*Flashback:* The ancient temple in the Aravalli Hills at golden sunrise. Marigold garlands swaying from carved pillars, incense smoke curling like divine approval, temple bells echoing their vows. His trembling hands fastening the mangalsutra, eyes locked in overwhelming emotion.

Aarya’s desperation grew with every item. She showed photographs printed from her hidden folder—blurry but precious: them cooking in the hilltop villa, flour fights and laughter; Rishaan skipping stones by the lake, his cold billionaire facade replaced by boyish joy; a candid shot of him resting his head in her lap under the stars, whispering dreams of children. “Dekho yeh! Villa wale din. Tumne mujhe counter pe uthaya tha, chocolate cake banate hue. ‘Badmash’ kaha tha mujhe. Aur raat ko humne bachchon ke naam sochne the—ek ladki tumhari tarah strong, ladka tumhari kindness ke saath.” (Look at this! The villa days. You lifted me onto the counter while making chocolate cake. Called me ‘Rogue.’ And at night we thought of names for our children—a girl strong like you, a boy with your kindness.)

She reached out, gently touching his hand, her fingers tracing the familiar lines she once knew so well. “Rishaan, please. Main tumhari patni hoon. Secret shaadi… sab sach tha. Family ne tumhe convince kiya hai ki main gold digger hoon, par maine kabhi ek paisa nahi maanga. Sirf tum chahiye tha. Tumhari hasi, tumhare chhote touches, tumhara soft side jo sirf mere saamne aata tha. Fight karo yaadon ke liye, jaan. Mere liye.” (Rishaan, please. I am your wife. The secret marriage… everything was true. The family has convinced you that I am a gold digger, but I never asked for a single penny. I only wanted you. Your laughter, your small touches, your soft side that only came out in front of me. Fight for the memories, my love. For me.)

Tears poured down her face uncontrollably. She knelt beside the bed again, clutching the letters to her chest like a lifeline. The room felt smaller, the beeps louder, her desperation filling every corner. “Yaad karo woh raat jab tumne mujhe villa ke terrace pe kaha tha, ‘Main tumse bahut pyaar karta hoon, chahe kuchh bhi ho jaaye.’ Accident se pehle bhi tumne mujhe tight hug kiya tha. Woh feeling… woh pyaar bhool kaise gaye?” (Remember that night when you told me on the villa terrace, ‘I love you so much, no matter what happens.’ Even before the accident you hugged me tightly. How could you forget that feeling… that love?)

Rishaan listened, his face twisting with frustration and conflict. The items, the stories, her raw pain—they tugged at something deep inside, but the seeds his family had planted were stronger now. Days of their constant presence, their “proof,” their warnings had solidified a wall in his broken mind. He pulled his hand away sharply, his voice rising.

“Bas! Stop pretending we were together!”

The words cut through her like a thunderclap. Aarya froze, her sobs catching in her throat. The heartbreak was visceral, a fresh wound on an already shattered heart. She stared at him, searching those hazel eyes for even a glimmer of the man who had vowed forever at sunrise. But all she saw was confusion, anger, and the cold distance his family had cultivated.

“Rishaan… nahi…” (Rishaan… no…) Her voice was barely a whisper.

Before she could say more, the door burst open. Mrs. Malhotra stormed in, followed by security guards. “Kya kar rahi ho yahan? Nikal jao! Security!” (What are you doing here? Get out! Security!) Her voice was sharp, triumphant.

The guards grabbed Aarya’s arms firmly, pulling her toward the door despite her struggles. The precious items scattered on the bed and floor—letters fluttering, the bookmark glinting sadly, photographs lying face down.

Rishaan looked away, his jaw set. “Maa, ise door rakho. Yeh pagal hai. Sab jhooth.” (Mom, keep her away. She is crazy. Everything is a lie.)

As Aarya was dragged into the corridor, her desperate cries echoed: “Rishaan! Main wait karungi… hamesha! Tumhara pyaar sach tha!” (Rishaan! I will wait… always! Our love was true!)

The door slammed shut. Inside, the Malhotra family quickly gathered the items, discarding them as “fakes,” reinforcing their narrative while Rishaan sat in silence, fully convinced by their lies.

Aarya collapsed in the hallway, surrounded by scattered fragments of their love, her world darker than the stormy skies outside.

To be continued...