The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

Chapter 9: Heartbreak

The grand Malhotra mansion shimmered under crystal chandeliers like a palace of ice and gold, far removed from the humble temple where Aarya’s dreams had once bloomed. Located on the outskirts of Delhi, the sprawling estate hosted a lavish family gathering to celebrate Rishaan’s partial recovery and return home. Marble floors gleamed underfoot, adorned with Persian rugs worth more than Aarya’s entire life savings. Towering floral arrangements of rare orchids and roses filled every corner, their fragrance heavy and cloying, masking the underlying rot of manipulation and lies. Waiters in crisp uniforms circulated with trays of champagne and silver platters of delicacies—caviar, imported cheeses, and intricate mithai that Aarya could never afford. Soft classical music played from a live quartet, but beneath the elegance, the air crackled with tension and whispered cruelty.

Aarya had not been invited. Yet desperation had driven her here. After days of being barred from the hospital and ignored by every contact, she had learned of the event through a sympathetic villa staff member. Dressed in her simple ivory saree—the same one from their wedding day, now washed and pressed with trembling hands—she stood at the edge of the opulent ballroom, her heart a fragile thing on the verge of shattering completely. The delicate pearls on the pallu caught the light mockingly, reminding her of that golden sunrise in the Aravalli Hills. Her hands clutched a small bag containing one last letter, her last thread of hope.

*Why am I here?* she thought, tears already burning behind her eyes. *Because he is my husband. Because our love cannot die like this.* But every step into the mansion felt like walking on broken glass. The Malhotra family had spun their web perfectly. Rishaan, still recovering but standing tall in a tailored black kurta that accentuated his commanding presence, was surrounded by relatives and business associates. His hazel eyes, once soft with love for her, now held only guarded confusion and the hardness his family had cultivated.

Whispers began the moment she entered. Elegant women in designer sarees and heavy jewelry turned their heads, their kohl-lined eyes narrowing in judgment. “Yeh kaun hai? Koi gold digger lagti hai,” (Who is she? Looks like a gold digger,) one socialite murmured loudly enough for Aarya to hear, her diamond necklace flashing as she sipped champagne. A group of Malhotra cousins laughed softly behind their hands. “Rishaan bhai ke accident ke baad yeh sab drama. Paise ke liye paagal ho gayi hai ladki.” (All this drama after Rishaan brother’s accident. The girl has gone mad for money.)

Aarya’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She kept her head slightly lowered, but her eyes searched desperately for Rishaan. Inner pain clawed at her chest like a living beast. *This was the man who once held me under the villa stars and promised forever. Now I am a stranger in his world, reduced to dirt beneath their expensive heels.* Every whisper sliced deeper. She remembered their secret nights: his laughter when she taught him to cook, his soft side that abandoned the cold billionaire mask. “Tum meri duniya ho, Aarya,” (You are my world, Aarya,) he had whispered. Where had that man gone?

She moved closer, weaving through the crowd. Guests parted like oil from water, their stares cruel and pitying. An elderly aunt clicked her tongue. “Dekho toh, itni ghamandi. Malhotra gharane mein ghusne ki koshish. Rishaan beta ko pareshan mat karo, beti.” (Look at her, so audacious. Trying to infiltrate the Malhotra family. Don’t trouble Rishaan son, girl.)

Aarya’s inner voice screamed in agony. *I am not trouble. I am his wife. We took vows before God at sunrise, with marigold garlands and temple bells as witnesses.* Flashbacks assaulted her: Rishaan’s trembling hands applying sindoor, his forehead against hers as he promised, “Har subah tumhare chehre ko dekhkar jaagunga.” (I will wake up seeing your face every morning.) The rejection here was public, merciless, stripping her bare in front of Delhi’s elite.

Finally, she reached him. Rishaan stood near the grand staircase, flanked by his mother and father. His posture was straight, but faint bruises still lingered on his temple. When his gaze landed on her, confusion flickered, quickly replaced by irritation.

“Aap yahan kyun aayi hain?” (Why have you come here?) he asked coldly, his voice carrying across the nearby crowd. Conversations hushed. All eyes turned toward them. The humiliation intensified, a spotlight of shame burning on Aarya’s soul.

“Rishaan… main hoon Aarya. Tumhari patni,” (Rishaan… I am Aarya. Your wife,) she whispered, stepping closer, her voice trembling with raw desperation. She pulled out the handwritten letter from their early days, unfolding it with shaking fingers. “Yeh padho. Tumne likha tha—‘Tumhare bina main adhura hoon.’ Humne villa mein kitne sapne dekhe. Lake ke kinare, cooking together, hasi-mazak. Yaad karo, jaan. Please.” (Read this. You wrote—‘I am incomplete without you.’ We dreamed so many dreams in the villa. By the lake, cooking together, laughter and teasing. Remember, my love. Please.)

The room fell into a heavy silence broken only by cruel titters. Mrs. Malhotra stepped forward, her smile venomous. “Beta, yeh phir aa gayi. Ise ignore karo. Doctors ne kaha hai stress mat lo.” (Son, she’s here again. Ignore her. The doctors said not to take stress.)

Rishaan looked at Aarya as if she were a persistent stranger, his face hardening under the weight of his family’s lies. “Main aapko nahi jaanta. Aap ek stranger hain. Yeh sab jhooth hai—shaadi, villa, pyaar. Aap sirf paisa chahti hain. Gold digger.” (I don’t know you. You are a stranger. This is all a lie—marriage, villa, love. You only want money. Gold digger.)

The words landed like physical blows. Aarya staggered back, her heart fracturing into a thousand irreparable pieces. Public humiliation washed over her in waves. Guests whispered louder now, some laughing openly. “Dekha? Rishaan ne khud kaha stranger. Kitni besharam.” (See? Rishaan himself called her a stranger. So shameless.) A young cousin sneered, “Malhotra wealth ke liye yeh natak. Police ko bulao.” (Drama for Malhotra wealth. Call the police.)

Inner pain consumed Aarya entirely. She felt naked, exposed, every memory of their love twisted into something ugly by the powerful family. *How can the man who kissed my tears away now look at me with such disgust? The same hands that fastened my mangalsutra now push me away.* Tears streamed down her face unchecked. She clutched the letter to her chest, the paper wrinkling under her desperate grip. “Rishaan… humne temple mein vaade kiye the. ‘Hamesha tak, har janam tak.’ Tumne mujhe apni jaan kaha tha. Accident ne tumhari yaadein chheen li, par mera pyaar nahi chheen sakta.” (Rishaan… we made promises in the temple. ‘Forever, in every lifetime.’ You called me your life. The accident took your memories, but it cannot take my love.)

Her voice broke into sobs. The crowd’s judgment pressed down—cruel eyes, mocking smiles, whispers of “gold digger,” “liar,” “desperate.” One guest even snapped a discreet photo, ensuring the humiliation would spread like wildfire through social circles. Aarya’s knees weakened. Every moment of rejection replayed in her mind: the hospital where he first asked “Kaun ho tum?” (Who are you?), the scattered photographs on the floor, the slammed doors. She had lost him not to death, but to a living erasure.

Rishaan turned away, refusing to meet her eyes. “Security, ise bahar le jao. Mujhe pareshan mat karo.” (Security, take her out. Don’t trouble me.) His voice was firm, convinced by days of his family’s poison. No flicker of the soft Rishaan remained—the one who abandoned his billionaire coldness for her laughter.

Strong hands gripped Aarya’s arms, escorting her roughly toward the exit. She didn’t resist much, her spirit too broken. As she was led past the whispering guests, their cruelty echoed: “Poor thing, but what a liar.” “Malhotras are too kind not to throw her out earlier.” Each word carved deeper into her soul. *I am his wife. His everything. How did our sunrise become this endless night?*

Outside the mansion, rain began to fall again, soaking her ivory saree. She stumbled into the night, the pearls heavy with water, her heart heavier. The journey back to her small Delhi apartment was a blur of pain. Memories flooded relentlessly: Rishaan’s forehead against hers in the temple, his playful teasing in the kitchen—“Badmash!” (Rogue!)—his tight hug before the fatal trip. “Main tumse bahut pyaar karta hoon… chahe kuchh bhi ho jaaye.” (I love you so much… no matter what happens.)

That night, alone in her modest room, the weight finally crushed her. The emotional exhaustion, the public rejection, the endless fight against lies—it all converged. Aarya clutched the mangalsutra around her neck, whispering one final prayer. “Bhagwan… wapas lao usse. Main toot rahi hoon.” (God… bring him back. I am breaking.)

Her vision blurred. The room spun. Stress and exhaustion claimed her completely. She collapsed onto the cold floor, unconscious, the letter from Rishaan fluttering from her hand like a dying leaf.

To be continued...