The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

CHAPTER 16: A NEW LIFE

The train pulled into the small hill station of Shimla just as the afternoon light bathed the pine-covered mountains in a soft, golden haze. Aarya stepped onto the platform, her suitcase heavy in one hand, the other instinctively resting on her gently swelling stomach. The air here was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of deodar trees and distant rain — so different from the chaotic heat and dust of Delhi. No one knew her name here. No malicious whispers of “gold digger,” no cold stares from the Malhotra empire. Just anonymity, which felt both liberating and terrifyingly lonely.

“Beta, yahan hum naya shuruaat karenge,” (Child, here we will make a new beginning,) she whispered softly to her unborn baby as she hailed a local taxi. The driver, an elderly man with kind eyes, helped her with the suitcase without asking questions. As the vehicle wound through the narrow, sloping roads lined with colonial-era buildings and vibrant flower baskets, Aarya leaned her head against the window. Tears pricked her eyes. *Rishaan… agar tum yahan hote toh yeh pahadiyan kitni sundar lagti.* (Rishaan… if you were here, these hills would look so beautiful.)

The taxi stopped in front of a modest three-story building in a quiet residential colony. The landlady, Mrs. Kapoor — a warm-hearted widow in her sixties — greeted her at the gate. “Beta, aap akeli ho? Kitne mahine ke pregnant ho?” (Daughter, are you alone? How many months pregnant?) she asked gently after seeing Aarya’s condition.

“Paanch mahine,” (Five months,) Aarya lied slightly to protect herself, though she was closer to four. “Mere husband… bahar hain business ke silsile mein.” (My husband… is away on business.)

Mrs. Kapoor didn’t press further. She showed Aarya a small one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. It was modest but clean: whitewashed walls, a simple wooden bed with a thin mattress, a tiny kitchenette with basic utensils, and a narrow balcony overlooking a small garden and the distant hills. The rent was affordable — just enough for someone starting over with limited savings.

“ Yeh le lijiye,” (Take this,) Aarya said, handing over two months’ rent in advance from her dwindling cash. The landlady smiled and left her to settle in.

Alone in the new space, Aarya sat on the edge of the bed, her hand caressing her stomach. The room felt empty, echoing with the absence of Rishaan’s laughter. In Delhi, even in her tiny apartment, she had memories of him. Here, everything was new and painfully blank. “Yahan koi humein nahi jaanta, beta. Koi humiliation nahi, koi Malhotra family nahi. Bas hum dono,” (No one knows us here, child. No humiliation, no Malhotra family. Just the two of us,) she murmured, trying to convince herself.

The first few days were a blur of adaptation. Mornings brought stronger nausea now that the pregnancy was progressing. Aarya would wake up retching into the small sink, clutching the edge for support. “Theek ho ja, beta. Maa ke liye strong bano,” (Be fine, child. Become strong for your mother,) she would whisper between waves of sickness. After forcing down dry toast and ginger tea, she would step onto the balcony, breathing in the fresh mountain air. The hills reminded her of the Aravalli range where their secret villa had stood. She closed her eyes and saw Rishaan skipping stones by the lake, his cold billionaire facade melting into boyish joy. “Tum meri duniya ho, Aarya,” (You are my world, Aarya,) his voice echoed in her memory.

Missing him hit hardest at night. She would lie on the thin mattress, one hand on her belly, the other clutching the silver bookmark he had given her. Tears would flow silently as she recalled their villa days: playful arguments over breakfast, “Teen din? Bilkul nahi!” (Three days? Absolutely not!), his strong arms pulling her close under the stars. “Kaise jee rahi hoon main tumhare bina?” (How am I living without you?) she sobbed into the pillow one night, the pain so sharp it felt physical.

But she forced herself to move forward. Every morning, after her small puja in the corner with a single diya, she would step out to find work. Her literature background helped her secure a part-time job tutoring children in a nearby colony. The pay was modest — just enough for food and rent if she was careful. Evenings were spent preparing simple meals in the tiny kitchenette: dal-chawal, aloo sabzi. Each time she chopped onions, she remembered Rishaan’s uneven cuts and his mischievous grin. “Aise nahi, jaan. Pyaar se kaato,” (Not like that, love. Cut it with love,) she had taught him once, laughing.

Financial struggles loomed constantly. Her savings, already depleted from hospital visits, travel, and the advance rent, were running out faster than expected. Prenatal vitamins were expensive, and the doctor in the small local clinic had warned her about needing regular check-ups. “Aapko rest ki zarurat hai, beti. Stress mat lo,” (You need rest, daughter. Don’t take stress,) the doctor had said kindly. But how could she rest when every rupee mattered?

One evening, after a long tutoring session, Aarya sat on the balcony watching the sunset paint the hills in fiery orange. She placed both hands on her growing belly, feeling the first faint flutters of movement. Joy mixed with sorrow. “Tumhare papa yahan hote toh yeh pahadiyan dekh kar kitna khush hota. Woh tumhe apne kandhe pe uthakar ghumata,” (If your father were here, he would be so happy seeing these hills. He would carry you on his shoulders,) she whispered, a tear slipping down. Yet she smiled through it. “Main tumhe sab kuchh dungi jo mujh mein hai. Padhai, pyaar, taakat. Tum kabhi akela nahi feel karoge.” (I will give you everything I have. Education, love, strength. You will never feel alone.)

She began writing again — small poems and stories in a new notebook — hoping to sell them online for extra income. The words flowed from her pain: verses about lost love, new beginnings, and a mother’s quiet strength. In quiet moments, she would talk to the baby about Rishaan. “Woh bahut handsome the, beta. Unki aankhein hazel thi, aur jab woh hastein the toh duniya ruk jaati thi. Unhone mujhe mandir mein vaada kiya tha… par ab yaadein unke paas nahi hain.” (He was very handsome, child. His eyes were hazel, and when he smiled, the world would stop. He made a promise to me in the temple… but now he doesn’t have those memories.)

Adapting wasn’t easy. The loneliness was crushing. Neighbors were kind but distant, and Mrs. Kapoor sometimes brought homemade khichdi, sensing her solitude. “Beta, akeli mat raho. Kabhi zarurat pade toh bata dena,” (Daughter, don’t stay alone. Tell me if you need anything,) the landlady would say. Aarya would smile gratefully, but inside she ached for Rishaan’s protective arms, his deep voice calling her “jaaan.”

One particularly difficult day, after vomiting twice and struggling through a tutoring session, Aarya sat at the small wooden table counting her remaining money. The stack of notes was painfully thin. Rent was due in ten days, vitamins were running low, and the doctor had recommended iron supplements. Her heart sank. Savings were beginning to run dangerously low — perhaps enough for another two weeks if she skipped meals again.

“Bhagwan, ab kya karoon?” (God, what should I do now?) she whispered, fear gripping her as the sun set behind the pines. The new life she was building for her child suddenly felt precariously balanced on the edge of uncertainty.

To be continued...