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VRINDA

Five Years Later

Everyone seems to move on. Once, I believed I would die without them—without my family, my home, my name. But look at me now. Still alive. Same face, same body, same mind, same hands and legs. Nothing has changed—except everything that mattered. My heart. My smile. My happiness. All of it died in a single night.

I never imagined my own father would refuse to believe me. The same family who once claimed I was their world threw me onto the streets as if I were disposable. You grow up believing blood is unbreakable, only to discover how easily it can pretend you never existed. But this is life, isn't it? Not everything bends in our favor.

I was the obedient daughter—his pride. I tried to be the perfect wife, the perfect daughter-in-law, the perfect sister. I believed love was unconditional, until I learned the truth: when reputation, power, and a family name are at stake, I am nothing. That was my reality check—the moment my relationships, my love, and my entire life collapsed.

They disowned me without hesitation. My father. My husband. Even my mother—she deserves special mention. A woman so committed to her public image that she denied having a daughter at all, all to look righteous in front of the media and society. She never even bothered to know the whole truth.

That chapter may belong to the past, but one thing is certain—I will never forgive them. Forgetting? Maybe. Forgiveness? Never. Because of them, I lost everything: my home, my family, my marriage, my business, my reputation, my country. And when all of that wasn't enough, I lost my unborn child.

I still remember where it all began. That terrifying rainy night. I stood outside his massive villa, soaked to the bone, waiting for him to listen—just once. He watched me from the first floor, his eyes cold, distant. Lakshay Rajwadi. I will never forgive you for killing my child.

Even now, as I return, I pray I don't have to face you. Not because I'm afraid—but because if I do, I might actually kill you and finally make your family's false accusations come true.

The pilot's announcement jolted me back to the present as the plane began its descent into the Pink City—Udaipur, the heritage heart of India. I inhaled sharply, my fingers curling around the armrest until my knuckles turned white.

I was back after five years.

My return had only one reason: my profession. If it were up to me, I would never step foot near the Rajwadis again. They no longer exist in my world. I could have fought for justice back then—but I wasn't strong enough to face them. And I still don't know if I ever will be.

I was here as Russia's leading cardiologist, invited to perform a critical surgery. Doctors from my professional circle had reached out, and friendship forced my hand. Otherwise, I would have refused without a second thought.

All I wanted now was to complete the surgery and leave the country immediately. No controversies. No headlines. No past reopening its wounds.

The moment I exited the airport, reality slapped me hard. Cameras flashed relentlessly as paparazzi crowded around me. Of course. How naïve of me to expect peace. Five years later, I was back in the same city—still carrying the tag of a murderer.

Ritesh Rajwadi's only daughter. The woman who allegedly killed her own brother-in-law—the man the media loved to portray as a saint.

Who cares what the truth is, right?

I ignored them all, booked an Uber, and headed straight to the hotel my colleagues had arranged. The place was elegant—old-world royalty wrapped in quiet luxury. My room matched the vibe, warm and refined, but exhaustion won. Exploration could wait.

The next morning was chaos.

I woke up at nine—too late for breakfast and dangerously close to my hospital reporting time. The hospital was forty-five minutes away. I had fifteen minutes to get ready, find something to eat, and get on the road.

Perfect.

To make things worse, I hadn't even reviewed my patient's details—the very reason I had flown from Russia to India. I decided to read the file in the cab.

Skipping breakfast entirely—and running on nothing but yesterday's coffee—I finally settled into the Uber. As the car moved, I opened the email sent by Dr. Rathore.

The moment I read the first line, my breath hitched.

The past five years crashed into me all at once. That night. That pain. That loss.

Life had a cruel way of reminding me that no matter how far I ran, the past was always waiting—standing right in front of me.

Hurt does not always scream. Sometimes it learns to sit still inside your chest, heavy and patient, like a wound that never bleeds but never heals either. Mine learned early. It learned when the people who raised me chose silence over truth, reputation over their daughter. It learned when love looked me in the eye and still decided I was expendable.

I did not break that night. I fractured—quietly, invisibly. Pieces of me fell away: the woman who believed in forever, the daughter who trusted her father's voice, the mother who never got to hold her child. What remained learned how to survive without warmth. Without mercy.

They think I moved on because I stopped crying. They mistake my silence for forgiveness, my composure for weakness. They don't understand that I carry my pain like a weapon—polished, controlled, waiting. I remember everything. Every closed door. Every lie spoken in my name. Every life they destroyed to protect their own.

And one day, when justice finally looks them in the eye, they will realize something far more terrifying than my tears ever were—

I survived them.

The hurt didn't come from being abandoned. It came from knowing I was easy to abandon. From watching my family choose comfort over conscience, power over blood. They didn't hesitate. Not even for a moment.

Grief hollowed me out, but it also taught me something cruel and necessary: love is conditional, loyalty is fragile, and justice does not come to women who wait politely. I buried my pain deep enough that even I stopped hearing it—but it never stopped breathing.

Every smile I wear now is deliberate. Every calm breath is practiced. They think I'm healed because I don't bleed in public anymore. What they don't know is that wounds don't disappear when they stop showing.

They sharpen.

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