2

VRINDA

The patient I was meant to operate on was my grandmother-in-law.

The realization settled in my chest like a slow poison, spreading through my veins with every passing second. Of all the people in this world—of all the strangers whose lives I had saved, of all the names written on my operation schedules—fate had chosen her.

The woman who had hated me the most.

The woman who had never once looked at me as a daughter, or even as a human being. The woman who had dragged me by my hair across the marble floors of the villa, her nails digging into my scalp, her voice echoing with curses. The woman who had slapped me, kicked me, thrashed me—while the rest of the family stood and watched.

She had thrown me out of the house like garbage.

And she had done it without once caring about the four-month-old life growing inside me.

I still remembered the sound.

The dull, sickening thud of my baby bump hitting the stone steps.

The sharp pain that tore through my body.

The warm blood that followed.

My child had not survived that night.

And now, five years later, I was expected to save the woman who had taken my baby from me.

The woman who had killed me slowly—not with weapons, but with words. With lies. With false allegations whispered into powerful ears. The woman who had called me a characterless girl, a murderer, a curse to the Rajwadi name.

My fingers trembled slightly as these memories clawed their way back into my mind.

I didn’t even realize the car had stopped until the driver cleared his throat softly. “Ma’am… hospital aa gaya.”

I blinked.

For a brief, dangerous moment, I considered backing out. Asking him to turn around. Leaving this place—this city, this country—behind forever.

But something inside me refused.

They had already taken everything from me.

I would not let them take my integrity too.

No matter how personal the hatred ran, no matter how deep the wounds were, I could not let vengeance decide someone’s life. I was a doctor before I was a victim. That was the one thing they had failed to destroy.

I stepped out of the car, paid the driver, and stood still for a moment, staring at the hospital building. My heart screamed at me to reconsider. My instincts begged me to walk away.

I ignored them all.

Gripping my bag tightly, I walked inside.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and quiet urgency—sounds of hurried footsteps, murmured conversations, distant beeping machines. At the reception, I asked for Dr. Rathore’s cabin.

“Second floor, right corridor, last cabin,” the receptionist replied politely.

Vishwas Rathore.

Just the name stirred memories I hadn’t visited in years.

When I entered his cabin, recognition flashed instantly across his face. For a second, neither of us spoke. Then he stood up and pulled me into a tight hug.

It felt… grounding.

We talked—about life, about careers, about everything and nothing at once. About how college felt like another lifetime. We laughed softly, remembering canteen fights, failed pranks, skipped lectures.

By the time reality caught up with us, it was already past eleven.

“Okay,” Vishwas finally said, rubbing his temples. “Enough nostalgia. Let’s get back to work.”

“You should have told me earlier,” I said quietly. “I would’ve suggested someone else.”

“I know,” he replied honestly. “But I had no other option. You were the best—and the only—choice.”

“Do they know it’s me?”

“Not yet.”

“And you think they’ll allow me to operate?”

His expression hardened. “I don’t know. I’ve done my part. The rest is on them.”

I studied him. “Why so harsh?”

“What do you expect from me?” he snapped. “Kindness for the people who ruined my best friend’s life? That’s never happening.”

I sighed. “Leave it. It’s all in the past.”

“For you maybe,” he muttered.

He handed me the patient file. I reviewed every report carefully—ECG, angiography, blood work. Professionally, clinically, without emotion. Within half an hour, I was done.

I stepped into the washroom to freshen up, following my routine—handwash, facewash, sanitization. Control. Discipline. Order.

“The patient’s family is here,” Vishwas called from outside.

“Please ask them to wait,” I replied calmly. “I’ll be there shortly.”

When I stepped out, he studied my face. “Are you scared?”

“No,” I said truthfully. “I’m prepared.”

“They want to meet you.”

“Who?”

“Vijay Rajwadi.”

My breath stilled.

“All right,” I said evenly. “Let’s go.”

I put on my white coat, picked up the papers, and walked toward the operation theatre.

They were standing at the far end of the corridor.

Five years.

Five years since I had last seen them.

I cleared my throat.

Lakshay’s face twisted the moment he saw me—rage, shock, disbelief colliding all at once.

“Mr. Rajwadi,” I said calmly, addressing my father-in-law. “I am Dr. Vrinda. I’ll be operating on your mother.”

Shock rippled through them.

Then came fury.

“You bloody bitch!” Nandini Rajwadi screamed. “How dare you show your face here?”

“This is a hospital,” I said coldly. “Please maintain decorum.”

She hurled insult after insult, venom spilling freely—until Vishwas stepped between us.

“One more word,” he warned sharply, “and no doctor in this hospital—or this city—will operate on your mother.”

Silence followed.

I turned to Vijay. “You wanted to speak with me?”

He nodded.

We sat on a bench nearby.

“I only want to be sure my mother is in safe hands,” he said.

“She is,” I replied. “If you’re satisfied, please sign the consent forms.”

He hesitated.

“But?” I prompted.

“How do I trust someone who killed my son… with my mother’s life?”

The words cut deep.

My fists clenched. My vision burned.

Without breaking eye contact, I took the papers back and handed them to Vishwas.

“Stop all preparations,” I said coldly. “They don’t need this surgery.”

And without another word, I turned and walked away

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