Author's note: Thank you for the love on the last chapter. Can we please get this chapter to 90 votes?

Aahana Agnihotri

I had read a poem once about Home. The poet had described it as a sanctuary where hearts grew and rested, where souls found their peace. Standing outside the Agnihotri mansion, I wanted to laugh at the irony. This place was anything but a sanctuary – it was a tomb that tried to bury me in its painful memories.

The cold air rushed out to greet me like an unwelcome embrace as I stepped into the house. The artificial scent of lavender room freshener permeated through the air.
Polished marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers, hollow and pretentious. Just like our lives. My footsteps echoed in the quiet hallways. Everything was perfectly arranged, untouched, almost like everything in this house was a museum display. A beautiful and expensive museum. The staff ensured that every inch of the house remained spotless.

My fingers traced the wallpaper in a desperate attempt to find a flaw, find a crack, find anything real in this temple of facades. Instead, my mind wandered traitorously to Adarsh’s house – not as big as mine, and definitely more cluttered, but it felt so alive even for the brief time I was there.

I paused in my stride when I noticed my mother. Kavita Agnihotri sat at the head of our massive table like a queen on her throne. Even for a seemingly lonely night, she was dressed impeccably – her Valentino dress probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, diamonds glinting at her throat. Her wine glass caught the light as she scrolled through her phone. When she saw me, her lips curved into that practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes.

“Darling.” Her voice dripped honey. “Good, you’re home. Join me for dinner.”

A laugh escaped me, sharp and brittle. “What’s the occasion? Another magazine spread about the city’s most devoted mother-daughter duo? Or did you want to chastise me about something?”

“Can’t a mother want to spend time with her daughter?”

The laugh burst out of me again, almost hysterical this time. The staff members who were setting up the table and working around the area glanced our way, their faces carefully blank. I dropped into a chair opposite her, the massive table between us still not feeling like enough distance. “That was a good one.”

Her perfect smile tightened at the corners, little cracks in the porcelain mask. She dismissed the hovering staff with a wave before turning to me. “I’m trying, Aahana.
Unlike some people, I believe in moving forward.”

“Moving forward?” The words tasted sour in my mouth. My fingers curled around the edge of my chair. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Like how you ‘moved forward’ after Inder Parekh?”

“Leave us,” she snapped at the remaining staff, who hurriedly nodded and vanished from our line of sight. “Don’t start this again, Aahana.” Her fingers tightened  around the wine stem and she took a long sip and placed the glass down. “We agreed  to not talk about it.”

“We agreed?” I rose to my feet, sending my chair crashing backward. “When exactly did we agree? When you threatened to send me to boarding school if I didn’t shut up? Or when you paraded me in front of him at parties? Or when you–”

“Lower your voice,” she demanded, taking another sip of her drink.

“Or what?” I grabbed the first plate I could reach. “Afraid that someone might hear?” The china shattered against the wall in a satisfying explosion of white.

“Aahana!” She stood up, outrage warring with fear on her face. “Stop this immediately!”

Another plate followed the first.
“Stop like I begged him to stop? Stop like I begged you to stop him?” Each word was punctuated by a crash of an unsuspecting piece of dinnerware.

“Listen to me!” She rounded the table, grabbing my shoulders. Her manicured nails dug in through my silk blouse. “You were a child!” Her hands moved to my face, forcing me to look at her. The familiar scent of her perfume made my stomach turn.

“You were confused. You didn’t understand—”

“Oh, I understood perfectly!” I wrenched away from her grip. “I was ten years old and I understood that my mother cared more about her boyfriend than her daughter. I understood every time you allowed that man to be in my vicinity. Every time you chose to not hear me crying.”

“That’s not what happened—”

“Then tell me what happened, Mother! Tell me… Did you choose not to believe me? Tell me… Did you not repeatedly bring him around me even after I told you what he did?”

“Because you were lying!” she screamed, her composure finally shattering. “You were always lying, always seeking attention—”

“Attention?” My voice cracked as I stared at my mother in disbelief. “You think I wanted this kind of attention? Should I describe it to you again? Every detail you refused to hear? What he did to me. What he made me do. How much pain I would be in everytime he–”

“Stop it!” she screeched. “How many times must I tell you to stop these lies? You destroyed everything—”

“I destroyed everything?” Something snapped inside me, a dam breaking. “I was a child! I still sleep with the lights on! I still flinch when men touch me! I still hear his footsteps in empty hallways!”

“Aahana,” she said my name, wearily. She began walking back to her seat and I followed, getting into her space. “He would come into my room,” I continued, my voice rising. “He said it was our special secret that I couldn’t share with anyone. He said you would be angry if you knew. And you know what? He was right. You were angry – at me!”

“Because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut!” Her composure was gone completely now. The crystal wine glass in her hand shattered, red wine spreading across the white tablecloth like blood. “Everything was perfect before you started—”

“Perfect?” I laughed, the sound more like a sob. “You were so desperate to get back at Father for cheating on you that you didn't care who you let into our house. Into my life. Into my room. Did he make you feel special, Mother? Young? Wanted? Was it worth it?”

The slap came fast and hard.

“There she is.” I touched my cheek, smiling through tears. “There's the real Kavita Agnihotri. My real mother. Tell me, do you practice that slap in the mirror? Or does it just come naturally when someone tells you the truth? You slapped me then too, remember? When I first told you?”

“You ungrateful little—” She caught herself, hands shaking as she tried to smooth her dress. “After everything I’ve given you. The best schools, the best doctors—”

“The best therapists to convince me it was all in my head?”

“He was... I was…”

“Lonely? Desperate? In love? Which excuse makes it okay? Which one justifies what you let happen to your daughter? You’re a monster!”

"I am not a monster!" Her scream was primal, raw. “I am your mother! I loved you—”

“Loved me?” I picked up her fallen wine glass, studying the lipstick stain on the rim. “Is that why you kept letting that man do those things to me? Called me a liar when I begged for help? Made me sit across from him at dinner parties?”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it like?” I hurled the glass against the wall. “Explain it to me! Explain how a mother chooses her lover over her child! Explain how you sleep at night knowing what you allowed to happen! Explain how you slept with that man knowing he had raped your daughter and if he was in the mood, he would do it again.”
She crumpled into her chair, her face in her hands. “Please, Aahana. You need to move on.”

“Move on,” I laughed. The pain in my chest grew and breathing became difficult. “Move on… So easy for you to say, no? Of course it is because you didn’t live through the excruciating pain he inflicted on me. Because you didn’t live in constant fear  that he would return and the nightmares would begin once again. Or live with the knowledge that your own mother had heard you crying in pain and still chose to walk away.” I smirked when I saw the surprise on her face. “What? You didn’t think I knew?”

She went still, her face a perfect mask except for the slight tremor in her jaw. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“July 15th. You came home early from tennis with his wife. I was in the shower, scrubbing until I bled, and you... you walked past. Don't deny it. I saw your shadow under the door. You heard me crying, and you walked past. What were you thinking in that moment? What lie did you tell yourself?”

"That's not... I didn't..."

"How many lies have you told yourself? How many times did you pretend not to see? To not understand? Did you think if you ignored it long enough, it would just go away? Like everything else you don't want to deal with?"

“I couldn't…” Mascara ran down her cheeks in black rivers. "If what you're saying was true, it would mean... I would have been..."

“A failure? A horrible mother? News flash – you were those things anyway even before he came into picture.” I wiped my tears roughly with the back of my hand. “But if you did something, you could have been a mother.”

She reached for me, her hand trembling. "Aahana... please... we can fix this..."

I stepped back, my laugh hollow. "Some things can't be fixed. Some betrayals run too deep."

I fled upstairs, locking myself in my room. My reflection caught my eye, drawing me to the vanity. I studied the features I'd inherited from my mother – the high cheekbones, the full lips, the eyes that could freeze or melt at will. Was that why he’d chosen me? The question that had haunted me for sixteen years.

With shaking hands, I opened the bottom drawer and pulled out my old diary, its pages worn. I'd written everything down after each encounter, preserving anything I could as a child. Some days I wanted to burn it, as if destroying its existence could erase the memories. But I couldn’t– it was my proof, my truth, when everyone else tried to make me doubt myself.
Clutching the diary to my chest, I curled up on my bed and let the tears come. They didn't last as long anymore. When they stopped, I washed my face and called for my dinner to be sent up.
As I ate, I pulled up my laptop and checked my bank accounts. Eight months. Eight more months and I’d be twenty-seven, the age when my trust fund became fully mine. Eight months until I could leave this beautiful prison and its perfect lies behind.
___

I tapped my cigarette against the metal railing, watching the ash drift down toward the sun-baked pavement below.
It was only 3 and I had another 5 hours before I could leave this stupid office.
Another day of pretending to care about quarterly reports and expansion plans.
The afternoon traffic crawled through city streets. The exhausting pace of the vehicles matched my mood. I took another drag, letting the smoke curl around my face before the warm breeze carried it away. The nicotine wasn't helping my nerves today, but old habits die hard.
It was mid-afternoon so the terrace was empty. Usually employees came out here when they wanted to smoke. I had come up here a few times with some of them, depending on what department I was training at. But when my father had found out that I was fraternizing with the employees, he had thrown a fit. He wanted me to learn from them but not befriend them. Fine. Whatever. It didn't matter to me. I was leaving soon anyway.
I just needed to get the details ironed out. The account in my foreign account was set up. The papers were ready. I needed to make sure that I was never found. No breadcrumbs, no trace, no whisper of where I had vanished to.
My cigarette was burning low now. I studied the glowing tip, watching it eat away at the paper before crushing the butt on the railing, leaving another small mark on my father's perfect building. The afternoon heat was at an all time high and I was getting a headache that pulsed behind my eyes.
I pushed away from the railing, but not feeling like going inside, my mind racing through the final steps of my plan. That's when the door opened and Adarsh walked through them. Of all people, it had to be him.
Today he wore a burgundy shirt, the color rich against his bronze skin, sleeves rolled precisely to his elbows. On someone else, it could have looked gaudy or crass, but he carried it off. And he carried it off too well. If he was surprised to see me, he didn't show it. He just offered me that signature smile of his and moved to stand beside me. The scent of his cologne, subtle and clean, mingled with the lingering smoke in the air.
“I didn't know you smoked,” I commented, raising an eyebrow.
“I don't,” he said, with a slight shrug. “I just needed to breathe.”
“Aah. Yes. I'm sure it's difficult to get through the day with your horde of fans surrounding you to congratulate you and wish you well,” I muttered dryly as I pushed away from the new legal head of the Agnihotri department. Probably for the first time in history, an employee got promoted to the position of the department head the day he returned from his time off.
“Thank you for the flowers and the cake. It was delicious,” he called out as I was leaving.
“How would you know?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. “You didn't even taste it.”
For the first time since I have known him, I found him struggling to find an appropriate response.
I glanced at my watch—I still had a few minutes before my meeting with a few suppliers at a local restaurant.
As I stood in the elevator, I made sure to keep my attention focused on the numbers of the floors to distract myself from the feeling of claustrophobia.
The elevator abruptly stopped on a floor and I sighed at the prospect of small talk however to my surprise, it was Gagan Mehotra—the former legal head, flanked by two security guards in dark suits. Their faces were impassive as the three of them stepped into the elevator.
Gagan gave me a wan smile as he entered which I returned with an awkward one of my own.
The elevator began its descent, and the silence was suffocating. Gagan stood straight-backed, his designer briefcase clutched tight, while the guards maintained their positions on either side of him. I tried, but my eyes kept darting to his reflection in the polished elevator doors. His jaw was clenched, shoulders drooped and anger radiating from his body.
Floor 13... 12... 11...
“Keep an eye on Khanna,” he said breaking the silence, startling all of us.
One of the guards shifted lightly.
"I'm sorry?" I managed to say.
He turned to face me fully now. There was intensity in his eyes that made me want to step back, but I held my ground. "Watch for Adarsh Khanna,” he repeated.
"Sir," one of the guards warned, but Gagan continued.
"He's been having a lot of closed-door meetings. Documents disappearing. Questions that shouldn't be asked, getting asked." He gave a bitter laugh. "Maybe that's why I'm in this elevator right now."
"Mr. Mehotra, that's enough," the other guard said firmly.
The elevator dinged—lobby level. The doors opened to the entryway where curious eyes quickly looked away from our little group. Before stepping out, Gagan turned back one last time.
"Sometimes the real threat isn't the knife at your throat," he said softly. "It's the hand on your shoulder that's guiding you toward the edge."
The guards ushered him through the lobby, past the security desk where his badge will probably be collected.
I stood frozen in the elevator, watching until they disappeared from view, his words ringing in my ear.