CHAPTER 2 – THE NIGHT THEY TRIED TO BREAK HER

Thunder shook the mansion as if the sky itself was screaming.

Aaradhya’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at Aditya’s lifeless body. Lightning flashed through the tall windows, illuminating the crimson stain spreading across his chest. Her knees weakened, but she forced herself to stay standing. She refused to fall—not in front of strangers, not tonight.

“Step back, ma’am,” a guard insisted, trying to block her view.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice cracked like thin glass.

She pushed past him and dropped to her knees beside the body. Her fingers trembled as she reached toward Aditya’s pale cheek—then stopped a few millimeters short. She couldn’t touch him. She wasn’t ready for the coldness she would feel.

“Aditya…” she whispered.

A name she promised never to utter again.

The guards exchanged uncertain glances. Several guests hovered near the door, whispering behind trembling hands.

“Is she… crying?”

“She was the last person with him.”

“Did they fight again?”

Every voice was a knife.

Aaradhya looked at Aditya’s face, frozen in an expression she had never seen before—not anger, not desire, not arrogance.

Fear.

A chill ran up her spine.

Aditya Raichand did not fear anything.

So why did he die looking terrified?

Her gaze fell on the letter on his desk.

Her name.

AARADHYA KAPOOR.

Was it meant for her?

Or planted by someone trying to tear her life apart?

Before she could reach for it, a guard grabbed her wrist. “Ma’am, please. This is a crime scene now.”

She pulled her hand free sharply. “Don’t you dare touch me again.”

“Yes, ma’am… but we need to wait for the police.”

She swallowed hard. Police. Investigation. Interrogations.

She was already at the center of it all, whether she liked it or not.

And worse—

someone wanted her there.

Her eyes flicked around the room. It was too clean. Too perfect. No overturned furniture. No signs of a struggle.

Aditya was a fighter. He would have ripped the room apart before letting someone kill him.

Unless—

“Did anyone hear anything before the gunshot?” she asked, rising slowly.

The guards shook their heads.

“The door was locked from inside,” one said nervously.

“And there’s no weapon,” another whispered.

She scanned the floor. No gun. No knife. Nothing.

It wasn’t suicide.

It wasn’t rage.

It was a threat.

And it was directed at her.

Lightning cracked again, and in the momentary brightness, she saw it—the smallest shadow near the tall bookshelf. A movement. Someone slipping away.

“Stop!” she shouted.

Several heads turned.

“What happened?”

“Someone was here!” she pointed. “Near the shelves!”

The guards rushed over, but found nothing.

“Ma’am, the storm is affecting visibility. Maybe it was—”

“I know what I saw," she snapped.

A gust of cold wind blew into the study. The windows were slightly open. They never were. Not in Aditya’s most private room.

Someone had escaped through there.

Her heart pounded. She looked at the guards.

“Seal the mansion. Nobody leaves.”

“We already did, ma’am, after the gunshot. Police are on their way.”

Good.

She turned back toward Aditya. Blood still seeped from his wound, but something caught her eye—

his hand was tightly curled into a fist. Too tight. Almost unnatural.

“Open his hand,” she ordered.

“Ma’am—”

“Do it.”

A guard knelt down, prying at Aditya’s rigid fingers. It took effort—his muscles were locked.

Something slipped out.

A small piece of torn fabric. Black. Silky. And stained with blood.

Aaradhya inhaled sharply.

That wasn’t her dress.

“Ma’am…” The guard looked at her cautiously, “you need to step outside. Let the authorities handle this.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

Then she heard footsteps.

Firm. Steady. Commanding.

A man walked into the doorway, dripping from the rain, his coat darkened with water. Tall, sharply built, with eyes that scanned the room in a single sweep—intelligent, piercing, unreadable.

Detective Aryan Mehra.

A man she recognized from the news. A man who solved impossible cases.

A man she did NOT want to see here.

He took off his coat slowly, revealing dark hair plastered to his forehead by rain, a jawline cut from stone, and eyes too sharp to hide from.

He acknowledged the guards, then his gaze fell on her.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled.

He took in her trembling hands, her soaked gown, the shadows in her eyes.

“Ms. Kapoor,” he said quietly. “Step away from the body.”

Her spine straightened instinctively. “Detective Mehra. I’m not interfering. I just—”

“You’re standing in a pool of evidence,” he interrupted, though his voice was calm, not cold.

“This is Aditya’s blood,” she replied, chin lifting.

“And that,” he said, stepping toward her, “is exactly why you should step aside.”

Their eyes collided. Her breath caught.

He wasn’t looking at her like the guests did—with fear or judgment.

He was studying her. Reading her.

Dangerously perceptive.

She stepped back reluctantly.

Aryan crouched beside the body. “Single shot. No weapon. Locked room. Interesting.”

He touched the carpet lightly, then glanced at the window. “Was this open before?”

“No,” she said.

He nodded once, then picked up the torn fabric. His brows furrowed—only slightly—but she noticed.

“You saw someone,” he said without looking up.

She stiffened. “How do you know that?”

“You’re searching the room,” he said. “Not mourning.”

Her jaw clenched. “I can do both.”

“I can see that.”

Her cheeks warmed at how naturally he spoke to her, as if he’d already figured out parts of her she didn’t want anyone to see.

Aryan stood up slowly and faced her.

He was close. Too close.

“Tell me exactly what you saw.”

She took a breath. “A shadow. Someone near the shelves. I saw movement.”

“Male? Female?”

“Just… small. Quick. They slipped out through the window.”

Aryan narrowed his eyes. “So the killer was inside the room before the gunshot.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe they waited for the exact moment the storm killed the power?”

“Yes.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “You’re observant.”

“It’s called intelligence,” she replied.

He smirked faintly. “I wasn’t questioning that.”

For a second, the tension between them shifted—still sharp, but warmer. Electricity hummed in the air. Or maybe it was just the storm.

But the moment shattered when a guest muttered loudly:

“Of course she’s calm. She probably killed him.”

Aaradhya turned with burning eyes. “Say that again.”

The man paled.

Aryan stepped between them. “Enough.”

“She had a motive,” the guest stammered. “They had a messy history—everyone knows—”

Aryan’s voice chilled to ice. “And you had a motive too. You were invited to this party. Don’t tempt me to begin the questioning with you.”

The man shut his mouth instantly.

Aryan looked at Aaradhya. “Let’s talk outside.”

She hesitated. “I’m not a suspect.”

“You’re the last person who saw him alive,” he replied. “You’re not just a suspect—you’re the most important witness.”

She swallowed hard.

He wasn’t wrong.

And she hated that.

She followed him into the hallway, the storm outside echoing her heartbeat. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble. The mansion felt colder now, every shadow deeper, every corner hiding a threat.

Aryan stopped near the balcony railing. Rain poured down like sheets of silver behind him.

“Start from the beginning,” he said. “What happened tonight?”

She crossed her arms, holding herself together. “Nothing unusual. I arrived. He greeted me.”

“In what tone?”

She inhaled. “Complicated.”

Aryan’s eyebrow lifted. “Complicated how?”

Aaradhya avoided his gaze. “We… have history.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said carefully. “Was tonight emotional?”

“Yes.”

“Romantic?”

Her lips parted. “What kind of question is—”

“Answer it.”

She exhaled shakily. “There was… intensity. Trust me, detective. Whenever Aditya and I stood in the same room, something always burned.”

Aryan watched her closely. “Is that why you came tonight? Because something still burns?”

Heat rose to her cheeks. Anger, not embarrassment. She looked away.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Ms. Kapoor. I’m not judging. I’m trying to understand.”

“You can’t understand me in ten minutes.”

“I understood more than you think.”

She glared at him. “You know nothing about my past.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Then tell me.”

Her throat tightened.

She couldn’t tell him the whole truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Aditya was dangerous,” she said finally. “But he was not afraid of death.”

Aryan’s jaw tensed. “He died afraid.”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“Which means,” Aryan said slowly, “whoever killed him was someone he didn’t expect. Someone close. Someone he trusted.”

Her breath caught.

That meant—

“You think it’s me,” she whispered.

His voice softened. “Do you think it’s you?”

Her eyes widened. “Are you insane?”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m traumatized!”

He stepped closer. “Or guilty.”

She snapped. “If I wanted him dead, detective, I wouldn’t have come to his mansion wearing a dress worth five lakhs in the middle of a storm.”

Aryan stared at her.

Then… he smiled. Just barely.

“That’s actually a fair argument.”

Before she could respond, a sudden loud bang echoed through the mansion—another door slamming somewhere down the hall.

Aryan instantly turned alert. “Stay behind me.”

She did—not because she was scared, but because something instinctive told her this man knew danger intimately.

They walked down the corridor. Wind howled. Lights flickered. Shadows danced across the walls like ghosts.

Aaradhya whispered, “This house feels wrong tonight.”

Aryan nodded. “Because someone didn’t come here to attend a party. They came to kill.”

She shivered.

As they pushed open the door at the end of the hallway, the wind slammed it again. The force made her stumble, and instinctively, Aryan grabbed her waist.

Their bodies collided—

her palms against his chest,

his hand steady on her hip,

their breaths mingling.

For a moment… everything stopped.

Aryan looked into her eyes. Really looked.

Not as a detective.

As a man.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“It’s the cold,” she whispered.

He smirked. “You’re lying.”

Her heartbeat raced.