Aayat's POV

I was still half-asleep when I heard voices at the door.

Mihir's first.

Calm, but alert.

"Yes. Why?"

Then a stranger's voice.

"Does Aayat Raghuvanshi live here?"

My heart skipped.

Something about the tone felt wrong.

I stepped out of the room slowly, still tying my hair back. "Yes... I'm Aayat."

Both officers turned toward me.

For a second they just studied me, then one of them opened a file in his hand.

"Mrs. Aayat Raghuvanshi, we need you to come with us."

My stomach tightened. "Why?"

"There's a complaint filed by Dev Chopra," the officer said. "Regarding fraud, property transfer, and a murder accusation involving his sister."

The words didn't even register at first.

"Murder?" I repeated, almost laughing in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

Mihir stepped forward immediately.

"There's a mistake," he said sharply. "She didn't do anything."

The officer didn't react. "Sir, we're following a legal complaint."

"I don't care about the complaint," Mihir snapped. "You're accusing the wrong person."

My head was spinning.

Dev Chopra?

Fraud?

His sister?

I looked at Mihir. He looked just as shocked, but angrier.

The officer continued, "Mr. Chopra claims Mrs. Raghuvanshi willingly sold him her entire property. After receiving payment, she demanded it back. When he refused, she murdered his sister in retaliation."

For a second I couldn't even breathe.

"That's insane," I said quietly. "None of that happened."

Mihir stepped closer to the officer, his voice cold now. "You're not taking her anywhere based on a fabricated story."

"Sir," the officer replied firmly, "the complaint is supported by documents and evidence. We only need her for questioning."

My hands had started shaking.

Mihir noticed immediately.

He turned to me. "Aayat, did you sign any transfer papers?"

"Yes," I admitted quietly. "But I gave it willingly. I told you that... remember? None of that belongs to me now."

The officer nodded as if that confirmed something in his file.

"Then you understand why you must come with us."

Before Mihir could argue again, another officer stepped forward and gently but firmly held my wrist.

"We're taking you to the station."

Mihir moved instantly.

"Officer, you've got it wrong," he said, stepping between us. "She didn't do anything like this."

The officer's expression hardened.

"Sir, please don't obstruct the process."

I looked at Mihir.

His jaw was tight, eyes blazing.

"Go," he said quietly to me. "Answer everything. I'm right behind you."

I nodded slowly.

But as the officers led me outside, a cold feeling settled deep in my chest.

Something about this was too planned.

Too precise.

And somehow

Dev Chopra had already prepared the whole story.

____

I had stopped trying to count the hours.

The walls of the holding cell were the same dull gray. The same cold bench. The same echo of footsteps that never came for me.

But someone finally opened the outer gate.

"Court transfer," a constable said.

My legs felt stiff when I stood up.

As they led me through the corridor, I finally saw him.

Mihir.

He was standing near the officer's desk, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low but sharp.

"I said pull the original telecom records," he snapped into the phone. "Not the ones submitted by Dev Chopra. I want the verified tower data."

He ended the call before the person on the other side could answer and immediately dialed someone else.

"This is illegal detention," he said angrily. "Eighteen hours and still no proper charge sheet?"

The officer in front of him tried to stay calm. "Sir, the complaint has supporting documents."

"Fabricated documents," Mihir shot back.

Another call.

"Yes. I want the CCTV from the highway toll plaza. Every camera between the airport road and the city limits."

I stood there quietly, watching him.

His hair was messy now. His shirt sleeves rolled up. Dark circles under his eyes.

He hadn't slept.

One officer approached him carefully. "Sir, the accused needs to be moved."

Mihir turned immediately.

His eyes found me.

For a moment the anger in them softened.

"You okay?" he asked.

I nodded slowly.

"I told them everything," I said quietly.

"I know," he replied instantly.

No hesitation.

The constable gestured toward the exit. "We need to go."

As they started leading me away again, Mihir spoke behind me.

"This isn't over," he told the officers coldly. "You're building a case on manipulated evidence."

The officer sighed. "Sir, the court will decide."

Mihir's voice dropped, dangerous and steady.

"Exactly."

Then he turned back to his phone again.

"Get me the forensic report on that sister's death," he said to someone on the line. "And cross-check the time of death with Aayat's location."

I glanced back one last time.

He was already arguing with another officer, refusing to stop.

Fighting, for me?

As they led me down the corridor, the sound of Mihir's voice slowly faded behind me.

Still arguing.

Still making calls.

Still fighting.

For a moment, my chest felt warm.

But then another thought crept in.

I forced myself to look forward again.

Of course he's fighting.

He's Mihir Raghuvanshi.

A Chief Minister.

His wife being arrested for fraud and murder?

That's a scandal.

A huge one.

Maybe this wasn't about me.

Maybe it was about the contract.

About his image.

About headlines.

CM's wife arrested.

The thought sat heavy in my chest.

I swallowed and tried to steady my breathing.

Maybe he's just protecting the situation.

Protecting the name.

Protecting the government.

Not me.

The police car door opened and I was guided inside.

The metal seat felt cold.

As the car started moving toward the courthouse, I stared out the window.

I remembered the way he had looked at me last night.

The stupid jokes.

"My wife is better than Spotify."

I squeezed my hands together.

No.

Don't think about that.

That was different.

This... this is reality.

Contract marriages don't turn into heroic rescues.

People like Mihir Raghuvanshi don't destroy their reputation for someone they barely know.

So whatever he's doing right now...

I told myself quietly

He's doing it for the contract.

For his name.

For his image.

Not for me.

But even as I tried to convince myself of that

a small, stubborn part of my heart whispered something else.

Then why hasn't he left?

Why is he still fighting after eighteen hours?

I shook my head slightly.

No.

Stop thinking about it.

It didn't matter why Mihir was doing all that. Whether it was for the contract, his image, or just responsibility.

Right now, none of that would change what was happening.

I was still sitting in a police vehicle.

Still accused.

Still heading toward court.

I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes for a moment, forcing my thoughts to slow down.

Thinking about Mihir wouldn't help.

Thinking about Dev wouldn't help either.

What mattered now was staying calm.

Answering whatever the court asked.

Telling the truth.

That was all I could do.

The car finally stopped.

The door opened and the officer gestured. "Come."

I stepped out quietly.

The courthouse steps looked bigger than I remembered. Reporters stood outside the gate, murmuring to each other, cameras ready.

For a second, my stomach twisted.

But I forced myself to walk forward.

No overthinking.

No panic.

Just one step at a time.

Inside the courtroom, people were already seated.

Lawyers.

Officers.

And then I saw him.

Mihir.

Standing near the front, talking to someone, his face still tense.

Across the room sat Dev Chopra, calm, almost relaxed.

The judge entered.

Everyone stood.

My heart pounded in my chest as the hearing began.

I clasped my hands together tightly and kept my eyes forward.

Whatever happened now

I would face it.

The courtroom felt colder than the prison cell.

I stood there quietly as the lawyers began speaking. Papers shuffled, voices rose and fell, legal words flying around the room faster than I could follow.

Dev Chopra's lawyer spoke first.

He presented documents.

Property transfer papers.

Bank records.

Witness statements.

Each one placed neatly before the judge.

"This clearly shows," the lawyer said confidently, "that Mrs. Aayat Raghuvanshi willingly sold her property to my client. However, shortly after the transaction, she demanded the property back. When Mr. Chopra refused, his sister was found murdered."

My chest tightened.

"That's not true," I said quietly.

But the lawyer continued as if I hadn't spoken.

"Forensic reports place Mrs. Raghuvanshi near the location on the same night."

Murmurs spread through the courtroom.

I looked at Mihir.

He was standing beside his lawyer now, his expression dark.

His lawyer spoke firmly. "Your Honor, these accusations are based entirely on manipulated evidence. My client has already provided statements explaining the voluntary property transfer."

The judge raised a hand.

"Enough."

Silence fell.

The judge looked down at the documents for a long moment.

The entire room felt frozen.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

Finally, the judge spoke.

"After reviewing the evidence submitted by Mr. Dev Chopra and considering the documentation presented..."

My fingers tightened together.

"...the court finds sufficient grounds to consider Mrs. Aayat Raghuvanshi guilty of fraud and the murder of Mr. Chopra's sister."

The words hit like a physical blow.

The judge's voice continued.

"This court sentences the accused to fifteen years of imprisonment."

Gasps filled the courtroom.

For a second, everything went silent in my head.

Fifteen years.

I slowly turned my head.

Mihir was staring at the judge, disbelief and anger burning in his eyes.

Then his gaze shifted to me.

Our eyes met.

I didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

But in that moment, there was something unspoken between us, shock, anger, and something deeper neither of us could explain.

The guards stepped closer.

And just like that

my world shattered.

___

Two weeks.

That's how long I had been inside.

At first I counted the days.

Then the hours.

Then I stopped counting.

Prison had its own strange rhythm. Wake up. Eat. Sit. Think. Sleep. Repeat. The same gray walls. The same metal bed. The same narrow window that barely showed the sky.

And every day

Mihir came.

The first time he walked into the visitor room, I almost didn't recognize him. He looked exhausted. His eyes were red, his hair messy, his phone constantly buzzing on the table beside him.

"I'm working on it," he told me immediately.

I nodded.

He told me about the lawyers.

About the forensic reports.

About the documents Dev Chopra had submitted.

"They're too clean," he muttered once, rubbing his forehead. "Every record matches. Every timeline fits. Every witness statement supports him."

I could hear the frustration in his voice.

"Which means?" I asked quietly.

"Which means whoever built this case," he said, looking straight at me, "spent a long time making sure it couldn't be easily broken."

Another day he came with more files.

"I contacted three different forensic analysts," he said. "They all confirmed the same thing. According to the report... you were near the location when his sister died."

I frowned. "But I wasn't."

"I know," he replied instantly.

And that was the strange part.

No matter how bad the evidence looked...

Mihir never once questioned me.

Not once.

Still, the frustration kept building around him.

One afternoon he sat across from me, silent for almost a minute.

"I've spoken to ministers, investigators, private agencies," he said finally. "Everywhere I look, the evidence lines up with Dev's story."

His jaw tightened.

"And I hate that."

I watched him quietly.

He looked... angry at the world.

"I'm not stopping," he added firmly. "I don't care how long it takes."

I gave him a small smile.

"You don't have to destroy your entire career over this," I said softly.

He looked up immediately.

"What?"

"This whole case," I continued calmly. "Your wife being in prison... it already affects your image."

For a moment he just stared at me.

Then he leaned back slightly, almost offended.

"You think I'm doing this for my image?"

I didn't answer.

Because honestly

I didn't know anymore.

He sighed, rubbing his face again.

"Two weeks," he muttered. "And Dev Chopra's evidence still looks perfect."

Perfect.

That word echoed in my head long after he left that day.

Because perfect evidence..

usually meant something terrifying.

Someone had planned this very carefully.

The visitor room was quiet again.

The guard stood near the door, pretending not to listen.

Mihir sat across from me, files still spread on the table. His eyes looked tired, darker than before, like he hadn't slept properly in days.

He noticed me looking at him and straightened a little.

"Don't worry," he said quietly. "I'll fix this."

His voice was firm, but the exhaustion behind it was impossible to hide.

I studied his face for a moment.

Then something small but obvious caught my attention.

His hands.

They were slightly shaking.

And there was a coffee stain on his sleeve.

"Mihir," I asked softly, "have you eaten?"

He didn't even pause.

"Yeah."

Too fast.

Too casual.

I raised an eyebrow.

"You're lying."

He blinked once, then looked away for a second.

"I grabbed something earlier," he said, trying again.

I leaned back in the chair, watching him carefully.

"Mihir."

He sighed.

"It's not important."

"It is," I said quietly.

He rubbed his face with his hands.

"I've just been busy," he muttered. "Meetings. Lawyers. Investigators."

"That wasn't my question."

He looked at me again.

And this time he didn't answer.

Which was answer enough.

A small sigh escaped me.

"You're trying to fix everything while running on coffee and anger," I said.

A faint smirk appeared on his face.

"Coffee is a very reliable food group."

I almost smiled.

Then I shook my head.

"You won't solve anything if you collapse first."

For a moment he just looked at me, like he wasn't expecting me to worry about him.

Then he leaned back in his chair.

"You're the one in prison," he pointed out quietly.

"And you're the one forgetting to eat," I replied.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"Bossy even from jail," he muttered.

I shrugged lightly.

"Someone has to make sure the Chief Minister survives."

That made him chuckle softly for the first time.

But the tiredness in his eyes didn't disappear.

And somehow, seeing that tiredness hurt more than the prison walls around me.

It's not that I feel anything for him, only that he endures all this because of me

The guard cleared his throat softly. "Time's up."

The words felt heavier than usual.

Mihir slowly stood up from the chair, gathering the files on the table, but he didn't leave immediately.

Instead, he looked at me.

Really looked.

Like he was trying to memorize something.

I stood up too.

For a moment neither of us spoke.

Then Mihir reached forward and held my hands across the table.

His grip was warm. Firm. Reassuring.

"Don't think too much," he said quietly. "I'll handle it."

I nodded slightly, though I wasn't sure if I believed the situation could really be handled anymore.

But the way he said it made it feel... possible.

Our eyes met.

And neither of us looked away.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Time stretched strangely in that quiet room.

His eyes weren't angry like they had been in court.

They were steady.

Determined.

Like he was silently promising something he hadn't said out loud.

One minute passed.

Then a few seconds more.

Neither of us noticed the guard shifting impatiently near the door.

Finally, Mihir squeezed my hands gently before letting go.

"I'll come tomorrow," he said.

I gave a small nod.

He turned and walked toward the door.

Just before leaving, he looked back once more.

For a second, I felt something tighten in my chest.

Then he stepped out.

The door closed.

And suddenly the room felt empty again.

The guard motioned for me to move.

"Come."

I followed quietly, walking back down the same cold corridor.

Back to the same cell.

But this time...

my mind wasn't spinning.

Not about Dev.

Not about the case.

Not about the prison.

For some reason

I kept thinking about that one minute and three seconds.

And the way Mihir had looked at me.

I had barely sat down on the thin mattress when footsteps stopped outside my cell again.

Keys jingled.

The door opened.

Two officers stood there.

"Come with us," one of them said.

I frowned, standing up slowly. "Where?"

Neither of them answered.

The taller one simply gestured toward the corridor. "Move."

Something about their silence made my chest tighten.

I stepped out anyway, walking between them as they led me down the hallway.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked again.

No reply.

Just the sound of our footsteps echoing against the concrete walls.

My patience snapped.

"Seriously?" I said, stopping suddenly. "Where are you taking me and why the hell are you not answering?"

Both officers stopped.

The shorter one sighed like he didn't want to deal with this.

"Just walk," he muttered.

"That's not an answer."

The taller officer finally turned toward me, his expression unreadable.

"You'll know when we get there."

"That's not how this works," I shot back. "You can't just drag me somewhere without telling me why."

The officer stared at me for a second.

Then he said flatly, "Orders."

My stomach twisted.

Orders from who?

We reached a heavy metal door at the end of the corridor.

One officer unlocked it.

"Inside."

I stepped through slowly, my mind racing.

Because the room on the other side

wasn't the interrogation room.

And it wasn't the visitor room either.

Something about this felt very wrong.

I stared at the metal door for a moment before stepping through.

The room wasn't what I expected.

It wasn't an interrogation room.

It looked more like a small transfer office, two officers, a desk, some documents. One of them gestured for me to sit.

"Why am I here?" I asked again, irritation creeping into my voice.

Still no clear answer.

The officer in front of me slid a paper across the table but kept his hand over most of it.

"Routine transfer," he said shortly.

"Transfer where?" I asked immediately.

"Just sign here confirming you've been moved."

I frowned. "Moved where?"

The officer looked up at me, clearly not interested in explaining.

"Processing," he repeated.

My patience snapped again. "That's not an answer. You people dragged me out of my cell and still won't tell me where you're taking me."

Neither of them reacted.

The second officer simply stood up and said, "Vehicle's ready."

My stomach tightened.

Something about this felt rushed.

Wrong.

They escorted me out through a back corridor I hadn't seen before. The air outside was colder than expected.

A dark vehicle was waiting.

No prison markings.

No explanation.

"Get in," one officer said.

I hesitated.

"Where are we going?" I demanded again.

"Transfer facility," he said flatly.

That told me absolutely nothing.

But they were already opening the door.

I stepped inside slowly, my mind racing. The door shut behind me with a heavy click.

The car started moving.

Time passed. I couldn't tell how long.

Eventually we stopped again, this time somewhere much larger.

An airport.

I frowned. "Why are we at an airport?"

Still no answer.

Instead, they guided me quickly across a restricted entrance where a small aircraft waited on the runway.

My confusion grew sharper.

"Wait," I said, stopping. "What is this?"

"Move," the officer ordered.

"This isn't normal transfer procedure," I said, my voice rising slightly. "Where are you taking me?"

He didn't even look at me when he finally answered.

"Overseas jurisdiction."

My heart skipped.

"Overseas?" I repeated.

But before I could ask anything else, they were already guiding me toward the aircraft stairs.

The cold wind hit my face as I stepped up.

And somewhere deep in my chest

a strange, uneasy feeling started growing.

Because whatever was happening...

I had the strong feeling I was being taken very far away.

The moment I stepped inside the aircraft, the door shut behind me with a heavy metallic thud.

Two officers sat across from me. Another one near the front.

None of them looked interested in talking.

The engine roared to life.

I looked out the small window as the runway lights stretched into long glowing lines.

"Where exactly are we going?" I asked again.

No answer.

The taller officer only said, "Sit back."

That was it.

I leaned back slowly, my mind racing.

Overseas jurisdiction.

What did that even mean?

The aircraft lifted off the ground, climbing into the dark sky.

Hours passed.

At some point they gave me water. Nothing else.

No explanation.

No phone.

No information.

Just silence.

I stared out the window most of the time. Endless darkness below, clouds moving slowly beneath the wing.

Every now and then one of the officers would check a document.

I tried asking again after what felt like several hours.

"Which country are we going to?"

The officer across from me finally looked up.

Then he said one word.

"Russia."

For a moment I thought I misheard.

"Russia?" I repeated slowly.

He didn't elaborate.

Just nodded once and looked back down at his file.

My chest tightened.

Russia.

The word echoed in my head.

Memories flashed without warning.

Snow.

Cold air.

A guitar.

My father laughing.

And then

the accident.

The place where everything in my life had shattered.

I looked back out the window, my hands slowly curling into fists.

Why here?

Why would they bring me here?

And more importantly

did Mihir even know where I was being taken?

My mind was still stuck on that one word.

Russia.

I leaned forward in my seat, my voice sharper now.

"Does my husband know about this?"

The officers didn't respond immediately.

My patience snapped again.

"How the hell did you take me out of the country without informing him?" I demanded. "He's my legal guardian in this case. He should know where I'm being transferred."

The officer sitting across from me finally looked up.

His face stayed completely neutral.

"We followed the authorization provided," he said.

"That's not what I asked," I replied, my voice rising slightly. "Did you inform Mihir Raghuvanshi or not?"

Silence.

My stomach twisted.

"You didn't tell him," I realized.

The officer shifted in his seat. "Our job is transport."

"That's illegal," I said immediately. "You can't move a prisoner internationally without notifying legal representation."

Another officer near the front turned slightly and spoke for the first time.

"Everything was cleared."

"By who?" I shot back.

He didn't answer.

I let out a frustrated breath and leaned back in my seat, trying to process what was happening.

If Mihir knew

he would have stopped this.

He would have been at the airport.

He would have called.

Done something.

But he hadn't.

Which meant one thing.

He didn't know.

My chest tightened at the thought.

"Mihir is going to lose his mind when he finds out," I muttered under my breath.

Neither officer reacted.

Outside the window, the sky was still dark, the aircraft cutting through thick clouds.

And for the first time since the arrest—

I realized something much worse than prison might be happening.

Someone had moved me across the world...

without Mihir knowing.

The aircraft finally began to descend.

I could see nothing but endless white outside the window.

Snow.

Miles and miles of it.

When the plane landed, the cold hit immediately as the door opened. The air felt sharp, freezing against my face as the officers led me down the metal stairs.

I wrapped my arms around myself instinctively.

No one spoke.

A dark vehicle was already waiting on the runway.

Within minutes I was inside again, the car moving through long empty roads surrounded by forests covered in snow.

The sky was grey, heavy.

After what felt like nearly an hour, the vehicle slowed.

And then I saw it.

A massive prison.

High concrete walls surrounded the entire compound, layers of barbed wire running along the top. Watchtowers stood at every corner, guards visible even from the distance.

It was enormous.

Much bigger than the prison I had been in before.

My stomach dropped.

The gate opened slowly with a loud metallic grind.

The vehicle drove inside.

More guards.

More locked gates.

More concrete.

Finally the car stopped.

"Out," one officer said.

I stepped out onto the icy ground, the cold biting straight through my shoes.

They led me inside through several metal doors, each one locking behind us with a heavy echo.

The corridors were dim and long, the air colder than outside.

One officer checked a document at a desk before nodding to another guard.

"New inmate."

I frowned.

"Inmate? I'm still under appeal," I said.

No one responded.

We walked deeper into the building until we reached a long row of cells.

The officer stopped at one of them.

He unlocked the door and stepped aside.

"Inside."

I hesitated for a second, looking at the small cell.

A metal bed.

A thin blanket.

A tiny window covered with iron bars.

Nothing else.

My chest tightened.

"Wait," I said, turning toward them. "How long am I supposed to stay here?"

The officer didn't even look at me.

"Orders."

The same word again.

Before I could argue further, the guard gently but firmly pushed me inside.

The door slammed shut behind me.

The lock clicked.

And just like that

I was alone.

In a prison thousands of kilometers away from home.

I had barely taken two steps inside the cell when I heard voices outside in the corridor.

One of them sounded unfamiliar.

The other

Sharp.

Controlled.

Almost irritated.

"...you must have mistaken her," the man was saying firmly.

My brows furrowed.

I moved closer to the bars of the cell, trying to see down the corridor.

A tall figure stood near the officer's desk.

Dark coat.

Hands in his pockets, but his posture tense.

And then he turned slightly.

My eyes widened.

"Zyran...?" I whispered under my breath.

It was Zyran.

Mihir's best friend.

He was arguing with the officer now.

"I'm telling you," Zyran said, his voice calm but edged with annoyance, "you've got the wrong person. That can't be Aayat."

The officer frowned. "Identification documents confirm"

Zyran cut him off immediately.

"I know Aayat," he said flatly. "You think I wouldn't recognize Mihir Raghuvanshi's wife?"

My heart started beating faster.

Zyran continued, gesturing toward the cell area.

"Bring her out. Let me see her properly."

The officer hesitated.

"Sir, she was transferred under official orders."

"And I'm asking you to verify those orders," Zyran replied, his tone dropping dangerously calm. "Because if you've made a mistake, this prison is about to have a very big problem."

The officer exchanged a glance with another guard.

Finally, with a sigh, he grabbed the keys.

They walked toward my cell.

My fingers tightened around the cold bars.

Zyran stepped closer behind the officer.

Then he saw me.

For a second

his confident expression completely disappeared.

His eyes widened.

"...Aayat?" he said quietly.

The officer stopped.

Zyran stared at me for another moment.

Then he ran a hand through his hair in disbelief.

"Oh damn," he muttered.

He looked back at the officer.

"...That is Aayat."

The officer's expression hardened immediately after Zyran spoke.

"Identification confirmed," he said curtly. "But she is not allowed visitors."

Zyran frowned. "I didn't ask for a tea party. I asked to talk to her."

"Denied."

The word came out cold and final.

I gripped the bars tighter. "Zyran—"

But the officer cut me off.

"Move her."

Two guards appeared beside the cell. The door opened for barely a second before they pulled me out and started leading me down another corridor.

"Wait," Zyran said sharply. "You can't just move her like that."

"She's being placed in the secured wing," the officer replied.

"That's ridiculous," Zyran argued. "Her legal case is in London—"

But they were already dragging me away.

I looked back once.

Zyran stood there, clearly furious, arguing with the officer again.

"Call Mihir," I said quickly before turning the corner. "Tell him..."

The rest of my sentence disappeared as another heavy door slammed between us.

They led me deeper into the prison this time.

Farther.

Colder.

The corridor looked older, darker. Fewer cells. More guards.

Finally they shoved me into another cell.

The lock clicked.

And just like that

I was alone again.

I sat on the edge of the metal bed, my mind spinning.

Zyran was here.

Which meant one thing.

Mihir knew.

Or he would know very soon.

Hours passed.

Four hours maybe.

I couldn't tell exactly.

The prison had a strange silence to it, broken only by distant footsteps and the occasional metallic clang of doors.

Then suddenly

Voices.

Loud ones.

Shouting from somewhere down the corridor.

At first I couldn't make out the words.

But the tone...

The anger...

It was familiar.

My heart jumped.

Then the voice came again, clearer this time.

"I said open the damn door!"

My breath caught.

Mihir.

There was no mistaking it.

His voice echoed through the hallway, furious, sharp, completely out of control.

"You cannot hold her here!" he shouted. "She's not under your jurisdiction!"

Guards were trying to calm him down.

"Sir, you need to"

"No," Mihir snapped. "You don't tell me what I need to do. You explain why my wife was moved across countries without informing me!"

My chest tightened.

Relief flooded through me so suddenly it almost hurt.

He found me.

Footsteps grew louder.

Closer.

Then his voice again, even angrier.

"Where is Aayat Raghuvanshi?"

I stood up immediately, moving to the bars of the cell.

My heart was racing now.

For the first time since this nightmare started

I wasn't alone anymore.

Mihir was here.

The shouting grew closer.

Boots hitting the floor.

Guards trying to calm someone down.

But Mihir's voice cut through everything.

"I asked a simple question," he said sharply. "Where. Is. Aayat."

A guard tried again. "Sir, please lower your voice—"

"No," Mihir snapped. "You illegally transferred my wife across international borders and you expect me to lower my voice?"

I could hear another familiar voice now.

Zyran.

"I told you this was going to be a problem," he muttered to one of the officers.

My heart was pounding so hard it felt like the whole corridor could hear it.

Then

Footsteps stopped right outside my cell.

The guard reluctantly stepped aside.

And Mihir appeared.

For a second...

He didn't move.

His eyes scanned the small cell.

The thin blanket.

The cold floor.

Then they landed on me.

His expression changed instantly.

Relief.

Anger.

Something else too deep to name.

"Aayat," he said quietly.

My throat tightened.

"Mihir."

For a moment neither of us spoke.

The guards behind him were still talking about procedures and authorization, but Mihir wasn't listening anymore.

His eyes were only on me.

He stepped closer to the bars.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I nodded, though my voice came out small. "You found me."

His jaw tightened.

"They moved you without telling me," he said. "Without telling your lawyers. Without telling the court."

Zyran folded his arms beside him. "Which, by the way, is extremely illegal."

One of the officers tried to interrupt.

"Sir, this is a high-security—"

Mihir turned toward him slowly.

"You have exactly one minute," he said coldly, "to explain why my wife is in a prison in Russia."

The officer hesitated.

Silence filled the corridor.

Then Mihir looked back at me through the bars.

And for the first time since he arrived

his voice softened.

"I told you I'd fix this," he said quietly.

My chest tightened again.

Because the way he was looking at me now

He wasn't here for politics.

He wasn't here for reputation.

The corridor went silent again as Mihir and Zyran were pulled aside by the senior officer. I barely registered their words, they sounded distant, muffled, like they were coming from underwater. My chest tightened.

I sank onto the thin cot in my cell, the cold metal bars pressing down on my chest in more ways than one. My thoughts were a storm I couldn't escape, Dev Chopra's evidence, the impossibility of proving it false, and Mihir... always Mihir.

Then a loud, gruff voice echoed from the next cell over:

"Prisoner 704!  Eat or you'll die!"

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

•Who is 704 in the Russian prison, and why does Aayat feel something familiar about him?

• If you were Aayat for a day, how would you react being taken on a surprise trip... that's actually a Russian prison? 👹

AND YES TELL ME HOW WAS THE CHAPTER??????

To be continued

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