I hadn’t even finished removing my makeup when a knock came at the door. The atmosphere in this five-star hotel suite instantly turned icy and suffocating.
Without making eye contact, he slipped a bundle of ten $100 bills into my hand and whispered, “If you want to survive, leave immediately. Tonight.”
Frozen in place, it felt as though my heart had been plunged into an icy abyss.
My name is Anjali. I am 26 years old and work as an accountant at a construction firm in Delhi. I met Raghav, my husband, during a business partnership meeting between our companies. He is three years older than me, a charming and attractive young CEO, the only son of a wealthy and well-known family from Lucknow. Things progressed quickly between us; within six months, he proposed.
Coming from an ordinary background, my parents are retired government employees. When Raghav asked for my hand, my mother burst into tears of joy, and even my normally strict father gave his blessing. I had always been the obedient daughter and never imagined making a wrong choice.
Our wedding was magnificent, held at one of Delhi’s most prestigious hotels. Everyone admired me, convinced I had “married into wealth.” Yet, my reasons for marrying Raghav were not financial. With him, I felt safe—until our wedding night.
My father-in-law, Mr. Rajendra Mehta, was a reserved and discreet man. From our first encounter, I sensed his disapproval. However, I never imagined he would utter such a chilling warning—the very night of his son’s wedding.
“I… I don’t understand. What do you mean, uncle?” I stammered, shocked.
He gripped my hand firmly and whispered as if fearing to be overheard, “Do not ask questions. Upon leaving, someone will be waiting for you. Do not come back. This is all I can do for you.” He looked at me with haunted, terrified eyes, as if this simple act could cost him his life, and then he left.
I stayed there trembling, a thousand questions swirling in my mind. Next door, Raghav was laughing on the phone with his friends, oblivious to what had just transpired.
Panic overwhelmed me. I no longer knew whom to trust.
Desperate, I called the only person I could—my best friend, Priya.
“Are you insane?! Running away on your wedding night? Did someone threaten you?” she yelled.
I told her everything. She paused, then said, “If your father-in-law is warning you like this, it’s serious. I’m coming.”
Within ten minutes, Priya was in the hotel lobby. I dragged my suitcase behind me, my head bowed like a fugitive. It was 2:17 a.m., and a light rain was falling over Delhi. I hid at Priya’s place, turning off my phone.
Thirty missed calls from my mother, countless calls from my in-laws and Raghav, but I was terrified. I scarcely knew what I feared—Raghav… or his entire family.
The next morning, while Priya was at work, I turned my phone back on. Hundreds of messages flooded in: reproaches, pleas, and threats.
However, one message stood out—a text from an unknown number:
“My father is a good man. But he cannot protect you. If you return, you will uncover the truth—or you will disappear forever.”
That evening, Mr. Mehta contacted me personally: “If you’re still in Delhi, let’s meet once. At 8 p.m., Cafe Imperial, second floor. I will tell you everything.” I knew I had to go.
The cafe was old, hidden in a quiet alley of Old Delhi. Ascending the wooden stairs, I found him already there, his eyes weary, awaiting me.
He spoke rapidly in a low voice: “You know Raghav is our only son. But do you know how his first wife died?”
I tensed. “He… he was married before?”
He nodded. “Nobody has told you. She died two months after the wedding. They said she fell down the stairs. But everyone at home knows it wasn’t an accident. I never had the courage to speak until now, because the next one will be you.”
Chills ran down my spine as he handed me a USB stick. “Take this. It contains audio recordings and documents. See for yourself. But don’t tell a soul.”
“Why not go to the police?” I asked.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Because even the police dare not touch this family.”
Back at Priya’s, I opened the USB. There were several files:
- An eight-minute audio recording.
- Scanned copies of medical documents.
- A partially redacted handwritten report.
I listened to the audio first. The voice was that of a woman, clear but trembling with fear:
“I can’t stay here. Since the wedding night, Raghav won’t let me leave. He changes the locks every week. His mother says I must bear a son—or I’ll be ‘dealt with’ like the others. I don’t even know what I did wrong…”
It was the voice of Neha, Raghav’s late wife, whose name appeared in some of the documents. The recording was from two days before her death.
The handwritten report was written by Mr. Mehta himself. It detailed years of strange behaviors, family obsessions, and a dark history:
- A lineage marked by psychological instability.
- An ancestor who killed his wife, believing “a virgin’s blood preserves the family fortune.”
- A mother-in-law obsessed with astrology and rituals, convinced the daughter-in-law must produce a male heir within the year or face “elimination.”
Neha died less than three months after the marriage—a stair fall. Another unnamed former wife apparently committed suicide. Everything was concealed.
I felt sick to my stomach. Raghav—the man who had kissed my forehead just the night before—was entwined in something horrifying.
I wanted to flee, but Priya stopped me. “You can’t just vanish; they’ll notice. We need a plan. I’m here to help.”
With Priya and a journalist friend’s assistance, we compiled the documents and sent them anonymously to the authorities, also consulting a lawyer.
Three days later, an official investigation began. It did not capture headlines, but the matter was taken seriously. Raghav’s family was summoned, and for the first time, Mr. Mehta agreed to testify.
Weeks later, I formally filed for divorce. Raghav’s response was not what I expected; he simply stared and said, “So you’re leaving too. Like the others.” No remorse shone in his eyes.
A month later, the investigation quietly closed. His family used wealth and influence to silence the media—yet the legal authorities proved harder to intimidate.
I don’t know what fate awaits Raghav. Frankly, I no longer care. I left Delhi, starting anew in Mumbai. My parents were devastated but supportive.
Now, I trust sparingly, but one thing is certain: I survived.
Sometime later, I received an anonymous handwritten letter with one message: “You made the right choice. Thank you for giving me courage. — Your father-in-law.” I wept.
There are experiences one never imagines enduring until they abruptly occur. I am no longer the Anjali who believed in fairy tales, but I do believe this:
No truth is more terrifying than living amidst deception.
Conclusion
This harrowing tale unveils how appearances can mask dreadful realities within affluent families, reminding us to question façades carefully. Anjali’s journey highlights the power of courage, friendship, and the pursuit of truth despite overwhelming fear. Her resilience in confronting danger and betrayal serves as a potent reminder that survival often requires unyielding strength and the willingness to confront unsettling truths. Ultimately, she chose freedom over fear, illuminating the importance of trusting one’s instincts even when facing powerful adversaries.