30-01-2026, 10:14 PM
Chapter 18: Swathi realize the scheme! While vikram bleeds to save her love
Swathi paced the length of her bedroom, the heavy silk curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun, turning the room into a gilded cage. House arrest—unofficial, but real. Guards at the doors, phones monitored, her father-in-law's men watching every move. The politician, Raghunath, had cornered her in the study earlier, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet.
"Admit it," he'd said, leaning close enough for her to smell the betel nut on his breath. "The affair with Krish. Sign the papers. We'll handle the divorce quietly—your fault, our terms. Or we pin it all on that cheap driver. Say you slept with him in the hills. He's already cracking in custody. One more push, and he'll confess everything. Your word against a nobody's. The family wins either way."
She'd stared at him, heart pounding, but kept her face blank. "You're bluffing."
Father in law had smiled—cold, knowing. "Try me. He's spilling about your lover already. Krish's name will be out by evening."
Now, alone, Swathi clutched her phone, hidden under the folds of her salwar. She typed fast, fingers flying.
Swathi: They're locking me in. Threatening to frame Vikram as my lover if I don't confess about you. He's in custody—beating him to break me. Come now. Get me out.
Krish's reply buzzed almost immediately.
Krish: On my way. Back gate. 10 minutes. Be ready.
She deleted the messages, slipped the phone into her bra, and waited, pulse racing. The bungalow felt like a tomb—silent servants, locked doors, the weight of the family's power pressing down.
Across the city, in the dim hell of the station's back room, Vikram spat blood onto the concrete. The beatings had ramped up since morning—fists, boots, the occasional lathi crack for emphasis. His ribs screamed with every breath; one eye was a swollen slit.
The inspector circled him like a vulture, wiping sweat from his brow. "Sign it, bastard. Say you fucked Swathi madam in the car. Or spill about her real lover—the gangster. Krish, right? We know. One name, and this ends."
Vikram, chained to the chair, lifted his head slowly. Pain blurred everything, but his mind was clear—sharper than it had been in years. Flashbacks hit: Malar's lies, Malavika's games, Swathi's bold eyes on the hill bed. Women who used, men who broke.
But not him. Not anymore.
He thought of Swathi—her laugh, her threats, her quiet apology in the car. Her one genuine thing: Krish.
The affair that burned because her life didn't. If he spilled, it crumbled. If he signed the lie about himself, she'd be free... but tainted by association with a "cheap driver."
No. Let them beat him. Let it buy her time. Let his silence keep her love intact.
He laughed—low, ragged, blood bubbling at his lips.
The inspector paused. "What's funny?"
Vikram met his eyes. "You. Thinking pain changes anything."
The next punch came hard, splitting his lip fresh. But Vikram didn't speak. For once, he thought, I choose the silence.
The back gate of the bungalow was a service entrance—rusted iron, hidden by overgrown bougainvillea. Krish arrived like a shadow: black SUV idling in the alley, four men spilling out with him. They moved fast—wire cutters on the chain, silenced footsteps over the gravel.
Inside, Swathi heard the faint clink. She slipped from her room, down the servant stairs, heart in her throat. A guard turned the corner—Krish's man was on him in seconds, chokehold silent and swift. The body slumped.
Krish appeared at the base of the stairs, face hard, eyes scanning. "Now."
She ran to him, no words. He pulled her through the gate, into the SUV. Doors slammed. The vehicle peeled away, leaving the bungalow's lights shrinking in the rearview.
In the backseat, Swathi exhaled, trembling. "They have Vikram. Beating him to make him lie—say we slept together. Or name you."
Krish gripped the wheel tighter. "He won't break. Not if he's smart."
"But they think he is. I can't let him take this."
Krish glanced at her. "We go underground. Safe house. Stall for the video. Three days."
Swathi nodded, but her mind raced ahead. As the city blurred past, she pulled out her phone again—another hidden sim.
She dialed a number she rarely used.
"Dad? It's me. I need your help. Now."
Swathi paced the length of her bedroom, the heavy silk curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun, turning the room into a gilded cage. House arrest—unofficial, but real. Guards at the doors, phones monitored, her father-in-law's men watching every move. The politician, Raghunath, had cornered her in the study earlier, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet.
"Admit it," he'd said, leaning close enough for her to smell the betel nut on his breath. "The affair with Krish. Sign the papers. We'll handle the divorce quietly—your fault, our terms. Or we pin it all on that cheap driver. Say you slept with him in the hills. He's already cracking in custody. One more push, and he'll confess everything. Your word against a nobody's. The family wins either way."
She'd stared at him, heart pounding, but kept her face blank. "You're bluffing."
Father in law had smiled—cold, knowing. "Try me. He's spilling about your lover already. Krish's name will be out by evening."
Now, alone, Swathi clutched her phone, hidden under the folds of her salwar. She typed fast, fingers flying.
Swathi: They're locking me in. Threatening to frame Vikram as my lover if I don't confess about you. He's in custody—beating him to break me. Come now. Get me out.
Krish's reply buzzed almost immediately.
Krish: On my way. Back gate. 10 minutes. Be ready.
She deleted the messages, slipped the phone into her bra, and waited, pulse racing. The bungalow felt like a tomb—silent servants, locked doors, the weight of the family's power pressing down.
Across the city, in the dim hell of the station's back room, Vikram spat blood onto the concrete. The beatings had ramped up since morning—fists, boots, the occasional lathi crack for emphasis. His ribs screamed with every breath; one eye was a swollen slit.
The inspector circled him like a vulture, wiping sweat from his brow. "Sign it, bastard. Say you fucked Swathi madam in the car. Or spill about her real lover—the gangster. Krish, right? We know. One name, and this ends."
Vikram, chained to the chair, lifted his head slowly. Pain blurred everything, but his mind was clear—sharper than it had been in years. Flashbacks hit: Malar's lies, Malavika's games, Swathi's bold eyes on the hill bed. Women who used, men who broke.
But not him. Not anymore.
He thought of Swathi—her laugh, her threats, her quiet apology in the car. Her one genuine thing: Krish.
The affair that burned because her life didn't. If he spilled, it crumbled. If he signed the lie about himself, she'd be free... but tainted by association with a "cheap driver."
No. Let them beat him. Let it buy her time. Let his silence keep her love intact.
He laughed—low, ragged, blood bubbling at his lips.
The inspector paused. "What's funny?"
Vikram met his eyes. "You. Thinking pain changes anything."
The next punch came hard, splitting his lip fresh. But Vikram didn't speak. For once, he thought, I choose the silence.
The back gate of the bungalow was a service entrance—rusted iron, hidden by overgrown bougainvillea. Krish arrived like a shadow: black SUV idling in the alley, four men spilling out with him. They moved fast—wire cutters on the chain, silenced footsteps over the gravel.
Inside, Swathi heard the faint clink. She slipped from her room, down the servant stairs, heart in her throat. A guard turned the corner—Krish's man was on him in seconds, chokehold silent and swift. The body slumped.
Krish appeared at the base of the stairs, face hard, eyes scanning. "Now."
She ran to him, no words. He pulled her through the gate, into the SUV. Doors slammed. The vehicle peeled away, leaving the bungalow's lights shrinking in the rearview.
In the backseat, Swathi exhaled, trembling. "They have Vikram. Beating him to make him lie—say we slept together. Or name you."
Krish gripped the wheel tighter. "He won't break. Not if he's smart."
"But they think he is. I can't let him take this."
Krish glanced at her. "We go underground. Safe house. Stall for the video. Three days."
Swathi nodded, but her mind raced ahead. As the city blurred past, she pulled out her phone again—another hidden sim.
She dialed a number she rarely used.
"Dad? It's me. I need your help. Now."
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