Episode 3 - The Estranged Husband & The Haunted Mansion

The journey from the hospital to Rudra Pratap Singh’s mansion was a blur of polished glass, hushed conversations, and the suffocating presence of Rudra’s men. Ananya, trapped within Ishani’s body, sat in the back of a sleek, black SUV, staring out at the familiar Mumbai streets that now felt alien. Every turn of the wheel took her further from the life she knew, deeper into a world she had only ever observed from a distance, a world she had fought to expose.

The car finally pulled through massive, wrought-iron gates, guarded by men with cold, watchful eyes. The gates swung open silently, revealing a long, winding driveway flanked by manicured lawns and towering palm trees. At the end of the driveway, the mansion loomed – a colossal structure of white stone and dark wood, a blend of traditional Indian architecture and modern opulence. It wasn't just a house; it was a fortress, a symbol of Rudra’s immense power and the impenetrable walls he built around himself.

As the SUV glided to a halt, a retinue of household staff, dressed in crisp uniforms, appeared as if from nowhere. Vikram Rathore opened the car door for her, his expression as impassive as ever. Ananya stepped out, her legs still a little unsteady, but her resolve hardening. She was no longer just Ananya, the victim. She was Ananya, the survivor, inhabiting Ishani’s form, and she would find a way to navigate this.

The air inside the mansion was cool, almost chilling, despite the humid Mumbai weather. The vast entrance hall was a cavernous space of polished marble, soaring ceilings, and intricate chandeliers that glittered like frozen waterfalls. Expensive artwork adorned the walls, and antique furniture sat like silent sentinels. It was a palace, yes, but one that felt devoid of warmth, a gilded cage designed for display, not comfort.

A stern-faced woman, presumably the head housekeeper, stepped forward. "Welcome home, Mrs. Singh. We are glad to see you well." Her tone was polite, but her eyes held a hint of judgment, a silent accusation. Ananya felt the weight of the original Ishani’s reputation pressing down on her.

"Thank you," Ananya murmured, trying to sound gracious.

"Your rooms have been prepared. Mr. Singh will join you for dinner at eight." The housekeeper’s voice was clipped, efficient.

Rudra was nowhere in sight. He had simply sent his men to collect her, a clear message of his authority. Ananya felt a fresh surge of resentment. She was a possession, a problem to be managed.

She was led up a grand staircase, its banister intricately carved, to the second floor. The corridors were wide, hushed, lined with more art and heavy, closed doors. Each step felt like a deeper descent into a gilded prison. Her "rooms" were a sprawling suite, larger than her entire previous apartment. A vast bedroom with a king-sized bed, a walk-in closet filled with racks of designer clothes she would never wear, a luxurious en-suite bathroom, and a private sitting area.

An elderly maid, her face etched with a lifetime of service, was waiting. "Madam, if you require anything, please ring."

Ananya nodded, her mind already racing. She needed information. She needed to understand the original Ishani’s life, her habits, her secrets. This mansion, this prison, was also a treasure trove.

As the maid respectfully withdrew, Ananya walked to the large windows overlooking a manicured garden. Beyond the perfectly trimmed hedges, she could see the high walls and the subtle glint of security cameras. She was indeed a prisoner.

She sank onto a plush sofa, closing her eyes. The exhaustion of the past few days, the shock of her rebirth, the overwhelming new reality – it all crashed down on her. She tried to piece together the fragments of the original Ishani’s life that she vaguely recalled from gossip columns. Spoiled. Rebellious. A socialite who loved parties and hated responsibility. And married to Rudra Pratap Singh, a marriage of convenience, or perhaps, coercion.

Flashback: Six months ago.

The air in the grand ballroom was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and champagne. Ishani Rao, resplendent in a shimmering emerald gown, laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on Rudra’s nerves. She was surrounded by a fawning circle of admirers, her every movement exaggerated, designed for attention.

Rudra stood by the bar, a silent, imposing figure, watching her. He had married her for strategic reasons – a powerful family alliance, a consolidation of influence. He had expected a certain level of decorum, a quiet acceptance of her role. Instead, he had gotten a whirlwind of petulance and defiance.

She caught his eye across the room, and her smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of resentment. She raised her glass in a mocking toast, then turned her back, resuming her flirtatious chatter.

Later that night, in their cavernous bedroom, the tension was palpable. Ishani was stripping off her gown, tossing it carelessly onto a chaise lounge.

"You made a spectacle of yourself tonight," Rudra’s voice was low, controlled, but laced with cold displeasure.

Ishani whirled around, her eyes flashing. "Oh, and you were the picture of warmth, weren't you, husband? Standing there like a statue, judging my every move!"

"I expect my wife to conduct herself with dignity," he countered, his jaw tight.

"Your wife?" she scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her. "I'm your prisoner, Rudra! Your trophy! You bought me, remember? But you don't own me!"

He took a step towards her, his eyes darkening. "You are bound to me by law, Ishani. By tradition. You will respect that."

"Respect?" she spat. "You want respect? Then treat me like a human being, not a pawn in your power games! I hate this life! I hate you!"

She had stormed out of the room, leaving him in a silence thick with her defiance. He had watched her go, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes – frustration, perhaps, or a hint of something deeper, something he quickly suppressed.

Ananya opened her eyes, a shudder running through her. The original Ishani’s hatred for Rudra was palpable, a raw, visceral emotion. And Rudra’s coldness, his possessiveness – it was a dangerous dynamic. Ananya, the journalist, understood power. Rudra wielded it with an iron fist. But Ananya, the woman, felt a pang of sympathy for the trapped girl Ishani had been, even as she resented being forced into her shoes.

She stood up and began to explore the suite. The walk-in closet was a revelation. Rows upon rows of designer clothes, shoes, handbags – a fortune in fashion. Ananya, who had lived a modest life, felt a strange detachment. These weren't her clothes. This wasn't her style. But she would have to wear them. She would have to be Ishani.

Her gaze fell on a small, ornate writing desk in the sitting area. Perhaps there, she could find something. A diary, letters, anything that could shed light on Ishani’s past, her secrets, her connections. She pulled open the drawers. Empty. All of them. Disappointment pricked her.

She moved to the bedside table. A few magazines, a novel she didn't recognize. Nothing personal. Ishani, it seemed, was not one for keeping records. Or perhaps, she was too careful.

Ananya’s journalistic instincts kicked in. She began a systematic search of the room, her eyes scanning for anything out of place, any hidden compartment, any clue. She ran her hands along the back of picture frames, checked under the mattress, peered behind heavy curtains. Nothing. The room was meticulously clean, almost sterile.

She paused by the large dressing table, its surface covered with expensive perfumes, makeup, and glittering jewelry. She picked up a heavy silver locket. It was intricately designed, but plain, without any engraving. She tried to open it, but it was locked. A secret? Or just a decorative piece? She tucked it into the pocket of her gown.

Her attention was drawn to a large, antique wooden cabinet in the corner of the bedroom. It looked old, out of place amidst the modern luxury. She ran her hand over its polished surface. It felt solid, perhaps even hollow in some parts. She tried the ornate handles, but they were locked.

She circled the cabinet, tapping gently on its sides, listening for any difference in sound. Near the bottom, behind a decorative carving, her fingers brushed against a small, almost invisible seam. A hidden drawer? Her heart quickened.

She pressed harder, wiggling her fingers into the seam. With a soft click, a narrow, shallow drawer slid open. Inside, nestled amongst some old, faded silk scarves, was a small, leather-bound diary.

Ananya’s breath hitched. A diary. This was it. This was her window into Ishani’s mind, her life. She pulled it out, her fingers trembling slightly. The leather was worn, the pages slightly yellowed. She opened it to the first page.

The handwriting was flamboyant, almost childish, a stark contrast to Ananya’s neat, precise script. The entries were sporadic, filled with complaints about her "boring life," her "tyrannical husband," and her longing for "freedom."

She flipped through the pages, scanning for anything significant. Most entries were trivial – laments about a cancelled party, a fight with a friend, a new dress. But then, an entry caught her eye, dated just a few weeks before the accident:

"He’s everywhere. Rudra’s eyes are everywhere. I can’t breathe. I met him again today. He said he has a way out for me. A way to escape all this. But it involves… risks. Big risks. He says it’s the only way to be truly free. I’m scared, but I’m desperate. Anything to get away from Rudra and this suffocating life."

Ananya frowned. "He"? Who was "he"? And what was this "way out"? Was the original Ishani involved with someone else? A lover? Or someone who promised her freedom from Rudra, perhaps a rival? This was far more complex than she had imagined. The original Ishani was not just a spoiled socialite; she had secrets, dangerous ones.

Another entry, even more recent:

"The plan is set. It’s risky, but I have to do it. I can’t live like this anymore. He promised me a new life, far away from here. Far away from Rudra. If anything goes wrong… tell him I never wanted this. Tell him I just wanted to be free."

The entry ended abruptly. Ananya’s mind raced. This "plan" must have been her attempt to flee, the one that led to the accident. But who was "he"? And was this "plan" connected to Ananya’s own death? Was the original Ishani involved with Malhotra’s syndicate, or a rival one? The possibilities swirled, each more terrifying than the last.

A soft knock on the door jolted her. She quickly shoved the diary back into the hidden drawer, sliding it shut just as the maid entered.

"Madam, Mr. Singh requests your presence for dinner."

Ananya took a deep breath, composing herself. She had to play the part. The bewildered, slightly rebellious wife. She had to learn everything she could about Ishani Rao, about Rudra, about this mansion, and about the dangerous world she was now a part of. Because somewhere in this gilded cage, lay the answers to her own murder. And the key to her survival.

She walked towards the door, the weight of the silver locket in her pocket a small, cold comfort. The mansion felt less like a home and more like a chessboard. And she, Ananya Sharma, was now a pawn in a game she barely understood, playing for stakes she couldn't yet fathom. But she was a journalist. And journalists, even reborn ones, found the truth.

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