Cracks in the Silence

The rain came without warning that night.

Thunder rolled across the Delhi skyline as lightning flashed through the penthouse windows. Anaya stood by the glass wall, watching the sheets of rain blur the city below. The storm outside matched the storm inside her—quiet, building, inevitable.

Aarav had not come home.

Again.

She had grown used to his disappearances, but tonight felt different. His last words—“Stay away from the door”—kept replaying in her mind, low and threatening. It wasn’t just a warning. It was fear. Real fear.

And that made her even more curious.

The clock struck midnight. The servants had retreated to their quarters, leaving the house silent except for the steady hum of rain. Anaya’s reflection stared back at her—dressed in soft silk, hair loose, eyes restless.

Enough waiting.

She walked quietly through the dark hallway until she reached the hidden door. The air felt colder there, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Her fingers hovered over the seam.

She hesitated.

Then, a sudden noise.

Footsteps.

She turned sharply—and saw Aarav.

He stood at the other end of the corridor, soaked from the rain, his white shirt clinging to his chest. A drop of blood traced down his knuckle before he wiped it on his sleeve.

Her eyes widened. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” he said quickly, voice rough. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard something,” she lied, heart pounding. “And you’re bleeding—what happened?”

He sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. “You ask too many questions.”

“Maybe because no one else here answers them,” she snapped. “You vanish every night. You come back bleeding. And you expect me to pretend this is normal?”

His jaw tightened. “Normal isn’t part of our deal.”

“Then what is?” she demanded. “Silence? Fear? You think locking one door will keep me from seeing who you really are?”

For the first time, Aarav didn’t respond immediately. He looked tired, older somehow, the weight of something unseen in his eyes.

Then, quietly, he said, “You don’t want to know who I really am.”

The words hung between them, heavy and raw.

He turned to leave, but Anaya caught his wrist. “Then tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me why you look like you’re fighting ghosts every night.”

Aarav froze.

The air shifted.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Because I am.”

Her breath hitched. “What do you mean?”

But he only pulled away, retreating toward his study. “Go to bed, Anaya.”

Morning came gray and heavy. Aarav had left again before dawn. On the dining table, beside her untouched breakfast, lay a folded newspaper.

Headline: Police Raid Illegal Shipping Network—Suspected Link to Raichand Group.

Her stomach turned cold.

She scanned the article—anonymous sources, shell companies, offshore accounts. No direct evidence against Aarav, but his company’s name was there, printed in bold black ink.

Her mind raced. Was this what he was hiding? Was he involved?

She tried to convince herself it wasn’t true, that the Aarav she had glimpsed last night—the man with rain in his hair and guilt in his eyes—couldn’t be that ruthless.

But deep down, she wasn’t sure anymore.

Later that evening, she decided to confront him again. He returned around dusk, his expression unreadable as ever. But this time, she noticed the exhaustion under his sharp composure.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey, eyes fixed on the skyline.

“Rough day at work?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t look at her. “You’ve been reading the papers.”

“So it’s true?”

His fingers tightened around the glass. “Half of what’s printed in the papers is lies.”

“And the other half?”

He met her gaze finally. “Can destroy people.”

Her chest tightened. “Are you in trouble?”

Aarav set the glass down, stepping closer. “Don’t involve yourself in things you don’t understand, Anaya. You’re safe here. That’s all that matters.”

“I don’t want to be safe,” she whispered. “I want to know the truth.”

He exhaled sharply, frustration flashing in his eyes. “The truth won’t make you safer. It’ll break you.”

“Then let it,” she said, surprising even herself. “Because living in the dark is worse.”

Aarav stared at her for a long moment—then, without a word, he handed her something small and metallic.

A key.

Her heartbeat stumbled. “What’s this?”

“The key to the door,” he said. “If you’re so desperate to know, open it.”

She blinked, unsure if she’d heard right. “You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed something deeper—resignation, maybe even fear. He turned away before she could respond. “But once you open it, there’s no turning back.”

Hours later, the penthouse slept again. Anaya stood before the hidden door, the key cold in her trembling hand. Her heart pounded so loud it drowned out the rain.

She slid the key into the lock.

Click.

The door creaked open.

Inside was a small room—dark, quiet, untouched by time. She stepped inside cautiously.

And froze.

The walls were covered with photographs. Dozens of them. Some framed, some pinned carelessly, all of the same woman—smiling, laughing, alive.

Not her.

The woman looked eerily like her. The same eyes. The same face.

A chill ran down her spine.

At the center of the room stood a single table. On it lay a dusty file labeled Mira Raichand.

Her fingers trembled as she opened it.

Inside were police reports. Newspaper clippings. A death certificate.