The knock at the study door faded into silence.
Riyan didn't answer.
He didn't even turn his head.
His mother waited for a few seconds, then walked away—her footsteps disappearing into the hallway.
When the sound was gone, the room felt unbearably quiet.
The USB lay on the desk, the last frame of Arjun's face frozen on the laptop screen. His tired eyes… his soft voice… the truth he died protecting.
I turned toward Riyan.
He stood perfectly still.
Too still.
His hands were clenched on the desk so tightly the veins in his arms stood out. His jaw was locked, his breath uneven, his eyes fixed on nothing—like he was staring into a memory he couldn't escape.
"Riyan?" I whispered softly.
No response.
He didn't blink.
He didn't breathe properly.
He looked… lost.
I hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, afraid of saying the wrong thing but more afraid of leaving him to drown alone.
"Riyan… talk to me," I tried again, gently.
His head lowered, and for the first time since I met him, his voice wasn't cold, or angry, or controlled.
It was broken.
"He was just a kid," he whispered.
My chest tightened.
"He was just a kid," he repeated, voice cracking slightly. "And I wasn't there. I didn't protect him. I—"
He stopped, swallowing hard as if even speaking hurt.
I stepped closer.
"It wasn't your fault," I whispered.
His laugh was soft and bitter.
"Of course it was. I was the elder brother. He trusted me. He came to me for everything. And when he needed me most, I… I didn't see it. I didn't see anything."
His fingers slipped from the desk.
When he finally lifted his eyes to mine, there was no hatred.
Only grief.
Raw, devastating grief.
"This whole time," he said in a shaking voice, "I blamed the wrong person. I hated you. I punished you. I—"
His voice broke completely.
I felt my heart shatter.
Slowly, carefully, I stepped closer until I stood directly in front of him.
"Riyan," I whispered, "you were hurting. You were grieving. You believed what they told you. That doesn't make you a monster."
He shook his head, eyes glistening.
"You should hate me."
"I don't."
"You should."
"I don't," I repeated softly.
His breath hitched.
For the first time…
he looked small.
Fragile.
Human.
"Arjun didn't want you to hate me," I whispered. "He said it himself."
Riyan's hands curled into fists again—not from anger, but from pain so deep it had nowhere to go.
"He was my family," he whispered. "My little brother. And they lied to me about everything. They made me believe he… he died because of you. They turned my grief into hatred."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
He didn't wipe it away.
He let it fall.
I slowly reached out and touched his arm.
He didn't pull away.
His breath trembled, and his eyes closed as if the smallest touch was enough to break him.
"Why didn't I see it?" he whispered. "Why didn't I listen to him? Why didn't I… go to him that night?"
"Because you're human," I whispered. "Because you were hurting too. Because no one told you the truth."
A small, wounded sound escaped him—half breath, half sob.
I took another step.
He looked up, his eyes full of confusion, pain, guilt, and something softer underneath—something he wasn't ready to name.
"Aarvi…" he breathed.
Before I could speak, his control finally cracked.
His shoulders shook.
He turned away, bracing a hand against the wall, trying to hide the tears that had already fallen.
But he couldn't hide anymore.
Not from himself.
Not from me.
I moved closer, gently placing a hand on his back.
He stiffened—
then slowly…
he let himself lean into the touch.
Not fully.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough to tell me that this was the first time he wasn't pretending to be strong.
He whispered so quietly I barely heard him:
"I miss him."
My heart broke.
"I know," I whispered back.
He covered his face with his hand, voice cracking:
"I don't know who to trust. I don't know who did this. I don't know why they used your name. I don't know anything anymore."
I took a deep breath and said the only thing I knew was true:
"You're not alone in this anymore."
Slowly… painfully slowly…
he lowered his hand and turned toward me.
His eyes were red.
His expression devastated.
But something in his chest eased—just barely—like he finally let air back into his lungs.
"Aarvi," he said, voice fragile, "I don't deserve your support."
"Maybe," I whispered, "but you need it."
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he whispered:
"Stay."
My breath caught.
He didn't mean forever.
He didn't mean romantically.
He didn't mean as a wife.
He meant in this moment—
in this grief—
in this truth.
Stay.
So I did.
I stood beside him, my hand on his arm, the grief between us finally shared instead of thrown.
And for the first time since I married Riyan Malhotra…
I felt him break.
And I felt him begin to heal.