Riyan didn't move.
Not for a long moment.
He stood at the edge of the staircase, fingers gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white, as if letting go would make him fall apart.
The attic felt smaller now.
Colder.
Like it was closing in on us.
"Riyan…" I whispered carefully.
He didn't answer.
His chest rose sharply, then stuttered, like his lungs forgot how to work.
"That voice," he said finally, so softly it barely existed,
"wasn't similar."
My heart tightened.
"It was his."
I swallowed hard. "It could've been someone imitating—"
"No."
He cut me off instantly.
"No one imitates that."
He turned slowly to face me, and the look in his eyes shattered something inside my chest.
It wasn't hope.
It was terror.
"He used to say sorry like that," Riyan whispered. "Low. Like he didn't want to disturb anyone. Like he already believed he was a burden."
His breath broke.
"I buried him," he said hoarsely. "I watched them lower the coffin. I signed the papers. I burned his clothes."
He dragged a hand down his face.
"And still… I just heard him."
My legs felt weak.
"What if," I whispered carefully, "someone wants you to believe he's alive?"
Riyan laughed—a sharp, broken sound.
"Why would anyone do that?" he demanded. "Why would they play with grief like this?"
I didn't answer.
Because the answer was obvious.
Power.
Fear.
Control.
He stepped away suddenly, pacing the attic like a trapped animal.
"I punished you," he said, voice cracking with guilt. "I married you to hurt you. I watched you suffer. I let my family humiliate you—"
He stopped in front of me abruptly.
"And all this time… the real enemy was laughing."
I shook my head gently. "You didn't know."
"But I should have," he snapped, then immediately softened.
"I should have protected him. And you."
Silence fell between us, heavy and aching.
Then—without warning—his shoulders sagged.
Just a little.
Enough to show how exhausted he truly was.
"What if I'm losing my mind?" he whispered. "What if grief finally broke me?"
I stepped closer.
"You're not imagining this," I said firmly. "There are clues. The messages. The attic. The recordings. The intruder. Someone wants us to follow this trail."
He looked at me, eyes searching.
"You believe me?"
"Yes."
"You believe I heard him?"
"Yes."
His breath hitched.
Slowly, like he was afraid of scaring it away, he asked:
"Then… what if he's alive?"
The words felt dangerous to say out loud.
I didn't answer immediately.
Because hope could destroy as much as it could heal.
Instead, I said softly:
"If he is alive… then someone went to extreme lengths to erase him."
Riyan's jaw tightened.
"To protect themselves," he murmured.
"Yes."
A terrible realization dawned on his face.
"This isn't just about Arjun's death," he said. "This is about something bigger. Something tied to the company. The family. The people who benefited from him disappearing."
I nodded slowly.
"And they used me," I whispered. "As the perfect scapegoat."
His eyes darkened with rage.
"I won't let that happen again."
He took a step closer, voice low and intense.
"I swear to you, Aarvi—if Arjun is alive, I will find him. And if he's not…"
His voice shook.
"I will destroy whoever did this to him."
The attic suddenly felt too open.
Too exposed.
I glanced toward the staircase. "We shouldn't stay here. Whoever that man was… he knows the house better than we do."
Riyan exhaled slowly, regaining control piece by piece.
"You're right."
Before we left, his gaze swept across the attic one last time.
Then he noticed something.
A corner of the wall—
where the wallpaper was slightly torn.
He walked over and peeled it back.
Behind it—
A symbol carved into the wood.
Small.
Deliberate.
Repeated.
The same symbol I had seen before.
On the edge of the USB drive.
On the wooden box.
A triangle, intersected by a line.
Riyan stared at it, expression grim.
"This is a mark," he said. "Not random. Someone's signature."
My pulse quickened.
"Meaning?"
He looked at me, voice steady but deadly.
"This wasn't done by one person acting alone."
A chill ran through me.
"It was planned," I whispered.
"Yes," he replied.
"And now they know we're getting close."
We turned to leave the attic together.
But just as we reached the hidden staircase, Riyan paused.
"Aarvi."
I turned.
His voice was quiet. Honest. Bare.
"Thank you… for staying. Even when I didn't deserve it."
My chest tightened.
"I stayed because you needed someone," I said softly. "And because the truth deserves to be found."
He nodded once.
And as we descended into the shadows of the hidden passage, one truth echoed between us:
This was no longer just a story of hate and marriage.
It was a war against a secret powerful enough to fake a death.