We didn't speak on the way back to our rooms.
Not because there was nothing to say—
but because there was too much.
The house felt different now.
Every wall suspicious.
Every shadow watching.
When I closed my bedroom door, my hands were still trembling.
I leaned against it, breathing slowly, trying to calm the storm inside my chest.
Arjun might be alive.
The thought was terrifying.
And hopeful.
And dangerous.
I moved toward the bed when something caught my eye.
My bedside drawer—
slightly open.
I froze.
I was certain I had closed it.
Slowly, carefully, I walked closer.
The drawer slid open with the softest sound.
Inside, lying neatly on top of my folded clothes, was a file.
Thin.
Brown.
Old.
My name was written on it.
Not printed.
Handwritten.
AARVI SHARMA
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
I hadn't brought this file here.
Which meant—
Someone had been inside my room.
Recently.
I swallowed hard and opened it.
The first page was a hospital document.
But not from the hospital where Arjun supposedly died.
My eyes skimmed the heading—and my breath stopped.
PRIVATE MEDICAL TRANSFER RECORD
Patient Code: A.M.
Status: CRITICAL – TRANSFERRED
Transferred?
My fingers shook as I flipped the page.
Dates.
Times.
Signatures.
Everything matched the night Arjun was declared dead.
But one line burned itself into my vision:
"Patient stabilized after emergency intervention.
Official death report withheld per request."
Withheld.
Not issued.
Not confirmed.
Withheld.
My knees buckled, and I sat heavily on the bed.
"Oh my god…" I whispered.
Arjun didn't die that night.
He was moved.
Hidden.
Erased.
I flipped to the next page.
A handwritten note was clipped to the file.
Just one sentence.
"If Riyan finds this too early, he'll be killed."
My blood ran cold.
Killed?
I clutched the file to my chest, panic flooding my veins.
Whoever did this wasn't just powerful.
They were ruthless.
And they were still here.
A knock sounded at my door.
Sharp.
Urgent.
"Aarvi," Riyan's voice whispered, low and tense. "Open the door. Now."
My heart raced.
I rushed to the door and opened it.
Riyan stepped inside and locked it behind him instantly.
His eyes scanned the room.
"Did anyone come in here?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
I just handed him the file.
The moment he saw the first page, all color drained from his face.
"No," he whispered.
"No… no…"
He flipped through the pages rapidly, his hands shaking harder with each word he read.
"This… this is impossible," he said hoarsely.
I met his eyes.
"They faked his death," I whispered. "Riyan… your brother was alive when they declared him dead."
He staggered back, pressing a hand against the table.
"They told me he was gone," he breathed. "They showed me papers. They made me sign—"
"They made you grieve," I said softly. "While they hid him."
Silence crashed between us.
Then Riyan looked at me—really looked at me—his eyes blazing with rage, fear, and something dangerously close to hope.
"They put this in your room," he said slowly. "Not mine."
"Yes."
"Because you're the key," he realized. "Arjun trusted you. And they know it."
My stomach twisted.
"They're warning us," I whispered. "Or threatening us."
Riyan clenched his fists.
"No," he said, voice deadly calm.
"They're scared."
He stepped closer to me, lowering his voice.
"Aarvi… from this moment on, we trust no one in this house."
"Not even your mother?" I asked quietly.
His jaw tightened.
"Especially not her."
My breath hitched.
He looked down at the file again, then back at me.
"They tried to erase my brother," he said slowly.
"And they tried to turn you into the villain so no one would look deeper."
His eyes hardened.
"They failed."
I swallowed hard. "What do we do now?"
Riyan didn't hesitate.
"We don't react," he said. "Not yet."
He held up the file.
"We copy this. We hide it. And we pretend we know nothing."
My heart pounded.
"And then?"
A dangerous smile touched his lips.
"Then we hunt."
A chill ran down my spine—not fear, but resolve.
Because whoever faked Arjun Malhotra's death…
Had no idea what they'd just unleashed.