The rich, deep crimson of her bridal lehenga felt like a heavy, beautiful shroud. Aarohi Menon, the bride, stood utterly still outside the private ward door. The pristine white hallway of the expensive Mumbai hospital was a stark contrast to her elaborate wedding attire—the intricate gold zari work, the heavy dupattas, and the traditional choora bangles on her wrists.
She looked angelic and heartbreakingly beautiful, her eyes—usually vibrant—now shadowed with unshed tears. Through the clear glass panel, she saw him: Rajeshwar Kapoor, her biological father. He lay still on the bed, an array of monitors beeping softly around him, the victim of a sudden critical heart attack. Unconscious.
A tall, imposing figure in a crisp black suit, Ravi—her new husband's senior bodyguard—approached her respectfully.
"Madam," Ravi's voice was low and urgent; his head was slightly bowed. "We need to go to the airport. Sir is coming directly to the Bangalore Airport, but he has instructed us to ensure you reach Mumbai first, via his private jet. We can't afford any delay."
Aarohi lifted her hand to the glass, a silent, final farewell to the man she barely knew, the man whose heart had failed before it could ever truly acknowledge her. Taking one last, deep breath, she turned and let the bodyguards guide her away.
As she reached the hospital entrance, she saw Sana Khan, her personal secretary, waiting. Aarohi had already texted her: I'm leaving with Ravi and the bodyguards to the airport. You come directly. I'll meet you there.
In her husband's Rolls-Royce, Aarohi felt the surreal juxtaposition of wealth and despair. The car was opulent; the emotion was raw. Two black SUVs carrying her husband's security detail followed diligently.
They arrived at the Mumbai International Airport's private terminal. Her husband's secretary, Gaurav Mehta, an impeccably dressed man, was waiting by the ticket counter.
"Madam, this way please. Mr. Varma is expecting you," he said, moving to take her bag.
"Wait," Aarohi said, pausing. "My secretary is arriving."
Just then, Sana rushed in, wearing a dark cap and a discreet black mask, blending in perfectly with the high-profile surroundings. She gave a quick, professional nod to Aarohi.
Gaurav led them out onto the tarmac where a sleek, custom-fitted Gulfstream G650ER sat waiting. Its interior was a study in minimalist luxury: cream leather seating, polished dark wood accents, soft, recessed LED lighting, and a small, fully stocked galley.
Aarohi stepped inside. Her husband was already seated in one of the plush club chairs, a tablet resting on his lap.
"Wifey, come, take a seat," Vihaan Varma called out, his voice a calm baritone.
"I will change this first," Aarohi replied, gesturing to the heavy lehenga. She went straight to the large master bedroom section with Sana.
Sana quickly produced the pre-packed outfit: a chic, sleeveless, sky-blue silk one-piece dress that fell just above the knee, paired with metallic silver stiletto heels. Aarohi shed the bridal armor, changing into the casual, easy attire, shedding the weight of the moment that had been interrupted.
When she emerged, Vihaan looked up, a faint smile touching his lips. She settled into the seat next to him, turning her gaze out the window as the jet began to taxi.
The world outside blurred, mirroring the turmoil in her mind.
Just a few hours earlier...
Aarohi was in her sleek, modern London office, reviewing quarterly reports, when the call came. It was from Ramesh Shah, her father's longtime business manager, telling her about Rajeshwar Kapoor's collapse.
Twelve years. It had been twelve years since she had seen him.
She was eleven when her mother, Meena Das, took her to meet her father for the first time in a high-end hotel suite.
"Rajeshwar," her mother had said, her voice strained but firm. "I know you are married to Sunita Kapoor and you have a daughter, Ananya Kapoor, but that night we spent together... this is your daughter. You need to accept her."
Rajeshwar's face, usually so composed in the magazines, was hard. "No, I will not accept her as my daughter. That night was a mistake. I love my wife, Sunita, and my daughter, Ananya. I have a family."
"I know you love them, but I have blood cancer, Rajeshwar. I will die any day now. My daughter is the same age as yours. She needs a father."
But he hadn't listened. He simply left the suite, leaving them alone.
Meena had hugged Aarohi tightly, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so sorry, baby. I couldn't get you your father."
Two years later, Meena died in a small hospital room. Her mother's friend, whom she called her brother, Girish Menon, adopted her. Girish and his wife, Priya Menon, who already had a son, Dev Menon (two years older than Aarohi), treated her like their own. She was their princess. They had settled in their lavish mansion, The Magnolia Villa, in Knightsbridge, London.