I hadn’t even completed deleting my makeup when my father-in-law banged the door. In that luxurious 5-star hotel room, everything unexpectedly felt cold and suffocating.
He did not glance at me. I just slipped a wad of cash into my hand—ten $100 bills—and sputtered:
“If you want to live, leave right now. Tonight.”
I froze. My heart felt like it had been splashed with icy water.
My name is Anjali, and I’m a 26-year-old accountant with a construction firm in Delhi. I met Raghav, my husband, at a corporate partnership conference for our firms. Raghav is three years older, a young, gorgeous, and charming CEO and the sole son of a wealthy and well-known Lucknow family. Our romance progressed swiftly. Within six months, he had proposed.
My family is normal. My parents are retired government clerks. When Raghav asked for my hand, my mother cried with joy, and even my severe father gave his approval. I’d always been the obedient daughter, never thinking I’d make the wrong decision.
The wedding was lavish, hosted in one of Delhi’s best hotels. Everyone praised me for “marrying rich.” But I was not marrying him for money. He made me feel safe.
Until the wedding night.
My father-in-law — Mr. Rajendra Mehta — was a quiet, reserved man. From the first time we met, I’d felt he didn’t like me. But never did I think he’d say something like that — on the night of his son’s wedding.
“I… I don’t understand. What do you mean, uncle?” I shouted, still in sh0ck.
He tightened his grip on my hand and muttered like someone frightened of being overheard:
“Don’t ask questions. The moment you step outside, someone will be waiting. Don’t come back.
This is all I can do for you.”
Then he looked at me — haunted, frightened — as if doing this might cost him his life.
And then… he left.
I stood there, shaking, a thousand questions mulling over.
In the other room, Raghav was laughing on the phone with his friends — oblivious to what had just occured.
I terrified. I didn’t know who to trust. Then I called the only person I could — my best friend, Priya.
“Have you lost your mind?! Run away on your wedding night? Did someone scare you?” she said.
I told her everything. She went quiet. Then said:
“If your father-in-law said that, it’s terrible. I’m coming to get you.”
Ten minutes later, Priya was waiting outside the hotel lobby.
I took my suitcase behind me, head down like a fugitive. It was 2:17 a.m.
A gentle mizzle was falling over Delhi.
I hid at Priya’s apartment. Switched off my phone.
Thirty missed calls from my mother. Countless from my in-laws. From Raghav.
But I was horrified. I didn’t know what I was fearful — Raghav… or his entire family.
The next morning, when Priya was at work, I finally turned on my phone.
Hundreds of messages poured in, some criticizing, imploring, and threatening.
Only one stuck out.
Message from an unknown number:
“My dad is a good man. But he will be unable to save you. If you return, you’ll either find out the truth — or disappear forever.”
That night, Mr. Mehta contacted me directly:
“If you’re still in Delhi, meet me. One time only. 8 p.m. Cafe Imperial, second floor. I’ll tell you everything.”
I had to go.
The cafe was old, located in a quiet alley in Old Delhi.
I climbed the wooden staircase. He was already there, waiting with tired eyes.
He spoke quickly and quietly.
“As you know, Raghav is our only son. Do you know how his first wife died?
I froze.
“He… he was married before?”
He nodded.
“No one told you. She died two months after the wedding. Fell down the stairs, they said. But everyone in this house knows… it wasn’t an accident. I never dared say anything. But I’m telling you now — because you’re next.”
My blood ran cold. Then he pulled out a USB drive.
“Take this. It has a voice recording and a few documents. See for yourself. But don’t let anyone know.”
“Why don’t you take this to the police?” I asked.
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Because even the police won’t touch this family.”
I opened the USB after I got back to Priya’s flat.
There were multiple files: An 8-minute audio recording. Medical documents have been scanned.
A partially censored handwritten report.
I started by playing the audio.
A woman’s voice, clear and shaking from fear:
“I cannot stay here. Raghav has not let me leave the house since our wedding.
He changes the locks every week.
His mother insists that I have a son or I will be ‘taken care of,’ just like the others.
“I’m not sure what I did wrong.”
Neha, Raghav’s previous wife, spoke. Her name appears on several of the documents.
The recording was made two days before she di:ed.
Mr. Mehta provided a written report documenting years of unusual conduct, family obsessions, and a terrible family history.
A history of psychological instability. A great-grandfather murdered his wife, believing that “a virgin’s blood preserves family fortune.”
A mother-in-law who was preoccupied with astrology and ritual believed that a daughter-in-law had to bear a male heir within the first year or suffer “elimination.”
Neha di:ed after a fall within three months of their marriage.
Another anonymous ex-wife reportedly committed suicide.
Everything was brushed under the rug.
I felt nauseated.
Raghav, the man who had kissed my forehead just the day before, was in the center of a terrifying situation.
I wanted to flee. But Priya stopped me.
“You can’t simply disappear. They will know.
We need a plan. “I’ll help you.”
I gathered the records with Priya and a journalist buddy, then anonymously submitted them to authorities and contacted a lawyer.
Three days later, an official investigation was initiated. It was not top news, but it was serious enough. Raghav’s family was summoned. For the first time, Mr. Mehta agreed to testify.
Several weeks later, I officially filed for divorce. Raghav did not react as I had expected. He simply gazed at me and said:
“So you’re leaving, too. “Exactly like the others.”
I shuddered.
There was no hint of regret in his gaze.
One month later, the probe was quietly concluded. His family used money and influence to quiet the press, but the legal community proved more difficult to control.
I’m not sure what will happen to Raghav.
I no longer care.
I left Delhi and relocated to Mumbai. Starting afresh. My parents were heartbroken, yet they supported me.
I don’t trust readily anymore.
But I do know one thing: I survived.
Some time later, I received a handwritten note. No name. Just a message:
“You did the correct thing. Thank you for giving me courage. — “Your father-in-law.”
I broke down crying.
There are some things you never expect to happen – until they do.
I am no longer the Anjali who believed in storybook love.
But I believe in one thing:
No truth is more terrifying than living a falsehood.
