My name is Arjun Mehra, 20 years old, 180 cm tall, a second-year student at a well-known university in New Delhi. My life was normal—until I met Kavita Rao, a 60-year-old wealthy woman who once owned a chain of luxury restaurants in Mumbai, but was now retired.

 

We met at a school charity event in Gurugram.

Kavita looked stunning—her hair silver like moonlight, her eyes sharp yet gentle. The slow, graceful confidence in her walk held my attention in a way I couldn’t explain.

Later, she invited me for tea at her old mansion in South Delhi.

We talked for hours. I was deeply moved by her life story: a woman who had everything—power, money, fame—yet lived utterly alone. No children, a marriage that faded away in silence.

I didn’t realize when I fell in love with her. Not for her money—
but because of the way she looked at me…
like someone who had experienced loss and understood it.

Three months later, on a rainy night, I knelt before her and said:

“I don’t care about age. All I know is that I want to be with you.”

The news spread everywhere.

My family was furious—they thought I had been “bought.”

My father, a retired army officer, slammed his hand on the table:

“You’re disgracing this family! She’s as old as your mother!”

My mother cried until her eyes were dry. Friends mocked me.

But I didn’t care.

I left home and arranged the wedding myself.

The wedding took place in Mrs. Kavita’s villa, attended only by her old acquaintances—wealthy businessmen. I was the youngest person there, and every stare carried curiosity or contempt.

On the wedding night my heart was pounding.

The room glowed with hundreds of fragrant candles. Mrs. Kavita stepped out of the bathroom in a white silk nightgown, perfume trailing behind her.

She sat beside me, her eyes soft yet unreadable.

Then she handed me a thick file, three copies of land-ownership documents for a plot in Mumbai, and keys to a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom.

I was stunned.

“What… what are you doing? I don’t need these.”

She smiled faintly—soft yet cold.

“Arjun, if you’ve chosen this path, you deserve to know the truth. I did not marry you simply because I’m lonely. I married you because… I need an heir.”

Blood rushed to my head.

“Heir? What do you mean?”

Kavita looked straight into my eyes, her voice low:

“I have no children. My property—worth over 200 crores—will go to those relatives who hope for my death. I want you to have everything. But…”

She paused, inhaling deeply.

“There is one condition.”

The air grew heavy.

I swallowed.

“What condition…?”

She didn’t look away.

“Tonight, you must truly become my husband. Not just on paper.
If you can’t do that, I will tear up all these documents tomorrow… and cancel my will.”

My hands trembled as I reached for her. But the moment my hand touched the silky, cold fabric over her skin, she suddenly grabbed my wrist, her eyes flashing:

“Wait, Arjun. Before you go any further… you must know the truth about my ex-husband’s death.”

The Secret in the Night

The room fell silent.

Wind whistled through the window, flickering the candle flames.

“Ten years ago,” she said softly, “he died in this very room. People said it was an accident—but the truth… is different.”

My throat tightened.

“You… you mean…”

She spoke calmly, like recounting an old story:

“My ex-husband once planned to sell all my property and run away with another woman. That night we fought. He had a heart attack, he collapsed… and I simply stood there. I didn’t call an ambulance.”

She paused, her eyes unnervingly calm.

“Since that day, I stopped trusting men. But when I met you, I felt foolish… because I wanted to trust again.”

I pulled back, my mind spinning.

The room felt suffocating.

“Why… why are you telling me this?” I asked, trembling.

She whispered:

“Because if you want to be my husband, you must know what you’re stepping into. I don’t need someone who loves me—I need someone who has the courage to stay with me despite my past.”

I sat silently, heart racing.

In the flickering candlelight, I realized:

This marriage wasn’t just about emotions—
it was the beginning of something dark, where love, sin, and ambition lay only a breath apart.

And I—barely 20—was stepping into a game ruled entirely by my 60-year-old wife.

The Night in the Rao Mansion — When a Young Husband Learns That Death Is Never “Natural”

The Rao family mansion stood at the edge of South Delhi, surrounded by silent palm groves. At night, the wind whistled through the windows, making the white silk curtains sway.

It was my wedding night—
Arjun Mehra, 20,
and Kavita Rao, the area’s richest 60-year-old widow.

But instead of whispers of love, I heard words that froze my blood.

“You didn’t save him. You let him die.”

Kavita’s voice was steady—deep, like a confession, yet utterly calm.

I looked at her—my wife, and the greatest mystery of my life—and felt the room spinning.

At some point I fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes, moonlight had flooded the room.

Mrs. Kavita was gone.

The door was slightly open, wind making the curtains sway.

Suddenly, I noticed a large portrait in the corner, covered with a red cloth.

I don’t know why, but I walked to it and pulled the cloth down.

A man’s face stared back—dark eyes, sharp nose, a mysterious half-smile.

Below it, in golden letters:

“Mr. Rakesh Rao – 1948–2013.”

Her dead husband.

But what chilled me was the feeling…
that his eyes were looking straight at me.

Below the frame was a small hidden slot.
I tugged it open, and nearly stopped breathing.

Inside was a red-wax-sealed envelope:

“Last Will and Testament – Rakesh Rao.”

His will.

I froze, listening only to my own heartbeat.

I took the envelope and walked into the long moonlit hallway. At the far end, there was still light in Kavita’s room.

The door was half open.
I could hear her on the phone—her voice low, cold, controlled.

“No, the old will is hidden. I told you to make sure no one finds it. If anyone discovers it, everything will fall apart.”

I stepped back, heart pounding.

Hidden… the old will?

So she never destroyed it!

Back in my room, I opened the envelope.
Inside were four yellowed sheets.

My hands shook as I read:

“I leave 20% of my estate to my wife, Kavita Rao.

The remaining 80% shall go to my only son, born in 1989 and currently living in London.”

I froze.

A son?
Mrs. Kavita had said she had no children.

The next morning I pretended everything was normal. She was calm—as if nothing had happened.

But inside me, a storm raged.

I remembered: the third floor had a locked room—“the archive room,” she had said, strictly off limits.

That night, I went silently upstairs.
And then—I heard a voice inside.

A man’s voice. Weak, heavy.

“Mom… I want to go out…”

I froze.

Clearly the voice of a young man.

I glanced around and found a key hanging behind a Ganesha statue. My hand trembled as I inserted it.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

A dim light filled the room.
And I saw him—thin, pale, wild-eyed. Around 30.

He turned to look at me.

“Who are you?”

I stepped back.

“And… who are you?”

He laughed hollowly.

“I’m Rahul Rao. Kavita’s son.”

My breath caught.

“But… she said she has no children.”

Rahul smirked.

“She had no children in public.
I am the result of her first marriage. When my father Rakesh found out, he tried to give his entire estate to me. But that night… he died.”

Rahul stepped closer, eyes red:

“Do you know why I’ve been locked here for seven years?
Because I know too much.”

I stumbled out in a daze.

Everything—love, respect, trust—crumbled.

That night she entered my room, smiling as always.

“You don’t look well, Arjun. Something wrong?”

I looked at her—silver-haired, beautiful, terrifying.

Only one question echoed in my mind:

“Who are you really?”

I placed the will on the table.

She glanced at it, closed her eyes briefly, and smiled faintly.

“So you found it.”

Her voice was light as air—but carried a chilling resonance.

“Good. Now you understand, Arjun.
Love always comes with power.
And in this house, those who know too much… cannot leave.”

I stepped back.

She moved closer, touched my cheek, and whispered:

“He told me the same thing.
And now… I tell you.”

The candle went out.

Darkness filled the room.

And in that moment I realized—I had become the second man trapped in Kavita Rao’s deadly game.