“The day we signed the divorce papers, she smiled and told me to be thankful I could go quietly. I couldn’t find a house, a car, not even the kids. Six months later, one of my phone phones transferred him one crore rupees, not a penny less. ”

I am Anika, 32 years old, and an accountant in a small private company in Andheri (Mumbai). I met Raghav at the age of 27, when he was running a chain of mobile accessories shops in Mumbai and Thane. At the time, I thought I was lucky to have a talented, mature person. Raghav was 5 years older than me, spoke well, and knew how to please women. He once said:

“Marry me, you’ll only be happy.” Women who think too much about money can’t keep men close to them. I foolishly assumed that I was an exception.

After three years of marriage, I quit my job and stayed at home to raise the children. All the expenses depended on Raghav. The land ownership of the Bandra apartment was not in my name, and his savings account was also in my name. The car was bought before the wedding. All the property “accidentally” went to an obscure area that the law could not reach.

Then one day, I came to know that Raghav was having an affair with someone. Not just one person, but with many people – from a secretary in Lower Parel to a new graduate doing an internship at BKC. I made a lot of noise. In response, she said indifferently:

“If you want a divorce, sign it.” It’s my house, it’s my car. You can’t raise a child, let me do it. ”

I was shocked to the point that I couldn’t find the words. I spent my youth believing in love and sacrifice. But the court, as she said, ruled: the house is separate property, the car was purchased before marriage, the child was given to someone who has financial resources. I left with some clothes, a little savings, and a broken heart.

I went back to Nagpur for some time, to live with my parents. I cried every night. But one day, my mother looked me straight in the eyes and said:

“Instead of crying, why don’t you stand up?” You used to be the best student in school. Now you’re going to let that guy laugh at you?”

This sentence was like a slap in the face. I started studying again. I enrolled in an online digital marketing course, then applied for a freelance job. First I wrote content for rent, then advertised on Facebook/Instagram for a clothing store in Mumbai. There wasn’t much money, but I thought I was moving on.

Three months later, I met Priya – my old college friend, who is now working in the tech industry in Pune. Priya was shocked to know that I was divorced. She introduced me to a small startup group where hurt women were trying to make a comeback. I learned a lot, especially about digitizing personal data, trace transactions, and digital forensics.

Accidentally looking at my old phone, I came across messages and pictures sent by Raghav to his girlfriend, which was visible in front of my eyes, I was shocked…

There were some highly sensitive passages, including GST evasion, fake invoices and off-the-book records of the store system.

My heart was pounding. My accountant instincts were awakened. I realized: When we were newlyweds, I was in charge of his basic books. I still had some Excel files, statements, and even missed GST invoices.

I suddenly realized: Even if I was bankrupt at the time of the divorce, if I had evidence of illegal trading, I could force her to kneel.

I started gathering documents, exporting every WhatsApp chat (with a time hash), exporting emails, and comparing them to the financial reports submitted to the tax authorities. All were pointing to the same thing: Raghav had evaded taxes worth lakhs of rupees, let alone paid salaries to employees without disclosing them, and even evaded corporate income tax.

I showed the documents to Priya. She was shocked:

“This can be reported not only to the Income Tax Department and GST Intelligence, but also to the Economic Offences Wing (EOW). ”

I didn’t want him to go to jail. I didn’t want much. I just wanted justice — to tell him what it feels like to lose everything.

I asked him to call me without giving any reason. He laughed when he heard my voice:

“Did you dial the wrong number?”

I calmly sent a PDF file. It summed up all the evidence I had: photos of fake invoices, a history of transfers between subsidiaries, excerpts from text messages between lovers. I only sent this sentence:

“Transfer Rs 1 crore to me within 24 hours, or else I will send this file to Income Tax, DGGI and EOW Mumbai. ”

Ten minutes later, he called back, his voice trembling:

“What do you want? Blackmail?”

I smiled:

“No, I just wanted to remind you – there is a price to pay, in money, or in freedom. ”

24 hours later, I had Rs 1,00,00,000 in my account, which was transferred from a subsidiary company in the name of Raghav’s cousin in Navi Mumbai. No message, no apology. Just a sum of money – the price of a life he had brutally crushed.

I didn’t spend any of that on myself. Some were sent to their parents in Nagpur. Some donated to a start-up fund for unmarried women founded by Priya in Pune. I deposited the rest in the bank – not to spend, but to remind myself: I fell, but not broke.

I never thought I would take revenge. But sometimes life requires retaliation so that people know their limits. Raghav didn’t go to jail, but I knew he would never dare to insult a woman again — especially the ex-wife he once thought had nothing on his hands.