He turned his gaze slowly toward Mr. and Mrs. Bisht, who were huddled together on the sofa. His expression shifted from obsession to cold, clinical boredom.

"Waise... aapka time ho gaya hai, Sasur-ji aur Sasu-maa," Dev said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather.

"Aapne apna kaam bakhubi kiya. Mere liye is Gulaab ko sambhal kar rakha, isse jhoot bola. 

Par ab... is kahani mein aapka kirdar khatam hota hai. Ab waqt hai aapka apni 'asli' beti ke paas jaane ka."

Anjali's heart plummeted. "Dev, What are you saying?"

Mr. Bisht stood up, his face pale but determined for the first time in his life.

"Anjali! Beta jaoo yahan se! Yahan se niklo, beta!—"

Before he could finish, Dev's hand moved with lightning speed. He didn't use a gun.

He pulled a thin, piano-wire  from his pocket. In one fluid, psychotic motion, he stepped behind Mr. Bisht.

"Nahi!" Anjali screamed, rushing forward, but two bodyguards grabbed her arms, pinning her back.

Dev pulled the wire tight. He leaned into Mr. Bisht's ear, whispering as the man struggled for air.

"Shhh... aapne kaha tha na ki aap sach batana chahte the? Yeh lijiye, ab upar jaakar sach batate rahna."

Mrs. Bisht let out a blood-curdling shriek, throwing herself at Dev's feet, begging, but Dev simply kicked her aside with a look of pure disgust. 

As Mr. Bisht's body went limp, Dev let him fall like a discarded rag.

He then turned to Mrs. Bisht, who was paralyzed with terror.

 He pulled a silver khanjar from his waistband.

"Gulaab ko khilne ke liye purani mitti hatani padti hai," he murmured, his eyes wide and dancing with a manic light.

Anjali watched in a trance of pure horror as Dev finished his work with a sickening, rhythmic precision.

The white wedding flowers were sprayed with a violent, hot crimson. 

The house, which was supposed to host a celebration, had become a slaughterhouse in a matter of seconds.

Dev stood in the middle of the room, his white shirt stained with blood, looking like a demon reborn. He turned to Anjali, the knife still dripping in his hand.

"Ab tumhare paas koi nahi hai, gulaab. No parents. No past. No lies. Sirf main hoon."

The guards loosened their grip for a split second, shocked by the sheer brutality.

 Anjali didn't think.

She didn't feel the pain in her feet. 

She turned and bolted toward the stairs, her screams echoing through the hallways.

She scrambled up the steps, her bloodied bandages leaving a trail on the expensive carpet.

"Ohh hide and seek khel rahe hai kya interesting!" Dev's voice roared from downstairs, followed by his chilling, echoing laughter.

"Chupo jaha chupna hai..dhoond lunga mai tumhe!"

Anjali reached her room and slammed the door, locking it with trembling hands, her back hitting the wood as she slid down to the floor,

 gasping for air in a house that had just become her tomb.

In her room, Anjali's hands shook so violently she almost dropped the phone. Her vision was blurred by tears, but her mind was crystal clear. 

She didn't need a contact list; she didn't need to search. That ten-digit number was burned into her soul, a lifeline she had forgotten for four years but was now her only hope.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

"Hello?"

The voice hit her like a tidal wave—deep, steady, and filled with a familiar warmth that made her knees buckle. 

She collapsed against the locked door, clutching the phone as if it were Aryan himself.

"A-Aryan..." she sobbed, her voice a fragile, broken whisper.

 "M-mujhe bacha lo... m-mujhe ye s-shadi nahi karni... please!"

Meanwhile;

Aryan stood in the center of his living room, his family watching him in stunned silence. The air in the mansion was thick with tension. 

He held the phone to his ear, his knuckles turning white. Hearing her voice—really hearing her voice calling his name with that specific, desperate tone—shattered the last of his restraints.

The "Old Aryan" was gone. The "Cowardly Aryan" was dead.

 What remained was a man who would set the world on fire to reach his queen.

"MAI AA RAHA HOON!" he roared into the phone.

The line went dead, but his resolve was absolute. He turned toward the door, his eyes blazing with a lethal intensity.

"Bhai! Kahan ja rahe ho?" Aahan shouted, stepping forward in confusion.

 Arushi and his mother looked on, their hearts in their throats.

Aryan paused at the threshold, his silhouette framed by the morning sun, looking every bit the warrior he used to be.

 He turned his head slightly, his voice dropping to a low, terrifying growl.

"APNI BIWI KO LENE."

He didn't wait for a response. He sprinted to his car, the engine roaring to life with a primal scream. He shifted into gear and tore out of the driveway, the tires screeching against the asphalt.

As he pushed the car to its highest speed, Tanishka's words echoed in his head. He still didn't fully realize that she had regained her memories; he only knew that she had called him. 

She had asked for him.

"Bas thodi der aur, Jaan," he thought, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

 "I don't care if I have to walk through hell Maine tumhe ek baar khoya hai, dobara nahi khounga. Mai aa raha hoon, jaan... tumhara Aryan aa raha hai."

Aryan gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, the engine of his SUV roaring as he pushed it past its limits. 

His mind was a storm of fear and fury, but he needed eyes on the ground. He snatched his phone and dialed a number he had memorized during his days at the cafe.

"Hello?" a voice answered, sounding confused.

"Reeva! Main Aryan bol raha hoon. Tum kahan ho?"

Reeva's voice sharpened instantly. 

"Main apne ghar mein hoon, Aryan. Kya hua? Tumhari awaaz aisi kyun—"

"Mujhe Anjali ka call aaya tha," Aryan cut her off, his voice thick with desperation.

 "Voh kisi  khatre mein hai, Reeva. Please, uske paas jao. Jab tak main wahan nahi pahunchta, usse akela mat chhodna!"

On the other end, Reeva didn't ask questions. She saw the urgency in his tone. 

She immediately stood up, handing little Falak to the neighbour aunty with a hurried explanation.

"On the way!" she shouted into the phone before the call disconnected.

Behind the locked door of her room, Anjali was a ghost of herself. 

She sat huddled on the floor, her hands trembling so violently she had to tuck them under her arms.

The image of Mr. and Mrs. Bisht—their life stolen in a heartbeat of psychotic violence—replayed behind her eyelids every time she blinked.

Sab meri wajah se hua hai, she sobbed silently. 

They had lied to her, yes. They had been selfish, keeping her from her real life to fill the void of their own lost daughter. But they hadn't been monsters.

 They had given her a home when she was broken, and they didn't deserve to end as collateral damage in Dev's madness.

Then, she heard it.

The rhythmic, slow thud of footsteps on the grand staircase. 

The sound was deliberate, echoing through the hollow silence of the mansion.

"Gulaab..."

The voice was low, melodic, and utterly terrifying. Anjali heard the faint metallic shring of a knife being wiped—

a blade cleaning off the blood of the only "parents" she had known for four years.