My new life in Mumbai was not easy, but I learned to appreciate every breath of freedom. I rented a small room near the station, took a temporary job at a small accounting firm. Every morning, I woke up to the sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sound of traffic outside — not the sound of locks turning in the night, not my mother-in-law’s prying eyes, not Raghav’s sweet but hollow smile.

I gradually recovered.

Priya still video calls me regularly, reminds me to eat, sleep, and occasionally sends me a short news story about “financial turmoil” in the Mehta group. Although the press cannot name them, I know — the truth is eating them from the inside.

One September morning, as I was sorting through documents in my office, my phone rang. An unfamiliar number.

I hesitated. But in the end, I picked up the phone.

Male voice, trembling:

“Anjali? I am Suresh, the new attorney appointed by the family of Mr. Rajendra Mehta. He passed away this morning due to a stroke.”

I was speechless.

Even though we weren’t close, I owed him my life. If it weren’t for his warning… I would have “fallen down the stairs” like Neha.

“I was told… that if anything happened to him, I was to send you a set of his personal files.” The lawyer hesitated. “That was his last wish.”

I received the package the next day. Inside was a thick file, carefully wrapped in white cloth. There was a short handwritten note:

Anjali,
I have lived my whole life in silence. But thanks to you, I have the courage to speak my last word.
If you want to continue — use this file. If not, burn it. I will not blame you.
But know this: you are the only one who will escape. And maybe the last one who can save those who come after.

– Rajendra Mehta

I opened it with trembling hands. Inside were secret files, recordings, secret money transfers, letters from former servants—all describing the same truth: the Mehtas were a power hidden behind an upper-class facade. The women who entered the family were required to abide by a dark “tradition”—give birth to a son, keep the bloodline, or disappear without a trace.

I stood at a crossroads: either forget, or do something bigger.

I choose the second one.

With the help of a women’s rights NGO, I made the whole file public. This time, the media could not ignore it. Missing persons cases that had been unsolved for years were reopened. Human rights agencies were involved.

Raghav was investigated again — but this time centrally. His mother fled to Singapore. But there was nowhere far enough to hide forever.

Three months later, police found the remains of a woman hidden on the grounds of the Mehta mansion — confirmed to be those of an “unregistered ex-wife.”

The news shocked the whole country.

I don’t talk to the press. I don’t accept interviews. I just quietly do one thing:

Founded the Neha Foundation — a foundation that helps women escape toxic marriages.

I named it after the woman I never met, but who sent the first warning, via USB.

One year later.

I was sitting on the terrace of a small cafe in Bandra, the afternoon breeze was cool. I was wearing a simple beige sari, my hair was tied in a loose bun, a cup of hot tea in my hand.

A man approached.

It’s Ajay — my old friend from college, now a reporter for a prestigious newspaper.

“You live so differently,” he laughed.

“I have to live differently,” I replied. “Because I have gone where many do not return.”

He didn’t ask any more questions. We talked about books, about movies, about the monsoon. No one mentioned Raghav. No one mentioned the past.

But in those eyes, I saw something simple yet profound: peace.

I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe I’ll fall in love again. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life alone.

But I know one thing for sure:

I am no longer the bride on her wedding night trembling with fear.

I am a survivor.

And from here, I live — for myself. And for the women who didn’t get to say their last words.

Because… there is no truth more terrifying than living in a lie.