Innocence doesn't need to scream. It just needs someone to believe in it loud enough.
~Ritvika Roy
They didn't buried my father yet, but they've already given him the noose.
The courtroom was cold, not in temperature but in truth. I could feel it in the marble floors that didn't echo, in the silence that didn't breathe, and in the eyes, hungry, judgmental, ready to hang a man not yet proven guilty.
My father sat in the accused box like a ghost. Shoulders squared, jaw clenched. Not broken. Just... waiting for the storm to pass. But storms don't pass when they've been named after you.
"Harshvardhan Roy," the prosecutor snapped, voice sharp and theatrical, "funneled illicit funds to terror groups through shell corporations disguised as Roy Foundation subsidiaries."
I didn't flinch. Not when the press wrote it. Not when whispers filled our own home. But hearing it now, from him?
From Aksh Raghuvanshi.
The man I once trusted with my deepest feelings was now using his voice as a weapon instead of the poetry it used to bring.
"He worked with Indertej Raghuvanshi and Ashwin Rana," Aksh continued, his tone a surgeon's scalpel, steady and merciless.
"Three men. Three ghosts behind a massacre. And the blood? It leads right back to Harshvardhan Roy. "
"Objection! "
My voice finally responded. It came out raw and alive, up to me a little louder than I had intended it to be but still far softer than what I actually felt.
The judge looked down over his horn, rimmed spectacles. "In what way, Miss Roy? "
I rose. All eyes shifted to me. Daughter of the accused. Ex lover of the accuser. Betrayal survivor. Now the protector of the one man who never left me.
"My father is innocent, Your Honour,"
As if I had been rehearsing those lines for a whole thousand times in the dark, my voice got steadier,
"The accusations against my father are based on trapped testimonies and fabricated evidence. They are falsely framing him. "
"Do you have proof to back it up, Ms. Roy?"
Aksh's voice had pierced mine like a winter wind. I didn't look at him. Couldn't. I know that voice so well, the calm before it blows you away.
I took a deep breath. "No, not yet."
There was a murmur of whispers among the spectators. The judge raised a hand.
"But I will," I said, this time louder. "Im asking the court to give me time to prove it."
Aksh breathed out slowly. "Time? Or delay?" His voice was dripping with disbelief actually, disappointment. That stung more.
I looked up. Directly at him.
He had no fire in his eyes. Only frost. The kind that feels worse than fire.
"Im asking for justice," I said. "The justice you used to believe in. Justice that requires truth, no shortcuts."
The silence was so sharp it could have made blood.
Aksh redirected his gaze to the judge. "The money was from Roy Enterprises. That's a fact."
"And facts without the right context are just a weapon," I retorted.
For a bit, the world shrank to just the two of us. Like always. But not in love this time.
In war.
The judge cleared his throat. "Miss Roy, the court will grant you seven days to present evidence. Failing which, the trial will proceed based on the existing intelligence dossier."
Seven days. That's all I had to find a way to save my father. To dig through ashes for a truth no one wanted to hear.
I gave a small nod.
The gavel came down.
And just like that, the courtroom emptied, but my storm had only just begun. The hall outside the courtroom carried a scent of dust and despair.
My heels echoed against the granite, a sharp rhythm against the silence that clung to us. Through glass doors, cameras were flashing, the paparazzi posing as scavengers. But I was indifferent. Let the world see. Let them try to frame by the pieces of me, on their screens.
They'll never see what I am burdened with.
They don't get to see me break. Not today. Not when he needs me with him the most.
Papa was waiting at the foot of the stairs, with security officers around him. For a moment, his expression was that of a man who had almost been lost. Not because he feared prison, but because he feared I might believe the lies.
Without thinking, my feet moved towards him.
No words. Just the look we exchanged, father and daughter, battle-worn and blood-tied.
He opened his arms like he always did when I had fallen and hurt my knee as a child. I walked into them like I always did without hesitation except this time, my wounds weren't visible anymore.
And this time, they were bleeding.
"I know you weren't the one who did it," I whispered into his shoulder. "No matter what they say. No matter who says it."
His breath caught for half a second. That was his version of crying. "I don't need you to fight for me, Ritvika," he whispered. "I need you to stay safe."
"Too late for that," I said. "They've already declared war. I'm just choosing what weapon I want to use."
He let me go, reluctantly, his hand warm on my cheek. "Your mother would've been proud of the woman you became."
"She raised me to be iron, Papa," I said. "But you… you taught me where to strike."
And then he looked past me. His jaw tightened.
I didn't have to turn. It felt like the temperature around me dropped at least ten degrees before I even heard his voice.
"That was quite the performance, Ritvika." His words slithered like silk over broken glass. Smooth. Sharp. Infuriatingly calm.
I turned slowly and coldly, locking eyes with Aksh Raghuvanshi. The Man I once loved was nowhere to be seen.
What stood in front of me now was all ice and arrogance in a perfectly tailored suit.
"No cameras here," I told him. "You can drop the act."
His jaw twitched slightly. "Do you really believe he's innocent?"
"I don't have to 'believe' it," I told him as I moved closer. "I know it."
He scoffed sarcastically. "Because daughters always know their fathers, right?"
I flinched. Just a little. He saw it. As always. He always did.
"You think he could do it," I argued. "Because you want to blame somebody for your guilt. Because you couldn't catch the real monster in time."
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You want to talk about monsters? You lived with one. You dated one. You shared a bed with him. You loved him. You also didn't recognize that monster within me. And You also didn't recognize Indertej Raghuvanshi or Ashwin for what they were either."
That was harsh.
I swallowed it. Let it burn.
"They were related to your family, not mine. And yet," I said sweetly, giving him a sweet look, but there was poison in my voice. "I did not go to the court and abuse my family while pretending to uphold justice."
He took a step forward. So did I.
"Don't mistake your father's silence for sainthood," he said, voice low. "I'm not your enemy, Ritvika."
"Really?" I asked, tilting my head. "You just framed the only man I trust, for funding terror. All while based on files you know are incomplete."
His eyes shifted. Just for a second.
And I hit.
"You want to wear your righteousness like a crown, Aksh?" I whispered, while staring into his eyes. "Then remember this, kings who lie bleed the same as traitors. And when I prove my father's innocence, the fall will be yours."
I started to walk away before he could speak. But his words chased after me anyway. "I never wanted to be your enemy," he said, voice quiet but laced with something, regret? No. Not yet. "But you are making me one."
"And I," I replied without turning back, "never wanted to hate the man I once loved. But here we are."
And then I walked away. Because sometimes silence is louder than anything venom can say.
. . .
The Roy Mansion didn't welcome me back.
I stepped out of the car and let the silence press against my skin like wet ash. The kind that clings. The kind that doesn't wash off.
Its lights were on. Its chandeliers still sparkling like well, polished lies. But the place didn't feel like home. Not anymore. Not since the cuffs clicked around my father's wrists. Not since every smile around us became a blade in disguise.
The staff had all disappeared behind polite excuses. A couple of lamps flickered in the hallway, trying to look regal but fouling to do so. And every room I passed felt like it was grieving something, perhaps the illusion we used to live in.
I stopped by the living room just for a moment. My mother's portrait still hung above the fireplace, framed, flawless, and unbearably still.
When she passed away, I didn't cry. Not even now, I didn't cry.
I simply stared at her, this goddess in a saree with fire in her eyes, and whispered, "Why on the earth did you leave me with this mess?"
She didn't answer. Of course not.
She never did after leaving me.
I headed straight to my father's study. The door was locked, naturally. But he had always been my greatest teacher on how not to get locked out of your own battle.
It took me four minutes and a hairpin. The click of the door unlocking sounded like betrayal.
It was colder inside. Dust hadn't dared to settle, but the room had that untouched, preserved feel. Like someone wanted it kept for memory… or for evidence.
I turned on the desk lamp. Its yellow light cast long shadows across the mahogany surface.
File by file. Drawer by drawer. Every paper I touched felt like a confession waiting to happen.
One file had donation receipts from last year. Another had proposals, some approved, some mysteriously unsigned. I found three USB drives tucked under a false bottom. And a paper shredder bin filled with enough shredded guilt to piece together a scandal.
I sat on the floor with everything around me, like a priestess summoning ghosts. That's when I saw it. Tucked behind an old copy of Chanakya Neeti was a folded letter, unsigned, but stamped with our foundation seal.
It mentioned a meeting with a company called Panchan Exports. I don't think I had ever heard of it. The date matched a transaction mentioned in the court hearing today.
I grabbed my laptop and began cross-referencing. Within fifteen minutes, I found the company's official registry, except it wasn't a company. Not really. It was a Front, and the registered name?
V.S. Industries. My breath caught. V.S.?
That could be Vikram Shekhawat, the state minister we'd donated to last year… or Vaibhav Sinha, the bureaucrat who hated my father's guts… or maybe,
"Someone inside the system forged these links," I muttered, "to make it look like he knew. Like he was complicit." My hands trembling.
Was this the evidence?
Or was this bait?
For a moment, doubt snuck in. It was silent but sharp as a razor.
What if it's not forged? What if Papa did know? What if the man I defended in court is guilty, and I'm just another pawn in his game of power?
I buried the thought.
He's innocent.
He has to be.
I've already burned too many bridges for that belief. If I turned back now, there'd be nothing left but ash.
A ping.
My phone lit up with a single notification.
No contact. No subject. Just one line.
UNKNOWN:
"You're looking in the wrong room. Start with the men in suits. One of them wears a mask."
My heart stopped. Restarted. Then slammed against my ribs like it wanted to get out. No number. No trace. I kept staring at the message like it was a lit fuse. Whoever sent that probably knew what I was up to. Watching me. Or watching him. Or both. I should've felt fear.
Instead, I felt something colder. Focus.
There's someone I know who understands financial smoke screens better than anyone, someone I absolutely should not trust. But desperate girls make dangerous choices.
And I'm already halfway to ruin. I texted them one line.
"Need to talk. Found something."
The reply came almost instantly.
"You'll get your chance. Avni & Rudra's engagement. I'll be there. So will the masks."
I gave the study one more look. The chair still held my father's scent, coffee, leather, and untold secrets. The desk was still warm from my touch, but it felt ancient. As if it had witnessed betrayals I hadn't yet uncovered. I shut the lights. Locked the door. And whispered to the silence,
"If I had to endure flames to pull the truth out of its ashes, so be it. But I was done waiting for the smoke to clear."
𓆩⚔🖤⚔𓆪