Summary: Inspector Rathore moves in for the kill—not with bullets, but with pressure, precision, and fear. Maya Sharma, once a struggling actress, now finds herself the key to breaking Arjun Malik, Mumbai’s underworld kingpin. As Rathore tightens the noose using forgotten frauds and veiled threats, Maya faces the unthinkable: betray Arjun, or watch her mother fall. But is Arjun the man she thought he was? Or just another lie? One message. One name. One decision. The trap has been set. The prey doesn't even know it yet.
Section 1: A Predator in Uniform
The sound of polished shoes echoed through the police headquarters corridor like distant gunshots. Inspector Rajesh Rathore marched forward—broad-shouldered, heavy-set, a face carved from stone and stained by decades of sanctioned violence. Every officer he passed straightened, not out of protocol but primal fear. Rathore wasn’t just a cop. He was the Crime Branch’s loaded gun—judge, jury, and, if need be, executioner - the encounter specialist Rathore. Mumbai’s underworld whispered his name like a curse. Close to a hundred bodies trailed behind him, each tagged as an 'encounter,' each a notch on his belt. Dirty Harry with an Indian badge—ruthless, unrelenting, and dangerously untouchable.
Inside his office, cigarette smoke lingered in the air. A wall of photographs stared back at him—gangsters, dealers, pimps, informers, politicians. But one face sat in the center, pinned higher than the rest.
Arjun Malik.
Rathore sipped his tea, eyes on the photo. "Still thinks he’s king," he muttered. "I’ll rip him apart—tear down his empire, bury his name, and make him crawl through the dirt before I crush him. No mercy. No deals. I’ll end Arjun Malik for good."
This wasn’t personal. Not exactly. In Mumbai’s underworld, power shifted fast—and when it did, people like Rathore enforced the message. Orders came from above. Someone wanted Arjun Malik clipped. His growing empire had upset old balances. Rathore was the hammer sent to reset the equation. He didn’t care why. He only cared about results—and the rewards that followed. Arjun’s arrogance had made it easier. The smirks during raids. The bribes to Rathore’s men. Treating the police department like his private help. Rathore hadn’t forgotten. And he never missed.
A constable knocked and stepped in. “Surveillance update, sir. Malik’s offshore activity just spiked.”
Rathore didn’t look up. Offshore trails didn’t matter anymore. The decision to bring Malik down had already been made—by men in rooms above his rank. His job wasn’t to understand why. His job was to finish it clean. No leaks. No mistakes. And no sympathy.
Arjun had grown too big, too fast. He’d made enemies in the wrong places. Now his wings needed clipping—and Rathore was the blade.
Rathore flipped through the pages without interest. Shell firms. Fake accounts. Same old drill. Arjun Malik was laundering crores through hawala—moving black money for powerful men. Men even Rathore didn’t mess with. But Arjun got greedy. Loud. Visible. That rattled the wrong hands. The order was clear—shut him down, break his network. Rathore didn’t need reasons. He needed leverage. Blood. Fear. A crack to push through.
His eyes paused on one name. One face that didn’t belong on a financial crime file.
Maya Sharma.
Once a struggling model and actress. Now Arjun Malik’s woman. Completely under his control.
He leaned back, tapped a knuckle on the desk, and smirked. “Maya Sharma,” he said. “Used to posing, not pressure. She’s Arjun’s soft spot. If I break her, I break him. His empire goes with it.”
He lit a cigarette. Women like her didn’t need handcuffs. One threat, and they broke. One push, and they collapsed.
“Break the girl,” he muttered. “The king will kneel.”
He leaned forward as he skimmed Maya’s background, something sparking in the dark corners of his mind. Then it hit—an old case from Gurgaon, years buried, but not forgotten. Rathore’s memory was freakishly precise, spanning decades of the Indian underworld like a criminal atlas. He turned to his terminal and typed fast, surgical. Within seconds, the file blinked back to life. Housing loan fraud. Minor, forgotten. But the details matched. Rathore’s lips curled. This was it—the crack. The weak joint in the steel cage of Arjun Malik’s empire. He didn’t just find leverage. He found bait. Perfect, personal, and damning. Like a predator who had spotted a wounded deer in a dense jungle, Rathore leaned back, satisfied. The hunt had just turned into a sure kill.
He read it off the screen, eyes narrowing. “Forgery. Falsified signature. Retired schoolteacher caught in a scam.”
He smiled—cold, crooked. “Perfect bait.”
He muttered, "Let’s see how loyal Maya is when her mother’s behind bars." Then he smiled to himself—cold, pleased. This was classic Rathore. No gunfire. No chase. Just pressure, precision, and a forgotten case turned into a noose. The beauty of the Indian system: process was punishment. He could bury anyone under paperwork and courtroom summons. That’s what made him dangerous. He didn’t need truth. He needed an angle. And he had just found the perfect one. From nothing, he was about to build a case that could ruin lives. He leaned back, smug. "Not bad, Rathore," he whispered. "Still got it."
He picked up the phone and dialed a direct number. “Tomar. Need a favor.”
Inspector Tomar of Delhi Police owed him plenty. Every time Tomar chased criminals into Mumbai, Rathore had helped clean them up—quick, brutal, and off the books. They called them joint operations. The files said ‘encounter.’ The streets knew better.
“Remember that old housing loan scam in Gurgaon?” Rathore asked. “Maya Sharma. Her mother.”
Tomar grunted. “Yeah. Thin case. Got buried.”
“I want everything. Now.”
Tomar didn’t ask why. Ten minutes later, Rathore had names, dates, bank forms, witness statements. Most of it wouldn’t stand up in court. But Rathore didn’t need it to. He read fast, connecting the dots in his head like a machine. Not involved—maybe. But definitely snared. That was enough.
He hung up, eyes gleaming. "This’ll work," he muttered. "Trap’s ready. She won’t even see it coming."
He stubbed out his cigarette hard, grinding it into the ashtray.
Rathore stood, stretching his neck with slow satisfaction. The pieces were in place. A storm wasn’t coming—it had already formed, and Arjun Malik was standing dead center. The man just didn’t know it yet. But soon he would. When Rathore moved, it wouldn’t be with warning. It would be final. Fast. And unforgiving.
Section 2: The Weakest Link
Sarla Sharma was a retired schoolteacher from a quiet town near Gurgaon. She had lived a simple, disciplined life. When Maya left for Mumbai to chase dreams of modelling and acting, Sarla stayed back. But the city wasn’t kind to Maya. When things got tough, Sarla followed her. Not to control her—just to be near her. She found a small flat, kept to herself, and tried to start over. But Mumbai doesn’t notice people like Sarla. It steps over them. And when trouble comes, it crushes them without pause. And Sarla was about to learn that the past doesn’t stay buried for long.
The doorbell rang once. Then again. Then again. Sharp, impatient presses that rattled the silence of the afternoon. Sarla Sharma froze mid-step, her hands still damp from washing. Another ring. Then hard knocks—fast, angry. Her stomach turned. Whoever it was, they weren’t here to chat.
She walked slowly to the door, each step heavier than the last. Her mind raced. Milkman? Postman? No—none rang like that. She opened the door with shaking fingers.
A male constable stood stiff, arms crossed. Beside him, a tall female constable stood like stone—broad, silent, and staring straight through Sarla. Between them was a man in plain clothes. No expression. No greeting. Just presence. Cold. Hard. Dangerous.
Sarla’s breath caught.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
"Inspector Rathore from the Mumbai Police Crime Branch," he said, showing his ID. "I need to speak to you, Mrs. Sarla Sharma, on official police matters."
Sarla’s eyes darted between the faces. “Is something wrong?”
“That depends on how cooperative you are,” Rathore replied, stepping past her without waiting for an invitation.
The living room was modest. Old wooden furniture. A framed photo of Maya in a saree from her first modelling shoot sat on a dusty shelf. Rathore stared at it—too long, too still. Sarla followed his gaze. Something in the air changed. He wasn’t just looking at a photograph. He was thinking. Calculating. Sarla didn’t know what it meant. But it didn’t feel right. Not at all.
“Tell me, Mrs. Sharma,” Rathore said, voice sharp and cold, “that housing loan fraud case in Gurgaon—ring any bells?” He didn’t blink. “Forgery. Falsified documents. Your name’s all over it. And now you sit here like nothing happened.” He leaned in just slightly. “You know what I hate more than criminals? People who lie like they’re innocent.”
Sarla opened her mouth but hesitated. The words weren’t coming easy. Her mind had already flashed back—years ago, when a slick-talking builder had convinced her and other teachers to sign papers they barely understood. It was supposed to be a housing scheme. Safe. Government-backed. Then the man vanished. Loans defaulted. Papers forged. Suddenly, they were accused.
She remembered the shame. The lawyers. The money. The stress. In the end, she had cleared her name—but barely. It had cost her more than money. And now this man stood here, dragging it back up like she was a criminal.
But she could see it in their faces. These weren’t men here for the truth. Explaining was pointless.
She mumbled, “That mess was cleared. Long ago. I have nothing more to say.” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look away. Her only focus now was getting them out of her house.
“Forgery,” Rathore cut in coldly, dropping a file on the table. “False documents. Discrepancy in signature. Criminal fraud.”
Sarla’s lips parted, stunned. “No, there must be a mistake—”
“No mistake,” Rathore said, voice like steel. “Forgery under Section 468. That case from Gurgaon was never shut. Now that you and your daughter are in Mumbai, Delhi Police has asked us to move fast. You’ll be arrested. Dragged through courts. Years of hearings. No bail. No relief.”
He leaned in just a little, lowering his tone. “You think your pension or your clean record means anything? One FIR, and you’ll be standing in a courtroom with chains on your feet.”
Rathore wasn’t shouting. He didn’t need to. He delivered fear like a surgeon. Precise. Silent. He knew the system. Knew how to twist the screws just enough.
Sarla stared at him, frozen. She couldn’t even find her breath.
This was the trap. And it had already snapped shut.
Her hands shook. Her thoughts blurred with panic. “I’m a retired schoolteacher… I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Her knees buckled. She grabbed the table to stay upright.
Rathore stayed quiet and let Sarla panic. He knew she would ask how to get out of the mess. She finally did. "Isn’t there a way out? Once and for all?"
“Of course,” he continued smoothly, “there’s one way to make this file disappear.”
She looked up, breath shallow. “What… what do you want?”
“Tell your daughter to come in,” Rathore said. “Quietly. No fuss. No headlines. Just a friendly chat.”
Sarla stared at him, a chill crawling down her spine. “Maya?” Her voice cracked. “What does she have to do with this?”
For a second, her mind raced to the worst. Her motherly instincts flared. Was this man here for her daughter? That kind of harm? She had seen that look in other men’s eyes before—men who used power to crush the innocent. She tightened her grip on the edge of the chair, heart pounding, breath short.
Rathore’s silence in that moment was louder than any threat. Sarla forced herself to stay composed, but fear twisted in her gut like a knife.
“She’s involved with dangerous people,” he said flatly. “We just want her to help us clarify a few things before someone gets hurt. Or jailed.”
The female constable stepped forward for the first time, her voice low but steady. “Mrs. Sharma,” she said gently, “we’re not here to hurt your daughter. I saw your face just now. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that.”
Sarla turned to her, heart still pounding.
“She’s mixed up with dangerous people. She may not realize it, but we do. And we’ve tried other ways. We’ve warned her. Given her chances. Nothing worked.”
The constable softened her tone further. “So now we’ve come to you. Because you’re her mother. You’re the one person she might still listen to.”
Sarla’s lips trembled.
“She has no criminal record. We don’t want to harm her. We’re trying to protect her before it’s too late. This is her last warning. Help her make the right choice, Mrs. Sharma. Before we’re forced to act.”
Sarla' heartbeat roared in her ears.
“She won’t listen to me…”
“Try,” Rathore said, already turning to leave. “You’re a mother. She’ll listen.”
He paused at the door, then looked back with a glint in his eye. “If she doesn’t show up in two days… we’ll send a van. You might want to keep a small bag packed.”
Rathore turned to leave, then paused at the door and looked back.
Rathore paused and turned back, his face dark and flat. “Let me be clear, Mrs. Sharma. I can fix you and your daughter in a prostitution case right now. One sheet of paper. One whisper to the right reporter. That’s all it takes.”
He stepped closer, tone colder than stone. “She’s a model. That’s all people need to hear. You’re her mother, living under the same roof. You know what story that writes? ‘Retired schoolteacher runs escort ring with her daughter.’ Once it’s out, there’s no taking it back. Your lives will be over before a judge hears a word.”
He leaned in slightly, eyes locked on hers. “I don’t need truth. I need obedience. You give me that, and this goes away. If not—”
The female constable moved closer, her voice low and almost kind. “Ma’am,” she said, “you heard about that disco raid last month, right? The one where they picked up all those models?”
Sarla nodded faintly.
“Half of them were innocent,” the constable whispered. “But that didn’t matter. They were dragged out, names leaked to media, families humiliated. And some… were forced to sleep with cops and politicians. That’s the truth, Ma’am. Just to avoid being framed. Just to survive. That’s what happens when you get pulled into this system. I don’t want that for Maya. You don’t either.”
She stepped back, eyes soft but warning. “Think carefully, Mrs. Sharma. This is your only chance to stop it before it begins.”
Rathore stepped closer, voice flat and cold.
“You and Maya better be smart. Don’t push me. Good day, Mrs. Sharma.”
He turned without another word. The male constable followed silently. The female constable gave Sarla one last look—part pity, part warning.
The door shut with a final thud.
Their job was done. They had left behind no blood, no mess—just fear. And that was enough.
Sarla stood frozen, knowing deep down they wouldn’t have left unless they were sure—sure that the message had landed. And that Maya would come.
Sarla collapsed onto the sofa, trembling. Her chest tightened. She could barely breathe. Her hands fumbled for the phone.
“Maya… I need to see you. Right now. Please.”
Her voice cracked under the weight of helplessness.
Section 3: The Noose Begins to Tighten
Maya entered the café. She looked around and saw her mother near the corner window. Sarla sat hunched and held her handbag tightly. The café felt too open and too public. But Maya had sensed urgency in her mother’s voice. She had no choice but to come.
She slid into the seat across from her. “What’s going on?”
Sarla looked up. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her voice shook. "Inspector Rathore from the Mumbai Police Crime Branch came to the house."
Maya’s expression hardened. "Who’s Rathore? What does he want from us?"
“He said there’s a case against me. From that old housing loan. He’s calling it fraud.”
Maya’s fists clenched under the table. “That’s bullshit. We cleared it years ago.”
“He said there’s some old fraud case still open,” Sarla said, her voice unsteady. “From Gurgaon. I don’t even understand what. Something to do with that housing loan mess. He said the police there found out we left Delhi and tipped off Mumbai.”
She swallowed hard, hands twisting the edge of her saree. “He said I could be arrested. Just like that. No hearing. No warning.”
Her voice cracked. “Maya… he means it. I know he does.”
Maya leaned back, jaw tight. “What does he want from you?”
“He doesn’t want me. He wants you.” Sarla’s hands shook as she pulled a tissue from her purse. “He told me to call you. Said you’d understand.”
Maya’s heart pounded. Rathore wasn’t just some rumour. He was real. Smart. Ruthless. And now, he was coming for her—through her mother. He didn’t need a warrant or proof. He had found her weak spot and was going to use it to break her. This wasn’t a raid. It was a trap. And it was already working.
“This is blackmail,” she snapped. “He’s using you to get to me.”
Sarla grabbed Maya’s wrist tightly. Her voice was shaking, but firm. “He said you’re mixed up with dangerous people. That they’ve tried warning you before. This is the last time. They’ll destroy everything—whoever you’re with, whatever you’re part of. They don’t care who gets crushed. Even you.”
She leaned closer. “They don’t want to hurt you, Maya. They want you to walk away before it’s too late. Please. Just walk away. Before you get caught in something that can’t be undone.”
Sarla told Maya that Rathore had also threatened to charge them with running a prostitution racket. It would be added to the forgery case to make things worse. She begged Maya to handle Rathore smartly and find a way to get him off their backs.
Maya nodded and stood up, but her legs felt heavy. Her mind was spinning. Rathore. The threats. Her mother’s fear. None of it made sense, but all of it felt real.
She had so many questions. Why did Rathore want her? What did he think she knew? Was this about Arjun—or about her?
She stared at her mother, who looked crushed. Broken by a system that didn’t care if she was innocent. That made it worse. Maya wasn’t just scared. She was angry. But mostly, she was lost.
What if Rathore was like the others? The kind who used women like her for control—for favours—for worse. Was this about law, or just power?
She didn’t know. And that not knowing scared her more than anything.
Maya walked away, not knowing if she was going to fight, run—or break.
That night, Maya paced her apartment. She was restless and chewed her lip until it hurt. Every sound from the street made her jump. Her phone buzzed. It was an unknown number.
Hotel Grand Pearl. Room 204. Come alone. Immediately.
Maya stared at the message. No name, no signature. But she knew. Her gut told her. This was from Rathore.
Rathore likely knew Maya was alone and Arjun was not around. That’s why he told her to come immediately. Cops know when their targets are most vulnerable. And Rathore wasn’t just any cop—He was the most feared encounter specialist in the Mumbai Police.
She left like she had no choice. Rathore’s message was a direct order, and her mother’s fear had done the rest.
The hotel room smelled of tobacco and expensive cologne. Rathore stood by the window, glass in hand, sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable.
Maya recognized him instantly. That face had been all over TV, newspapers, and social media for years—encounters, raids, press briefings. Mumbai’s most feared encounter specialist. He hogged the media spotlight like a film star. And now here he was, real and towering, and waiting just for her.
“You came faster than I expected,” he said.
Maya kept her eyes low. “I just want this over,” she said softly. “Whatever you need to say, say it.”
Rathore turned slowly, walked to the table, and dropped a document folder with a loud thud. He opened it just enough for Maya to see the seal and signature. Then he looked up, eyes cold.
"Your mother’s in serious trouble," he said. "She can be picked up anytime. Fraud. A non-bailable offence. And now that she’s in Mumbai, it falls in my hands."
He let the words hang, watching her face.
Maya’s pulse spiked. She opened her mouth to protest. “We cleared all that,” she said, voice unsure. “That case was closed… I thought…”
Then she stopped. What was the point?
She looked up at Rathore, eyes narrowing. “What do you want from me?”
“You know what I want,” he said, watching her closely. His voice was calm, but his eyes searched her face for signs—fear, guilt, recognition. He was testing her, letting the silence do its work. Seeing if she’d say it first. Seeing if she already knew the price.
Maya truly didn’t know what he wanted. Her mind raced with fear. Was this about sex? Was he like the others—men who used power to trap girls like her? She had heard the stories. Models used and discarded. Threatened into silence. She felt exposed. Helpless. But she wouldn’t show it.
She looked up, her voice low. "Please... just tell me clearly. What do you expect from me?"
“You want your mother free? Give us Malik,” Rathore said, voice cold and final. “That’s it. That’s the deal. You give us what we want, or your mother goes to jail on a fraud charge. And you? You’ll be booked with her—prostitution racket. Easy enough. You’re a model. That’s all I need to turn it into a full-blown scandal. The kind that destroys lives in a day.”
He leaned in. “No one will care if it’s true. Headlines, cameras, shame—that’s what you’ll be dealing with. Both of you. And no one will come to save you.”
Maya’s breath caught in her throat. Her jaw clenched, not out of defiance, but shock. The demand had landed like a punch—unreal, brutal, and clear. She tried to blink it away, to pretend she’d misheard, but the silence in the room confirmed everything.
Snitch on Arjun Malik.
Or let her mother rot in jail.
Or worse—be branded as a prostitute alongside her.
The image made her stomach churn. Headlines, shame, the stares. She couldn’t breathe.
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. Her world was breaking—and Rathore had just handed her the pieces.
She said nothing. Because she didn’t know what to say.
Rathore stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You think Malik will protect you when things go bad? He’ll disappear. You’ll be left to suffer alone."
She looked at him in disbelief. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. The shock hadn’t left her. She wasn’t ready for this—any of it. Not the threat, not the demand, not the price.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp. “You really are one beautiful but utterly stupid girl,” he said. “Taking a man like Malik seriously. Thinking his gestures mean something. God knows what he’s planning with you. You’re just another pawn he’ll move when it suits him.”
He stepped forward, his voice low and cutting. “Girls like you—pretty, naive, and stupid enough to think men like Malik care. He throws you crumbs, and you call it love? God knows what he's planning with you. You’re just a pawn.”
He tilted his head. “Wake up before it’s too late. I’m giving you a way out. Take it—or get crushed like everyone else who thought they were special.”
He leaned in. “This is your last chance, Maya. One wrong step, and your mother goes to jail. And you—I'll drag you down with her. I don’t bluff. I don’t beg. Either you help me, or I burn everything you care about. You got that?”
Maya didn’t move. Her feet were frozen to the floor. The weight of Rathore’s words had locked her in place. Her breath was shallow. Her thoughts scrambled. She looked at him in disbelief, as if still trying to process what had just happened.
Rathore didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he gestured toward the door.
“Go home,” he said. “Wait for instructions. You’ll get a message.”
She turned slowly, still dazed.
“And Maya,” his voice sharpened, “not a word to anyone. Not to your mother. Not to anyone. One whisper—and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
The door closed behind her.
Rathore didn’t need her answer.
He already had it.
Section 4: Cracks in the Mirror
Maya barely slept that night. Her mother’s terrified voice and Rathore’s threats echoed in her head. Her body felt heavy. Her eyes burned. Sleep didn’t come. She kept pacing, chain-smoking, staring blankly at the city lights outside.
The city outside was loud—horns, neon signs, shouting vendors. But inside her apartment, it was silent. Cold. Empty.
Her phone buzzed again. Same unknown number.
A new SMS popped up.
It read:
One last thing. He’s used women before. Ask him about Ayesha.
No context. Just a name. But it hit hard. Maya felt a jolt in her chest—part fear, part jealousy, part doubt. Another woman. Another secret. Another lie?
Maya froze, phone trembling in her hand. Her gut twisted. She didn’t know any Ayesha. Arjun had never mentioned her. And that silence felt louder than anything else now.
She sat on the bed, arms around her knees. The cigarette burned in her hand, untouched. Her heart pounded hard.
By morning, Maya was a mess. Every noise made her jump. She looked pale and tired in the mirror. Her stomach was in knots. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t think straight.
When Arjun walked in, she stared at him like he was a stranger. He looked the same, but something in her turned cold. For the first time, she didn’t know if she ever really knew him.
“You didn’t sleep,” he said.
She shook her head slowly. “No.”
He lit a cigarette, walking to the window. “Something bothering you?”
Maya hesitated, throat dry. Then, steadying her voice, she asked, “Who’s Ayesha?”
He turned slightly. A flicker of surprise—brief, controlled. “Where did you hear that name?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
“She was… someone. A long time ago. It ended.”
“Did you love her?”
He gave a half-smile, eyes distant. “Love’s a dangerous word in my world.”
It wasn’t a denial. And it wasn’t enough.
Arjun was caught off guard when Maya asked about Ayesha. It wasn’t a name anyone brought up casually. His mind flashed with suspicion. Why now? Who told her? What else did she know?
But he was exhausted. Bone tired. His body ached from a sleepless night, and his head throbbed. He wanted answers, but he wanted sleep more. For now.
He dropped the questions and went to bed.
Maya didn’t know it, but luck had just saved her. If Arjun—the cold, calculating predator of the underworld—had sensed danger in her tone, he would’ve pressed hard. He would’ve stripped every secret from her soul.
She wouldn’t have stood a chance.
But Arjun turned his back, pulled the blanket over his shoulder, and shut the world out.
Maya had been lucky.
Or maybe, Arjun Malik had just slipped.
Later, Maya sat on the couch, staring at her phone. He’s used women before. The words stuck in her head. Was Rathore lying to mess with her—or was he exposing a truth she didn’t want to see?
Was Arjun ever different with her? Or was Maya just another chapter in a long, well-practiced story?
She hadn’t given Rathore an answer. Not yet. But something had cracked.
That night, Maya sat alone in the dark. Her body was tense and cold. The cigarette shook in her fingers. Ash kept falling, but she didn’t care. Her mind was a mess. Nothing made sense anymore.
She wanted to believe Arjun was different. That he truly cared. That she hadn’t been a fool. But doubt was creeping in, eating at every corner of her trust.
But belief wasn’t enough anymore.
And now, trust was almost gone. Rathore had shaken her. Doubt was winning. Would she hold on to Arjun—or give him up to save her mother? Even she didn’t know anymore.
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