Summary: Maya is arrested, stripped, and dumped in a jail that runs on cruelty. The guards abuse her. The inmates circle like wolves. The media turns her into a monster. And the people she trusted—Rathore and her mother—abandon her in public, one with threats, the other with tears. But Maya doesn’t break. She watches. She waits. She learns. From betrayal grows resolve. From pain, precision. The world wants her erased. Instead, Maya begins to sharpen. There are no saviors. No deals. No mercy. Only a woman building a new kind of power—quietly, dangerously. And maybe, with one last weapon left: the red file.
Section 1: The Fall
Just hours ago, she stood in a hotel room covered in blood. Her wrists were tied. Cameras flashed. Reporters screamed her name. Arjun’s body was still warm when the police shoved her into a van. She had no time to cry or speak. They locked her in a crime branch cell for holding.
The next day, the police moved her from the lockup to the magistrate’s office—just to show they were following the law. They said she was Arjun Malik’s partner in crime. The magistrate barely looked up. He had seen hundreds like her. He didn’t ask questions. He sent her to jail in minutes. They called it judicial custody. Maya called it what it was—another cell. Another cage. No one cared. Nothing made sense.
The prison gates slammed shut behind Maya. It sounded like the end of a trial that never happened. She walked into the corridor. The floor was wet. The air stank of rot and bleach. A cockroach ran past her foot. A woman screamed somewhere down the hall. Her old life ended at that door.
A female guard flicked her wrist, telling Maya to move. Maya walked slowly. Her heels echoed in the corridor. Her branded kurta looked out of place against cracked walls and rusting pipes. Inmates stared. Some looked angry. Some looked hungry. Some whispered. Others said it loud enough for her to hear.
“That’s her.”
“The gangster’s queen.”
“The bitch who sold him out.”
Another inmate scoffed. “She’ll be scrubbing toilets by morning.”
Maya kept her face still. Her jaw tightened. She walked stiffly. On the outside she looked calm. Inside she was shaking. Her old self—beauty, glamour, control—was gone with each step.
She was led into a tiled room with flickering tube lights and the faint stench of urine. Two female officers waited, arms folded, eyes flat.
“Take off your clothes,” one of the female officers said, her tone flat and cold.
Her fingers froze on the hem of her kurta. The officer didn’t repeat herself—just stared.
Maya pulled off her kurta and jeans. She stopped at her bra and panties. One guard laughed.
“Who’s going to take that off? Arjun? You think he’ll come do the honors?”
Another added, “I can call Kalloo from men’s prison. He’d love to strip you. You know who he is? Arjun tore his face apart years ago. Kalloo’s been waiting to get back at him. Anyone linked to Arjun—he wants blood.”
She stepped closer. “He won’t just strip you. He’ll eat you alive for being Arjun’s whore.”
They all laughed.
Maya’s hands shook. Her face burned. Slowly, she took off the rest.
A guard whistled. “Look at those tits. Those hips. That ass. No wonder Arjun fell headfirst.” She circled Maya slowly. “Even your legs look sculpted. But you know what makes even the smartest men stupid?” She leaned in, grinning. “That silly little hole between those shapely legs. That’s where their brains go to die. Right, madam?” Then she laughed loud and hard.
She stepped closer and whispered, “He was macho, wasn’t he? Fucked you good? Even the high-society bitches wanted him.”
Another officer snapped on gloves. This part was standard procedure. In prison, every body hole is a hiding spot. Drugs. Razor blades. Even tiny sim cards. So guards are told—check everything. Mouth. Vagina. Anus. No exceptions. No delays. It’s filthy work. But it's the job. Disgusting, yes. But mandatory.
The officer didn’t wait. Her fingers went into Maya’s mouth, vagina, and anus. No warning. No shame. No care.
Even the guard muttered, half to herself, “God, we do this every day. Fingers in filth. Some days it’s a drug mule, some days a pedophile. Now a gangster’s girlfriend. Can it get any worse?”
The officer shook her head, disgusted but used to it. She kept going.
Maya bit her lip hard. Blood pooled in her mouth. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. But her whole body shook.
It wasn’t just humiliating. It was dehumanizing.
No one flinched. Nobody in the room looked away.
Maya stood there, naked, violated, and stripped of everything.
When it was over, they threw a faded uniform at her. It was oversized. Rough. It stank of old sweat and chemicals. They took her jewelry. Her watch. Everything. No memories allowed. No past left. Just the uniform and silence.
“No personal belongings allowed,” one officer said without looking at her. Maya stared at the tray. Her watch. Her earrings. Even the ring she had worn since college. Were they taking it all to steal? Or was this just protocol? Her mind spun, but no one explained. Just silence.
She dressed in silence, eyes on the floor.
The cell block stank of mold and rot. A fan clicked with every turn. Water kept dripping like a broken tap. Her cell had four walls, rusted bars, a sagging mattress, and a bucket in the corner. This wasn’t a room. It was a warning. Welcome to the bottom. The rock bottom.
As she stepped in, a voice greeted her.
“So this is her? The don’s princess turned toilet scrubber?”
A laugh followed. Another inmate sneered, “Welcome to hell, beauty queen. You’ll be cleaning toilets like the rest of us. Grab a rag. The piss stains are yours now.”
Maya stood frozen. Her fists clenched tight. She stared at the stained wall where old names were scratched in. She didn’t blink. She didn’t speak. She refused to break. Not yet.
But her body betrayed her. A tremor in her hand. A faint throb behind her eyes. The air tasted of rust and rot.
That night, she lay curled on the mattress. Her knees were tight to her chest. She didn’t cry. She didn’t sleep. Her cheek still remembered the cold slap of the officer’s glove. Her mind spun back—Arjun pouring wine, soft music, the balcony lit in gold. Then she blinked. That life was gone.
Now—just concrete, darkness, and heat pressing down on her like a curse. No fan. No relief. Just the stink of rot and sweat, and the silence of being forgotten.
She pressed her fingers into the stained mattress, as if anchoring herself.
In that moment, Maya didn’t feel broken. She felt like she no longer existed.
Section 2: The Breaking-In
The first few days crawled. Each hour felt heavier than the last. There was no routine. No peace. Just steel plates banging, names shouted, and threats whispered behind her back. The women’s ward stank of damp walls, rotten food, and broken pride. Maya was no longer a person. She was a target.
By the second day, her name had traveled across the barracks faster than smoke.
“She’s the one,” someone muttered during morning roll call.
“The bitch who got Malik killed,” another spat.
On the third day, it turned physical.
At the water tap, an inmate slammed into Maya’s shoulder. She turned, but it was too late. A hard slap struck her face. Her head jerked sideways, her cheek burning.
“She’s not so special now, is she?” the woman sneered. “You thought sleeping with a king would keep you safe?”
This was part of it. The welcome ritual. Like ragging in college. Like hazing in army camps. Every new prisoner had to be broken. They called it setting the hierarchy. Testing the weak.
A slap here. A threat there. Just enough to remind you—you’re nothing now.
Maya stumbled back, clutching her cheek. Blood touched her tongue. The yard went silent for a moment.
But she said nothing. She turned back to the tap, filled her jug, and walked away in silence.
Later, a few inmates exchanged uncertain glances. Her silence unnerved them. It wasn’t weakness. It was something colder.
The message was clear. This wasn’t redemption. It was punishment—carried out through silence, slaps, and scraps of cruelty.
Inside the barracks, the violence turned quiet and personal. A torn bedsheet. A broken toothbrush. But the message was clear—this was part of the game. You don’t welcome a new prisoner. You break her in.
Even the warden joined in. She was a heavy-set woman with oily hair and a mocking voice. Every day, she came by Maya’s cell just to humiliate her.
“Gangster’s queen,” she smirked one afternoon, tapping the bars. “What happened, madam? No more wine and diamonds?”
Another day, she chuckled, “Couldn’t keep your legs shut. Couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Look where it got you. You opened your legs and your king lost his mind. You opened your mouth and he lost his life. What a tragedy! What a tragedy!”
She grinned. “Arjun was nice to us too, you know. Never missed sending Diwali gifts. Good man. Bad taste in women.”
Maya stared straight ahead. No response, no emotion. Her body stayed still, her face cold, refusing to give her tormentors even a flicker of satisfaction.
Something snapped inside her. She stopped shrinking. She started watching. Every face. Every move. Every game. She was done being prey.
She watched closely. Who got extra dal. Who polished the warden’s shoes. Who passed notes. Who moved packets without checks. She was mapping power. It wasn’t chaos. It was a setup. Like a mini-world. A dirty one. Power was alive here too—just in jail clothes and filth.
She learned when to speak and when to stay silent. During meals, she picked a corner seat. Always with her back to the wall. That’s what criminals did. You don’t let anyone sneak up on you. Protect the back. Face the room. Eyes on everything. She watched more than she ate. She listened but never spoke. She stayed out of every group. And she memorized everything—names, routines, weak spots.
She hadn’t cried since that night curled on the prison mattress, holding herself against the dark.
Her cheek still burned. Her stomach twisted with the memory of insults. But her eyes were sharp now. Her back stood straight.
And for the first time, Maya wasn’t just surviving.
She was calculating.
Section 3: Public Execution
The prison walls didn’t stop everything. News still slipped in. Guards gossiped. Old tabloids got passed around. The dusty TV near the common hall kept playing. Even inside jail, Maya couldn’t escape the world tearing her apart.
Outside, it had turned into a full-blown circus.
“Gangster’s Queen or Criminal Mastermind?” screamed the headlines. “Maya Sharma: The Beauty Behind the Bloodbath.”
Once a model. Now a public obsession. Everyone had an opinion. Nobody knew the truth.
Every channel ran the same loop—her face splashed across screens, dissected by loudmouthed anchors and panelists hurling insults.
“Maya seduced Arjun to get movie roles and modelling deals,” one claimed.
“She was always the brain behind the business,” another insisted.
“She’s a glorified call girl who played both sides,” a third declared.
Old clips from her modeling days—ramp walks, party shots, lingerie ads—played nonstop. Her body was everywhere. Her voice was gone. Memes tore her apart: queen of betrayal, slut in silk, a killer in heels.
“She lured him in, destroyed him, and walked away smiling,” said one show.
“She was never his pawn—she was the player,” said another.
They tore apart her image, twisted her story, and put it on display for everyone to mock.
Inside prison, guards laughed while passing around magazine covers with her face X’d (crossed) out.
“She’s poison now,” one said. “Even her shampoo brand dumped her. Shampoo! Like she’s too dirty to clean hair.”
Maya saw one of the broadcasts during her fourth week inside—an old video from a party, her head thrown back in laughter beside Arjun. The anchor’s voice dripped with poison.
“Was it love, lust, or calculated ambition? Either way, Maya Sharma is no longer a model—she’s India’s most glamorous criminal.”
Watching that, something inside her cracked.
Her jaw clenched. Her hands trembled. But she didn’t look away.
She wasn’t Maya anymore.
Not the model. Not the lover. Not the queen.
She was whatever they wanted to paint her as—villain, traitor, joke.
Each broadcast didn’t just smear her reputation—it erased her identity, layer by layer.
But beneath that erasure, something colder began to grow.
If they wanted her to be a monster, she would become one—on her terms.
The world was watching.
And soon, it would regret not looking closer.
Section 4: Burned by the Deal
Maya sat in a corner of the prison yard, holding a crumpled sheet—another legal aid request. She didn’t expect a lawyer from home. Her mother couldn’t afford one. She didn’t even expect her to try. That part didn’t hurt. It was just fact.
So she tried what under-trials are supposed to get—free legal aid. At least on paper, the system promised it. Whether it ever arrived or helped was another story. This was her third attempt in ten days. The first two had vanished. This time, she handed it directly to a guard and watched him walk away.
But she knew what would happen. Or rather, what wouldn’t.
Rathore had gone silent.
No visits. No messages. Not a single word from Rathore. He had disappeared the moment Arjun died. All that remained were vague lines Maya had mistaken for promises—promises that were never real.
Maya never thought she’d end up in jail. Her deal with Rathore was clear—help them catch Arjun, and she and her mother would be left alone. Instead, Arjun was gunned down, and Rathore vanished. He broke the deal. Took the credit. Left her to rot.
At first, she waited. Thought it was part of his plan. That he was just staying distant. That help would come—maybe a lawyer, maybe bail. Something. Anything.
She was naive. She believed helping them trap Arjun would buy her freedom. That the police would keep their word. But the second she was arrested, that illusion shattered. Rathore stayed silent. Disappeared.
She kept hoping it was temporary. That he was working something behind the scenes. That this nightmare had a way out.
She was wrong.
Nothing came.
Maya had to contact Rathore. He was all she had. But how? No phone. No number. No contacts. Even if she bribed one of the prison guards like the other inmates did, it wouldn’t help—she didn’t know how to reach Rathore. She thought for days. Then an idea struck.
It was a gamble. Her plan? Call 112—the police control room—and bluff her way through. Maybe, just maybe, they’d patch her to Rathore. It was a wild shot. But it was the only shot she had.
She offered the jail clerk a deal—her silver ring, the one she had deposited during admission. The clerk didn’t blink. She created a fresh slip, backdated it, and left the ring out from Maya’s listed possessions. She took Maya’s fresh signature and slid the file shut. That was it. The ring was gone. Sold. All for one phone call. Clean. Quick. Just how the system worked.
She waited three days. Time crawled. Her mind raced with one question—would this crazy idea even work?
When the clerk finally handed her the phone, Maya’s hands were cold. Her breath was shallow. She dialed 112 with a dry mouth and a heart hammering in her chest.
If the operator hung up, it was over. If they asked too many questions, it was over. If they laughed, it was over.
She cleared her throat and steadied her voice.
“Please connect me to Inspector Rathore. It’s about the Malik case.”
Silence. Then shuffling. Then a pause.
Normally, the operator would’ve disconnected. Another nutcase calling 112. But then came the name—Rathore. The crime branch’s golden boy. The encounter specialist. And then Arjun Malik. That was big. Too big to ignore.
What if this was one of Rathore’s informers? What if she cut the call and Rathore found out? He was known to explode over lapses. One wrong move, and she could be out of a job.
She weighed the risk. Not for long.
Better safe than sorry.
She decided to patch the call through.
Finally, a voice said, “Hold for Inspector Rathore.”
Maya's fingers trembled as she clutched the receiver.
He answered on the second ring.
"Hello," came Rathore’s grunt. Cold. Distant.
"Hello, this is Maya," she said quickly, afraid he’d cut the line.
“Who gave you this number?” His voice was cold.
“I needed to speak to you,” Maya said, steadying her breath. “I need legal help. You implied I’d be protected.”
“I implied nothing,” Rathore cut her off. “You did your job. That’s all.”
“I’m being destroyed out here in the jail. The media, the inmates—it’s a slow execution. I took all the risk—”
Rathore laughed, dry and sharp. “And now you want a rescue scene? You think this ends like a film?”
“I risked everything,” she snapped. “I didn’t do this to rot in here.”
“So? So what? Paperwork flips. Orders change. That’s how the system works.”
“No,” she said bitterly. “I only know I was used.”
“You were,” he said flatly. “Because you were useful. You’re not anymore.”
"Wham, bam, thank you ma’am," Rathore muttered, half-laughing, clearly joking with someone nearby. Cold. Cruel. Typical Rathore.
Then his voice shifted. Low. Flat. Threatening.
"Bye, Maya. Never call again. Don’t push your luck. You think jail is bad now? I can have you taken to a men’s prison. Not officially. Just long enough for those animals to rip you apart. Sex-starved maniacs who haven’t seen a woman in years. You won’t be protected. You won’t be missed. And trust me—they’ll thank me when they’re done. That’s the hell I’ll send you to if you ever call me again."
Silence.
"Shut the fuck up. Don’t ever bother me again."
The line went dead.
She stood there, phone still pressed to her ear, until the dial tone buzzed in her skull. The clerk gestured for the handset. Maya walked back to her cell in silence, something inside her splintering with each step.
She returned to her cell. Her throat was dry. She gulped down water. Her chest heaved. Her face burned. Her fists trembled. She was shaking with rage.
She had never been part of any plan. Just a pawn moved and discarded. A trap trigger. A cleanup tool.
Her fists shook as Rathore’s voice echoed in her head.
You were useful. You aren’t anymore.
She stared at the wall, jaw clenched, eyes dry.
There would be no lawyer. No favors. No rescue.
No one was coming to save her.
If this was how they played the game, she’d play back.
Not with hope. Not with pleading.
With strategy.
Her breath slowed. Her spine straightened.
And in that moment, Maya didn’t feel broken.
She felt sharpened.
Section 5: The Final Betrayal
The courtroom was packed. Outside, cameras flashed. Reporters yelled. Cops pushed back the crowd. News vans blocked the road. Every screen shouted the same thing—Maya Sharma on trial. Gangster’s Queen faces justice.
Inside, Maya sat in the accused box. Her wrists were uncuffed to make it look normal. But she still felt trapped. She wore a plain white kurta. Her hair was tied back. From a distance, she looked calm. Her mouth tightened. Her eyes didn’t move. She was done reacting. Now she was watching, thinking, waiting. The rage was there—but buried. Controlled. Calculated.
The judge entered. Proceedings began.
The prosecutor didn’t waste a second. He said Maya wasn’t just involved—she was the one running Arjun’s empire. He called her a seductress. A planner. A criminal. Each word hit like a bullet. Cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled. The room shifted. Everyone was watching her like she’d already been convicted.
Maya remained still. She had prepared for this.
Then came the one moment she never saw coming.
“The prosecution would like to call its next witness—Sarla Sharma.”
Her heart stopped. Her mother’s name echoed through the courtroom. It hit Maya like a slap.
Maya turned sharply toward the door, heart pounding, unsure if she had heard right.
Her mother walked in slowly. Her eyes stayed on the floor. Her hands gripped the edge of her saree. She looked older and weaker than Maya remembered. The courtroom shifted. Whispers filled the air.
Maya’s heart lurched. Her legs wobbled. She went stiff, shocked into silence.
The judge asked Sarla to take the stand. She nodded faintly and sat down. Her voice trembled.
“I’m Sarla Sharma… mother of Maya.”
The prosecutor cut in before she could say more. “Mother of the accused,” he corrected with a smirk.
Sarla flinched in her seat.
Maya’s stomach twisted. Her mother’s shame was on full display. Used. Cornered. Maya clenched her fists under the desk, burning with helpless rage.
The prosecutor leaned in gently. “Mrs. Sharma, do you believe your daughter was involved in Arjun Malik’s criminal operations?”
Sarla paused. She glanced once at Maya, quickly, then looked away again.
“I don’t know what she was involved in,” she said quietly. “But she changed. After meeting him, she changed.”
The prosecutor pressed. “Did she ever speak about his business? His deals?”
“No,” Sarla said, swallowing hard. “Not directly. But… I saw the money, the gifts, the way she lived. I warned her. She didn’t listen.”
Her voice broke mid-sentence.
Maya’s stomach twisted. Her fingers pressed into her palms. Her throat tightened. Tears rose, but she crushed them back. She couldn’t cry now. Not here. Not in front of them.
The prosecutor smiled. “So you confirm your daughter knowingly associated with a gangster and ignored your warnings?”
Sarla faltered again. Then gave a slow, defeated nod.
The gallery buzzed. Cameras clicked nonstop. In the corner, a red news ticker screamed: ‘Mother Turns Against Maya Sharma’.
Maya sat frozen. Her mind went numb. Her mother—once her shield—had just thrown her to the wolves. Not out of hate. But to save herself.
Maya’s mind raced. Why did her mother go this far? Even if her words sounded weak, why testify at all? Had Rathore threatened her again? Did he trap her in some new legal case? What had they done to break her this time? Maya didn’t know. She feared the worst. And no one was giving answers.
She looked down. Her fingers trembled. Her mind slipped into the past. Years ago, her mother had sat beside her, brushing her hair and whispering, 'You are enough. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone.'
That same voice had once comforted her. Now it cracked in front of the whole courtroom. Maya felt something snap deep inside. A quiet break. Final. Cold.
Back in her cell, she collapsed to the floor. She hugged herself tight. Her body shook. Her breath came in fast jerks. She curled up like a ball. There was nothing left to hold on to. Just pain. Just silence.
There was nothing left.
Not Arjun. Not Rathore. Not even her mother.
But somewhere beneath the wreckage, something else stirred.
Not hope. Not healing.
Resolve.
They had all chosen survival.
Now it was her turn.
She would rise—not for sympathy, not for redemption—but for revenge, for power, for herself.
As her breathing steadied, her eyes opened again—cold, clear, unblinking. The tears had dried. The weakness had passed.
Then it came back—Arjun’s last whisper. The red file. The safe. Maybe her way out had already started. She just hadn’t seen it.
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