I hadn’t even finished removing my makeup when my father-in-law knocked on the door.

In that luxurious 5-star hotel room, everything suddenly felt cold and suffocating.

He didn’t look at me. He just shoved a wad of bills into my hand—ten $100 bills—and stammered:

“If you want to live, go now. Tonight.”

I froze. As if ice water had been poured over my heart.

My name is Anjali , I’m 26, and I’m an accountant at a construction company in Delhi. I met Raghav , my husband, during a corporate meeting between our companies. Raghav is three years older—a young, handsome, and charming CEO, the only son of a wealthy and well-known family in Lucknow.

Our relationship was a quick one. Within six months, he proposed to me.

My family is simple. My parents are retired civil servants. When Raghav proposed to me, my mother cried tears of joy, and even my strict father gave him his blessing.

I was always the obedient daughter—I never thought I could make a bad decision.

The wedding was grand—held in one of Delhi’s most luxurious hotels.

Everyone looked at me in admiration: “You married a rich man!” they said.

But I didn’t do it for the money.

I married him because he made me feel secure .

Until that night…

My father-in-law, Mr. Rajendra Mehta , was a quiet and reserved man. From the first time I met him, I sensed he didn’t like me.

But I never imagined he would say something like that—on the very night of his son’s wedding.

“I-I don’t understand… What do you mean, sir?” I stammered, still in shock.

He grabbed my hand tightly and whispered, as if afraid of being overheard:

“Don’t ask questions. When you leave, there will be someone waiting for you. Don’t come back.
This is the only thing I can do for you.”

Then he looked at me—with a haunted, terrified expression—as if doing this might cost him his life.
And then… he was gone.

I stood there, trembling, with a thousand questions in my head.

In the other room, Raghav was laughing on the phone with his friends — unaware of what had just happened.

I panicked. I didn’t know who to trust.
So I called the only person I could— my best friend, Priya .

“Are you crazy? Running away on your wedding night? Did someone threaten you?” he yelled.

I told him everything.
He remained silent. Then he said:

“If your father-in-law told you that, it’s serious.
I’m coming for you.”

Ten minutes later, Priya was outside the hotel entrance.
I left with my suitcase, head down like a fugitive.
It was 2:17 a.m.
A light drizzle was falling in Delhi.

I hid in Priya’s apartment.
I turned off my phone.
Thirty missed calls from my mom. Countless from my in-laws. From Raghav.

But I was terrified.
I didn’t know what I was more afraid of—Raghav… or his entire family?

The next morning, while Priya was at work, I turned on my phone.
Hundreds of messages—some scolding, some pleading, some threatening.

But one stood out.

A message from an unknown number:

“My father is a good man. But he can’t save you. If you return, you’ll discover the truth—or disappear forever.”

That evening, Mr. Mehta wrote to me directly:

“If you’re still in Delhi, find me. Just once. 8 p.m.
Imperial Café, second floor. I’ll tell you everything.”

I had to go.

The café was old, tucked away in a quiet alley in Old Delhi.
I climbed the wooden stairs. He was already there, waiting for me—his eyes tired.

He spoke quickly, in a low voice:

“You know Raghav is our only son. But do you know how his first wife died?”

Frozen me.

“He… was married before?”

He nodded.

“No one told you. She died two months after the wedding.
They said she fell down the stairs. But everyone in this house knows… it wasn’t an accident.
I never dared say anything. But I’m telling you now—because you’re next.”

My blood ran cold.

Then he took out a USB stick.

“Take this. It has a voice recording and some documents.
Look it up for yourself.
But don’t let anyone find out.”

“Why don’t you go to the police?” I asked.

He laughed bitterly.

“Because not even the police interfere with this family.”

Back at Priya’s apartment, I opened the USB.

There were several files:

An 8-minute audio recording.

Scanned copies of medical documents.

A partially crossed-out handwritten report.

I played the audio first.

A woman’s voice—clear, trembling with fear:

“I can’t stay here anymore. Since the wedding, Raghav hasn’t let me leave the house.
He changes the locks every week.
His mother says I must have a son—or I’ll be ‘eliminated’ like the others.
I don’t even know what I did wrong…”

It was Neha ’s voice —Raghav’s previous wife. Her name appeared on the documents.

The recording was from two days before his death .

The written report was Mr. Mehta’s own — describing years of strange behavior, family obsessions, and a dark history:

A family line with psychological instability.

A great-grandfather who murdered his wife believing that “the blood of a virgin preserves the family fortune.”

A mother-in-law obsessed with astrology and rituals, convinced that a daughter-in-law must have a son in the first year… or she would be “eliminated.”

Neha had died three months after their marriage—from a fall.
Another unnamed ex-wife reportedly took her own life.

Everything had been silenced.

I felt nauseous.

Raghav—the man who kissed my forehead the day before—
was at the center of something terrifying .

I wanted to run away. But Priya stopped me:

“You can’t just disappear. They’ll know.
We need a plan. I’ll help you.”

With the help of Priya and a journalist friend, we gathered the documents, sent them anonymously to the authorities, and contacted a lawyer.

Three days later, an official investigation was launched.
It didn’t make headlines—but it was serious enough.
Raghav’s family was summoned.
And for the first time, Mr. Mehta agreed to testify.

A few weeks later, I officially filed for divorce.
Raghav didn’t react as I expected.
He just looked at me and said,

“So you’re leaving too. Like the others.”

I shuddered.

There was not a hint of regret in his eyes.

A month later, the investigation was quietly closed.
His family used money and influence to silence the press—
but it wasn’t so easy with the legal community.

I don’t know what will happen to Raghav.
I don’t care anymore.

I left Delhi and moved to Mumbai.
Starting over.
My parents were devastated—but they supported me.

I don’t trust easily anymore.
But I know one thing: I survived.

Some time later, I received a handwritten letter.
No name. Just a message:

“You did the right thing.
Thank you for giving me courage.
— Your father-in-law”

I burst into tears.

There are things you never think can happen to you — until they do.

I’m not the Anjali who believed in fairy tales anymore.

But I do believe in one thing:

No truth is more terrifying than living a lie.