But today she had finally decided to confront him face to face. When she had first asked Rajat for help to set up her meeting with him in prison, Rajat had refused to do so. He had told her plainly that he could not do this behind Karan’s back. That Karan would never forgive him. That this was not something Mishti needed to shoulder alone.
But she still insisted on him because some battles had to be fought face to face. Some ghosts that demanded to be looked in the eye before they loosened their grip on your soul. She had told Rajat that if she did not do this now, she would spend the rest of her life feeling guilty of never confronting that man.
Rajat had resisted for a long time. And then, reluctantly, he had agreed. Today was the result of that agreement. As the excuse given to Karan, she had driven to Mathur's home first and from there, she and Rajat took a quiet detour to the prison.
By the time she stepped out of the car, her palms were damp, her heartbeat loud enough that she wondered if Rajat could hear it standing beside her. She kept her spine straight, her chin lifted, refusing to let fear dictate her today.
The prison guards led them down a corridor that felt too long. Although she was prepared to meet him, her mind betrayed her then, slipping into memories she had not wanted to revisit.
Her father lifting her onto his shoulders playfully.
The smell of his aftershave when he hugged her.
His loud laughter filling the room when he played with her.
She then recalled her mother’s advice, telling her that marriages survived only when women learned to accept boththe good and the bad of their husbands. That endurance was strength. That silence was sometimes necessary.
Standing here now, Mishti knew her mother was wrong to believe that or even to teach her that. The moment her mother had realised what kind of man her husband truly was, what crimes he had committed, what lives he had ruined, she should have broken every tie with him. She should have walked away without looking back, without explaining herself, without justifying her decision to anyone.
Instead, she had stayed connected to him in the only way she thought she could, by using his blood money to raise his children, by convincing herself that survival justified compromise. Living off wealth built on someone else’s suffering was not endurance. It was the acceptance of a wrong that should never have been normalised.
And standing here now, about to face the man responsible for it all, Mishti realised that even her mother became an unwilling participant, allowing the damage done by her father to grow unchecked.
The meeting room was small but private, with just a table and two chairs. Mishti had stepped inside alone. The guards remained outside, alert, visible only through the glass panels from their side, not from within the room. Inside, there was no way to see who stood beyond the walls, only the knowledge that every word spoken here would be heard. She had even asked Rajat to stay back on the other side of the door, close enough to hear, but far enough not to interfere.
And just when she was still questioning if her decision to come here was right or not, the other side door opened, and he walked in… her father, Dilip Goel.
He looked older than she had imagined. Thinner. His hair was streaked with grey. But his eyes were the same. For a second, he stared at her as though he was looking at a mirage.
Then his face changed as he recognised her.
“My daughter,” he breathed, almost hurrying his steps so abruptly that it scared her. “MyMishu.”
That name twisted something ugly in her stomach. It was what he used to call her once. Long before his hands had been stained with Karan’s mother’s blood. Long before everything had broken.
“I have been dying to see you, my baby,” he said, taking another step toward her.
His eyes shone with a possessive warmth that made her stomach churn.
“I knew one day you would come. I knew it. My sweet, innocent Mishti. You finally know I am alive.”
He reached out, his hand moving toward her face, but Mishti stepped back sharply before he could touch her.
“Don’t touch me,” she said angrily, like a storm was raging inside her. “Stay away.”
The words stunned him into stillness.
“You lost the right to call me that,” she added, her eyes blazing. “You don’t get to call meMishuanymore.”
She stood there, watching him with anger and disgust.
“Mishu,” he tried again, lowering his voice as though tenderness could undo decades of damage. “What happened? I have waited for this day. For you. Why are you behaving like this?”
“Because your daughter hasn’t come to see you,” she snapped. “Karan Wadhwa’s wife has.”
The colour drained from his face.
She met his gaze head-on, refusing to look away even as her chest burned. “I am here to confront you,” she continued, “for trying to killmy husband.My Karan.”
