Monty had barely stepped through the towering iron gates of the Chaudhry mansion when the world seemed to erupt around him.
The grand chandelier in the hallway trembled as a loud crack echoed through the air. His father's palm met his cheek with the force of a judge's gavel delivering a final verdict.
"What the hell have you done, Monty!" Prem Chaudhry's voice roared through the marbled corridors.
Monty's face stung, his skin blooming red as his mind tried to catch up. "Dad—?"
Prem shoved a phone in his face, the screen already glowing with disgrace. A video was playing. The resolution wasn't high, but it didn't need to be. It was unmistakably Monty. His hand. Slapping Naina.
In the video, Naina cowered, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her voice shook as she pointed toward Monty, the camera capturing every trembling accusation.
"He forced me," she sobbed. "He made me do things I never wanted. And now... he refuses to take responsibility."
A sob left Monty's throat—not from guilt, but from shock.
Subtitles ran beneath the video like a cruel headline:
Monty Chaudhry, son of Prem Chaudhry, physically assaults his girlfriend after years of manipulation. Refuses to marry her after making her terminate multiple pregnancies.
The comments were flooding in beneath it. Names. Insults. Hashtags. And most of all, rage.
Prem's hand shook as he turned the screen away. "Your name is on every news channel. Every goddamned social feed. Do you realize what you've done to this family?"
Monty opened his mouth, but his father cut him off. "You know what the press is calling you? A disgrace. A monster."
Monty clenched his jaw, the fury rising like bile in his throat. "She's lying!"
Prem scoffed. "Then why were you even with her? Why give her the chance?"
"Because I thought—" Monty bit back the emotion. "Because I was protecting your name."
His father froze.
Monty took a step forward, eyes blazing. "Do you remember how big of a sacrifice I made for this family at Pretty sis's wedding?
I disguised myself, became someone I wasn't, just to make sure your name stayed clean. I put myself through hell."
Prem's expression faltered for a moment.
"And now you think I'd lay a hand on someone like her?" Monty pointed toward the phone. "I've made mistakes. Yes. But this? No. I would never do this."
Unseen to both of them, Romy stood by the staircase, the shadows cloaking his still figure. Every word crashed over him like waves against stone.
Disguised? Pretty's wedding?
Monty's voice had trembled with anger, with heartbreak. "She set me up, Dad. She drugged me. She staged it. The whole thing was a trap."
Prem stared at his son, silent.
The tension was suffocating. A war waged between belief and disbelief behind Prem's eyes.
"You think I'd let a woman into my bed without knowing who she really is? I saw her. In Switzerland. I know what she did. Not just to me. But to all of us."
His father said nothing. The silence was heavier than the slap had been.
And then Monty turned. He couldn't breathe in that room any longer. Not when the man he had fought so hard to protect couldn't even offer him a sliver of trust.
As he stormed out, he passed Romy—their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Monty's jaw twitched, a storm raging behind his gaze.
Romy stood frozen.
So much suddenly made sense.
The voice that felt like Preety's, but wasn't. The awkward kisses. The hesitation. The warmth that once pulled him in was fading like a mirage.
Monty had been pretending. But why?
Somewhere across the city, Naina leaned back on the plush couch in her dim apartment, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating her smirk. The video played on loop. Her fabricated injuries were perfectly timed. Her eyes had just the right touch of tears. The bruise on her arm—created with a dab of makeup—looked heartbreakingly real.
She watched Monty's image on screen, helpless and infuriated.
"You slapped me, Monty," she whispered. "Now, I'm going to set your whole world on fire."
Let the world decide who the villain really was.