When Aman-ji brought Kabir home, the family doctor was already there.Seeing blood on Kabir's head, Chandrika-ji panicked: "What happened to my Kabir?"
Aman-ji didn't answer; he carried Kabir upstairs, and Chandrika-ji followed quietly. The doctor cleaned the wound, bandaged it, gave a pain-killer injection, and left.
Chandrika-ji finally asked—and Aman-ji told her everything.She exploded: "You had so little faith in your own son that you slapped him in front of everyone? Yes, Kabir's mischievous, but he'd never do something so vile—not even in his dreams!"
Aman-ji tried to calm her: "Let's talk downstairs. Kabir's sleeping."
Downstairs she cut him off, furious:"So you believed that innocent-looking girl and decided Kabir was the culprit? You never thought how deeply that slap would wound him!"
Aman-ji took her hand. "I know, I was wrong. Please forgive me. I lost my temper and said terrible things."
"Ask forgiveness from Kabir, not me."
"I will—of course I will! But forgive me too—please?"
She pulled her hand away, heading upstairs: "When Kabir forgives you, I will too."Both sat beside their sleeping son.
Siya came home from school, peeked in, saw Kabir sleeping, and left him undisturbed.That evening Yamuna-ji and Raj-ji visited, but Kabir still slept.
Late at night Kabir woke, saw his father dozing beside him, and recoiled—knocking over a flower-pot.The noise woke Aman-ji and Chandrika-ji. Kabir turned away.
Chandrika-ji: "How do you feel, son?"
Kabir (angry): "I feel like swallowing poison."
Aman-ji (stern): "That's no way to talk."
Kabir wiped tears. Aman-ji stepped closer; Kabir backed away.
Aman-ji: "Come here, son."
Kabir (weeping): "No! You think I'm bad, rude, a liar—go away!"
Chandrika-ji stroked his hair. Kabir clung to her, sobbing:"He slapped me in front of everyone, without even hearing me. I swear I did nothing wrong—I was only trying to help her. She lied about me. And he didn't believe me. I'll never speak to him again!"
Aman-ji knelt, arms open: "I'm really sorry, son. Won't you forgive your dad?"
Kabir flung himself into his father's arms, crying harder. Aman-ji hugged him tight, kissed his head:"I doubted you—doubted our upbringing. It'll never happen again. Please forgive me."
Watching father and son, Chandrika-ji wiped her own tears with her sari and smiled gently.
Kabir cried himself to sleep. Aman-ji laid him down.
Aman-ji (angry now): "Tomorrow I'm going to confront that girl—how dare she accuse my son!"
Chandrika-ji: "Stay with Kabir tonight. He needs you."
Aman-ji lay down beside Kabir while Chandrika-ji stepped out.
Nishtha awoke in a locked room. Her head throbbed, her throat was parched.She pieced events together: the party… Nakul's death… Kashyap's arrest… her in-laws throwing her out… the kidnapping.
She crawled to a clay pot—only a mouthful of water. It barely moistened her throat.A single door was bolted from outside.Then she heard anklets and peeked through a tiny window: scantily-clad women dancing while drunk men showered them with cash.
Realisation hit—she was in a brothel.
Terror surged. She thought of Kashyap—distant, aloof, yet the only one who had ever fought Jagjeet Chauhan's goons for her. But he was in jail… and Nakul—dead. Jagjeet's lust for power had driven him to murder even his own grandson.
She searched for a phone—nothing. Overwhelmed, she collapsed, sobbing for her mother.
The door creaked. Nishtha seized the water-pot as a weapon—but found only a little girl of about ten, carrying a food tray, staring at her in fear.
Behind the child stood a woman."Only entrances here, no exits," the woman said coldly.
"I'm leaving!" Nishtha screamed.
The girl dropped the tray, hiding behind the woman.
"Listen," the woman warned, "do whatever they say or your fate will be worse than death. Think of yourself as an ox tied to an oil-mill—walk straight and you'll live; falter, and the whip falls."
Nishtha hissed, "Save your hollow threats. I'm the Chief Minister's wife—Kashyap Yaduvanshi. A wife belongs in her home's temple, not in a brothel."
The woman smiled sadly. "Here there are no wives, sisters, mothers—only courtesans."
"Just shut up!" Nishtha shouted.
An old madam in gaudy silk and garish makeup barged in, eyeing Nishtha."Oh, she even speaks English! Beautiful… she'll earn a fortune."
"I'm leaving," Nishtha snapped.
The madam grabbed her arm and flung her; Nishtha's ankle twisted."Listen, girl. I paid thirty thousand for you—I'll squeeze a hundred-times profit!"
Nishtha shrieked, "Witch! I'll drink your blood. I'm the CM's wife!"
The madam cracked a whip across her back. "Wife? Your husband's out of jail already—he's pinned his lover's murder on you. He hasn't even asked about you."
Nishtha froze."Lies! All lies!"
The madam rolled her eyes. "Pāyal—feed her. Bring her mother here too. And send Rimjhim to me."
The little girl led the madam out. Pāyal—a kinder woman—said softly, "I understand your pain. But obeying them is safest—for you and your mother."
At the word "Mother," Nishtha panicked: "Where is she?"
"I'll fetch her," Pāyal said.
Soon she returned with Nishtha's mother and a plate of food. Mother and daughter clung together, weeping.When they quieted, Pāyal offered the food. Nishtha turned away.
"Hunger spares no one," Pāyal whispered. "The stomach's fire must be quenched."
"I won't eat the bread of this filthy trade!"
"As you wish," Pāyal sighed. "But remember—once here, only a corpse leaves."
Nishtha's mother stroked her hair:"Where is Kashyap, child? Why are we here?"
"Because your 'master' threw us away like garbage," Nishtha sobbed. "I warned you about that old man's favors."
"Jagjeet-sahib has a big heart—he can't be behind this."
"Enough, Ma! He stole Papa's life, dumped us in this hell, framed Kashyap, murdered his own grandson… and you still praise him?"
Mother wept. "Let's escape, child. I can't see you like this."
Nishtha straightened. "Yes, Ma. We will escape. We're not staying in this hell."