I never meant to fall for her. Madhu Mehra was everything I hated—entitled, sharp-tongued, moving through college like she owned the air. I was just the guy throwing parties with borrowed money, pretending I wasn’t the son of a man who counted coins like prayers. When we collided at that charity gala, she laughed at my tie. So I told her I was blind.

She flinched. Apologized. Offered her arm.

And I laughed in her face.

Now she’s everywhere—accusing me, challenging me, her eyes blazing like I’m the one who lied first. But tonight, at the retreat, she said I tried to rape her. Just like that. No warning. No proof. Just a scream that shattered my life.

I stood before the disciplinary board, stripped of friends, dignity, future.

And still, I didn’t name her.

Because revenge? That’s for people who don’t know what love feels like.

But then she came to me—eyes wide, voice trembling.

‘Why didn’t you tell them it was me?’

I looked at her. Really looked.

And for the first time, I saw the truth.

She was already falling.

And so was I.