I never thought the man who kissed my forehead every night could be a monster. My name is Bharti Bhandari, and until last week, I believed my father, Ashok, was a successful businessman. I was studying law at college, dreaming of justice, while loving a boy named Vijay who shared my ideals. Then Vicky told me the truth—my father wasn’t just rich. He was a smuggler. A trafficker. A traitor.

I confronted him, but he denied it. So I went to Goa with Vijay, trying to forget. That’s when I saw it—the yacht, the children, my father giving orders in the shadows. We found documents that could destroy India’s sovereignty. We were going to report it. But Vijay was killed that night. I came home, screamed at my parents, and in the chaos, my mother fell. I saw the gun. I fired.

Now I’m running, the papers clutched in my hands, hiding in Ooty. I hired a bodyguard, Jamliya, but something feels wrong. And then… they came. A woman and man claiming to be my parents. They have documents. Photos. Even my uncle Kishore backs them. They say I’m unstable. That I imagined everything.

But I know what I saw. I know what I did. And I know they’re coming for me. The real question is—am I losing my mind, or is this a conspiracy to bury the truth?