“Divorce?” Aarav’s voice cracked.
“Fifteen years, Aarav. I’ve kept the promise. But I won’t divorce. I gave my word.”
“To whom?”
“To you. And to him.”
There was a long silence.
Then I heard him say, “That night… I still hear the brakes.”
I pressed a hand against the wall to keep from falling.
Secrets Spilled — And a Name From the Past
That night, I confronted him.
“Do you love Aarav?”
He looked at me, eyes tired but sincere.
“I love promises. The ones I made to you. The ones I made to him.”
I left the next day. Took only a suitcase, a potted cactus, and a heavy heart. At his desk, I found three things:
- A life insurance policy with me as the sole beneficiary. If our marriage ended within 24 months, the payout would be void. The policy had been signed two years earlier — on September 23.
- A receipt from the hematology ward. He had been undergoing chemotherapy.
- A photo of me and someone from my past — Rohan, my first love. He had died in a motorcycle accident, or so I had believed. On the back, I’d written:
“Showers always come early this season.”
Beside it, a note: “I’m sorry. – V.”
Vikram — my husband.
The Man I Thought I Lost Was Always There
I found Aarav. He met me with tears in his eyes. Slowly, he explained:
“I am Rohan. After the accident, my face was disfigured. Vikram’s car had hit me. He took me to the hospital, promised to protect you, and asked me to let you move on.”
And he had. He changed his name. He stayed close. And Vikram, the man I had called husband for 15 years, had known all along. He made a vow never to touch me — not because he didn’t love me, but because he believed he didn’t deserve to.
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