Her Only Saviour

85. The start of REVENGE

𝕽𝖆𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖎𝖓 𝖌𝖎𝖓 𝖐𝖊
𝕹𝖊𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖎𝖓 𝖇𝖚𝖓 𝖐𝖊

𝕮𝖍𝖊𝖊𝖟 𝖐𝖞𝖆 𝖍𝖆𝖎 𝖐𝖍𝖜𝖆𝖆𝖇𝖉𝖆𝖆𝖗𝖎 𝖍𝖚𝖒 𝖓𝖊 𝖏𝖆𝖆𝖓𝖎

𝕿𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖘𝖚𝖗 𝖐𝖆 𝖘𝖆𝖆𝖟 𝖇𝖆𝖓 𝖐𝖊
𝕳𝖔𝖙𝖎 𝖐𝖞𝖆 𝖍𝖆𝖎 𝖗𝖆𝖆𝖌𝖉𝖆𝖆𝖗𝖎 𝖍𝖚𝖒 𝖓𝖊 𝖏𝖆𝖆𝖓𝖎...

~~~~~

Naina moved—deliberately slow. She dragged a wooden chair across the dungeon, letting its legs screech against the concrete. She placed it before Subham and sat down with crossed legs and an angelic smile.

“I’ll play with him,” she said, pointing at Subham like he was a lab rat. “He’s used to legal manipulation. Let’s see how he handles mental dissection.”

Aarvi chose Ranjit. She pulled up a tray filled with items—not knives, not yet.

These were relics of psychological war: photos of Ranjit’s family, forged suicide letters in his handwriting, videos of his wife crying.

“Ever felt powerlessness?” Aarvi whispered as she pressed play on a screen showing his company’s assets being seized.

Ranjit choked on his breath.

“You made me feel that every day in your office,” she said with a smile. “Now it’s your turn.”

Nandini turned to Rishi—silent, but visibly sweating.

“You know,” she said conversationally, “I read your police files. You had an employee, She committed suicide… because her boss, you, touched her.”

Rishi froze. Nandini’s voice dropped to a purr. “Do you know what it feels like to be touched without consent? To scream and have no one listen? To bleed, and still be blamed?”

She leaned forward till her face was inches from his. “I do. And I promise you… I’ll make you beg like she did.”

Naina began with a game.

She presented Subham with legal documents, all forged, showing his alleged crimes, resignation letters, sexual harassment accusations—all fake but painfully real-looking.
She laughed as he tried to deny each one.

“Want to call your lawyer?” she asked sweetly. “Oops. You are the lawyer.”

With every denial, she added another line: “Liar. Perjurer. Disgrace.”

She handed him a mirror. “Repeat after me: I deserve this.”

He refused.

She slapped him—not hard, but precise. The kind that breaks egos before bones.

Aarvi played her own game.

She made Ranjit watch a looped video of his wife burning his photos, crying into divorce papers. At first, he screamed at the screen. Then, he begged. Then, he broke.

She showed him falsified obituaries of his business empire, articles branding him a predator. Ranjit whimpered like a dog.

“I’m your mirror,” Aarvi told him.
“Everything you see? That’s what you made others feel.”

Nandini’s game was more sinister.

She brought no props.

Just her eyes. And a story.

She described every second of her torture—every kick, every burn, every slap, every plea.

Rishi began crying. But she didn’t stop.