Chapter 7: The Trial

In the days that followed, Arjun Kapoor’s cruelty only grew.

His pranks became more inventive, his smile sharper. The servants kept their distance, afraid to anger the ‘Prince’ of the house.

The lunch prepared by the maid, when I opened the tiffin, was filled with thumbtacks.

The pain in my tongue was sharp, but my anger was sharper. I’d learned long ago not to show weakness.

My face wash and toothpaste would squeeze out dead cockroaches.

The maid’s apology was half-hearted. ‘Madam, yeh toh kisika mazaak hai, maaf kar dijiye.’

The dresses in my closet were burnt with cigarette holes.

Even my favourite pink kurta, the one with silver embroidery, was ruined—holes singed into the fabric like scars.

And every time I looked up in shock, I’d meet Arjun Kapoor’s malicious grin.

His eyes would glint, daring me to retaliate. But I’d learned patience from a thousand small humiliations.

He mouthed to me: [Ananya Kapoor, you deserve it.]

Each word was like poison, but I forced myself to look away, shoulders straight.

Arjun Kapoor thought I would cry.

He waited for the tears, the begging, the tantrums. But I only smiled, a small, cold smile that unsettled even him.

But I calmly poured out the thumbtacks, threw the cockroaches in the dustbin, folded the ruined dresses and put them away.

I washed my hands, smoothed my hair, and walked out to dinner as if nothing had happened.

So, the smile on Arjun Kapoor’s face faded.

He watched me, frustration building, his pride wounded. ‘Why isn’t she breaking?’ he must have wondered.

He stared at me, nearly gnashing his teeth: ‘Let’s see how long you can keep up this act.’

His friends whispered behind his back, ‘Yeh ladki toh kuch aur hi hai, boss.’

……

The pause after his last prank grew longer, as if he was waiting for me to finally snap.

Fortunately, this time, although I had to endure Arjun Kapoor’s cruelty, all the Kapoor family’s resources belonged to me.

Every textbook, every privilege, every opportunity was mine for the taking. I took full advantage, knowing that in this world, only results mattered.

I no longer had to go to school by day and be forced to help my adoptive mother with chores at night.

I could focus on my studies, rest when I wanted, and plan my next move in peace.

On the contrary, there was a maid to care for me, a driver to take me wherever I needed, and all I had to do was focus on my studies.

My afternoons were spent with tutors, my evenings with books—no more scrubbing floors or cleaning shoes.

In my previous life, if I wanted to buy extra study materials, I had to save up for ages and guard against my adoptive father taking my money for alcohol or gambling.

Every hundred-rupee note was precious, hidden away in a matchbox under my mattress, sometimes stolen anyway.

But now, my closet was full of designer dresses, my jewellery box held Tanishq and Senco pieces, all casually gifted by Mrs. Kapoor—no need to spend a rupee of my own.

Even the servants treated me with a careful respect, knowing I was the daughter of the house.

Every month, I received fifty thousand rupees in cash for pocket money and a credit card with a one lakh rupee limit. If I spent it all, I just told the butler, and within half an hour, the balance would be topped up.

Money became just numbers on a screen, no longer the measure of my worth.

And the hard life I once endured now fell entirely on Neha.

I watched her from afar, her eyes ringed with dark circles, her hands raw from detergent. She moved like a shadow through the corridors.

I saw her sleeping through all her classes, because she had to help her adoptive mother at night and never got enough sleep.

Sometimes her forehead would nod forward, cheek pressed to the desk, the teacher’s voice just a distant drone.

Gradually, she stopped doing homework and handed in blank exam papers.

The teachers’ comments grew sharper, her grades slipping like sand through her fingers.

In my previous life, I survived on black coffee, and when I was really tired, I’d prick myself with a compass—anything to keep studying.

I’d learned to ignore hunger, to treat exhaustion as a badge of honour. But Neha…

But Neha had lived a pampered life as a young lady in her last life. She didn’t have that kind of drive, let alone care about her studies.

She’d never learned what real struggle tasted like. To her, life was always about being chosen, not about fighting to survive.

To her, being the fiancée of the Kapoor family’s prince was worth far more than getting into IIT or AIIMS.

Marriage was the only exam she’d ever cared about passing.

So, all of Neha’s energy was spent on making Arjun Kapoor like her more.

She copied lines from romantic novels, learned his favourite songs, watched cricket matches just to have something to say to him.

She ignored maths class, secretly writing a diary for Arjun Kapoor to read.

She scribbled in the margins, ‘Today Arjun looked at me for three seconds. Maybe tomorrow, he will smile.’

She skipped dance practice, sneaking out to stargaze with Arjun Kapoor in the suburbs.

Her shoes muddy, her laughter loud—trying to freeze every happy moment so it would last forever.

As a result, on the eve of the dance performance…

Her face was streaked with tears, hands trembling, her friends whispering behind their hands.

She sat outside the rehearsal room, crying.

Her sobs were soft, carefully rehearsed, the kind that tugged at anyone’s heart.

I guessed Neha had specifically studied how heroines cry in TV serials: looking up at a forty-five-degree angle, tears brimming but stubbornly refusing to fall.

She even dabbed at her eyes with the end of her dupatta, just as they do on-screen, hoping someone important was watching.

Sure enough, Arjun Kapoor saw her as he passed by.

He paused, eyes widening, his whole posture shifting from arrogance to concern.

The moment he asked what was wrong, Neha’s tears finally spilled over.

She sobbed, barely able to speak, her voice breaking perfectly on cue.

She threw herself into Arjun Kapoor’s arms, sobbing.

He hesitated only a second before letting her lean on him, the protector once again.

‘Arjun, I lost my chance to perform.’

She sniffled, voice small, looking up through her lashes.

‘All the girls in the class can perform—only Ananya Kapoor wouldn’t let me participate…’

Her words hung in the air, heavy with accusation.

Arjun Kapoor already hated me, and was instantly furious.

His fists clenched, jaw tight. ‘Bas, ab aur nahi!’

‘Why?’

His voice was sharp, the crowd around them shrinking away.

Neha bit her lip, trying to hold back her tears, but couldn’t stop sobbing.

She looked every bit the wronged heroine.

‘She said my mother is just a cleaner, my father is just a peon.’

‘I can’t even afford a costume, so I’m not worthy to go on stage.’

Her voice was quiet, yet it echoed in the empty corridor like a slap.

Arjun Kapoor’s face grew darker and darker.

His eyes blazed, the injustice burning in him—never mind that none of it was true.

He looked at the sobbing Neha and said in a low voice, ‘Isn’t it just a costume? I’ll buy it for you.’

He fished out his wallet, as if money could solve everything.

Neha shook her head, full of pitiful little white flower righteousness: ‘No, one costume costs eight hundred rupees. I can’t accept such an expensive gift from you.’

She looked down, her voice quivering, martyrdom etched on her face.

Arjun Kapoor was both angry and distressed.

He paced, muttering curses at me under his breath, not noticing the growing audience.

‘How dare Ananya Kapoor do that?’

He blurted out in anger.

The words were loud enough for half the corridor to hear.

Neha shook her head, tears falling: ‘After all, she’s your sister, the Kapoor family’s young lady.’

Her words were barbed, meant to sting.

‘Your family donated several buildings to the school, your father is an honorary director. Even if the teachers know she’s bullying me, what can they do…’

She sniffed, eyes full of practiced pain. The audience around them was ready to believe every word.

At that moment, neither of them noticed a reporter who was at the school for an interview walking past.

He wore a faded shirt, notepad in hand, eyes sharp as a hawk.

Sensing a story, the reporter leaned in, like a shark smelling blood.

He edged closer, recorder already on, nostrils flaring for scandal.

‘Bullying? What bullying?’

His voice cut through the crowd, and suddenly everyone turned to look.