There was a time when our home shone with the bright light of Sana’s spirit. At 24, she turned our small apartment into a gallery for her sunlit landscape paintings and her old guitar. But when she started dating Arjun, a suave entrepreneur with an impeccable smile, our parents bristled.
It was the other way, you dumb commenters; they saw through his spiel and realized he was after her savings. Blinded by love, Sana balked and didn’t listen. Without telling us, she went away to a courthouse and married him in secret.
I, her older brother Rohan, observed her sneaking out, eyes shining with some secret joy, but I never suspected she’d marry him. Her secret stayed a secret until it destroyed her.
Months later, Sana’s light faded. She put down her paintbrush, left her guitar untouched, and faded into silence. And she remained in her room, a ghost of herself. Then, one day, a sharp envelope showed up—divorce papers.
Arjun had cleaned out her bank account and disappeared, she said, leaving a note chalked with “better prospects.” The reality knocked the wind out of us: Sana had been secretly married to him, and he had taken advantage, draining her of every cent she’d saved from her art sales.
Our parents were livid, but I saw the pain of Sana—her hollowed-out self, lost to depression. My heart burned with rage. Arjun had taken away my sister’s spirit, and I would have his life for it.
I immersed myself in the search for Arjun. As a freelance journalist, I was skilled at digging for the truth. He’d escaped to a neighboring city and had been living in style on Sana’s money while operating some kind of nefarious investment scheme, getting rich clients hooked with promises of untold wealth.
I saw my opening. I fabricated a fake personality—professional emails, a rented suit, and confident comportment—as the rich investor Vikram. Arjun nibbled, inviting me out to dinner, trying to impress.
I fumed at his smug grin but played along, building a case against him for fraud: fake contracts, tempered financials, and shadowy wire transfers. Each step tightened the noose.
Sana’s decline haunted me. She could hardly speak and would sit and look blankly at me when I took her tea up. “He told me he loved me,” she whispered once, and then wept.
I swore to her I would do justice, but concealed my plan. I couldn’t help her see the fire that consumed me. I spoke to Priya, a former assistant of Arjun, who said he had cheated her out of her wages.
Her anger reflected mine, and she handed over damning records—evidence of his scams, in which he’d even hit Sana’s savings.
Together, we hatched a plan to destroy him publicly and bring about a public fall that would rob him of his charm and stop his lies.
The trap sprung at Arjun’s grand investment gala, a glitzy event where he thought to seal deals with high rollers. He’d urged “Vikram” to shore up his empire by masterminding a huge investment.
I conspired with Priya to tip off his false records to a local news station, timing the exposé for the peak of the gala. I also called the police, giving them what evidence I possessed.
I stood in the elite tent, and my heart was pounding, but I felt calm on the outside. Arjun smiled when he spotted me, clueless of the tempest I’d let loose. Sana’s hollow stare spurred me on—this was for her.
When Arjun went on stage, prattling on about his “visionary investments,” a reporter cut in with his forged documents splashed across a giant screen.
As both emails and bank records exposed his scams—including Sana’s money he had stolen—the crowd gasped. Arjun paled, his charisma crumbling. Police barged in, handcuffs gleaming and guests gasping in disbelief.
In a matter of minutes, his empire crumbled, his reputation in ruins. I snuck away, vengeance served. Arjun was imprisoned; his false face had been discovered, and the city gossiped about it.
I went back, ready for peace, but there was none. Sana was shut in her room, oblivious to Arjun’s destruction. I said, hoping in some way it would bring back a little light to her eyes. “He’s finished, Sana.
Now he can’t hurt anyone,” I said. She nodded, her face empty, and moved on. My triumph felt empty; revenge had not given her back. Guilt gnawed at me.
I’d wasted a ton of energy destroying Arjun, and Sana needed me more. Her depression was an old scar, one I couldn’t touch with all of my anger. I learned that revenge was a short, hellish fire; it burned out quickly, I was told.
I shifted my focus to Sana. I sat with her in silence, brought her the sketchbook she had used when she was young, and put on some of her favorite songs.
I identified a therapist who specialized in grief and encouraged Sana to meet with her. She stirred slowly—a weak smile when I sang off-key, a doodle on a napkin. Priya came by and spoke about her own healing from Arjun’s betrayal and small art projects they threw together.
One night, Sana embraced me. “You didn’t abandon me,” she whispered. It wasn’t the old Sana, but it was something. My retribution had imprisoned Arjun, but only love would release my sister.
Sana became a member of an art therapy group, and, painting by painting, colors bled back into her palette. Arjun’s trial was covered in the press, his name becoming synonymous with fraud.
I hid the information from Sana so she wouldn’t have to endure any more pain. I’d had my revenge; it was a furious conflagration, and in its wake, my anger had been devoured, and regret stood amongst the ashes. I’d caught Arjun, but Sana’s healing was the battle at hand.
One afternoon, I heard her laughing as she made sketches in the garden, and for a moment, it felt like a weight lifted. There was a moment for revenge, but the battle was all about love. I’d stand by Sana and help her recapture her light, one blush at a time.
