Title: “The 30 Lakh Promise”

Part 1: A Hope for a New Life

I am Priya Kumari, just turned 18, when I packed my things and left my village in Bihar for Mumbai, clinging to dreams of changing my life.
My village was poor. My father died young, and my mother struggled to raise three daughters by selling chai on the roadside.
I didn’t want to burden her anymore, so I came to the city and found work washing dishes at a small street-side eatery in Bandra.

The job was tough—my hands always soaked in greasy water, the stench of leftover food clinging to my clothes—but I clenched my teeth and endured.
“Just hang on for a few years,” I told myself. “Save up, open a tailoring shop, and bring Ma to live in comfort.”

Six months passed, and I slowly adjusted to city life.

Then one day, he walked in.

His name was Rajiv Malhotra, around 38 years old. He came in every Saturday morning, always ordering beef curry with naan, eating slowly, exuding class and wealth.
He was tall, wore tailored suits, and the luxury watch on his wrist sparkled under the shop’s dim lighting.

Other staff whispered that he was a real estate tycoon, owning a dozen properties across Mumbai.
Whenever he visited, his eyes were fixed on me, always with that same enigmatic half-smile.

Part 2: The Proposal That Changed Everything

One evening, as I was wiping down the last table, Rajiv stayed behind and called me over. He didn’t waste time:

“Priya, you’re young and beautiful, but life out here isn’t easy. I have a proposal.

Give me a son—a male heir—and I’ll give you 30 lakh rupees.

Enough to rebuild your life. A house, a car, anything you want.”

His words flowed like honey.
30 lakh!
That could pay off Ma’s debts, open the tailoring shop, and send my sisters to college.

I hesitated—but his cold stare and commanding voice left no room for refusal.

“Alright… I agree,” I whispered, heart pounding.

Rajiv soon moved me into a luxury apartment in South Mumbai.
My life flipped overnight—from a boiling hot dorm room to a lavish flat with leather sofas and central AC.
He gave me a stipend, new clothes, and anything I asked for.

But in return—I was his, on call, at his whim.
At night, lying beside him, I cried silently.
Still, I told myself: “Just give birth to the child, and I’ll finally have everything I dreamed of.”

Part 3: The Tragedy Unfolds

Nine months later, I became pregnant.
Rajiv seemed pleased, even more attentive.

But slowly, I began to sense something was wrong.
He started disappearing for days. His phone would be off.

Once, I overheard him whispering harshly into the phone:

“She must not know. Absolutely not.”

I was curious—but afraid to ask.

The day I went into labor, the pain was excruciating. I kept crying out his name.
Rajiv took me to a private hospital, held my hand, and whispered:

“After the birth, everything I promised will be yours.”

But when I awoke from the C-section, my healthy baby boy lying next to me—Rajiv was gone.

No explanation.
No messages.
His phone was disconnected.
The apartment? Empty.
His belongings? Vanished.

Panic set in. I held my baby and sobbed.

Then a strange woman appeared at the hospital—sharp eyes and a cold voice.
She introduced herself as Rajiv’s wife.

“You thought he loved you?

This child—your child—was never for you.
He was needed to save our real son, who has leukemia and needs a marrow transplant.

You were nothing more than a tool.”

It was all a lie.
Rajiv had planned everything from the start.
His eldest son needed a blood-relative donor, and he used me to create one.
The 30 lakh? A fantasy.

I wasn’t the first.
I was the third.

My child—my flesh and blood—was now in their hands.
And I was thrown out of the apartment, penniless.

Part 4: The Final Blow

I returned to my village, heart broken, soul hollow.
My mother held me as we cried together.

I tried to rebuild my life—but the memory of Rajiv and the child he stole haunted me.
A year later, I saw him on television, smiling in a documentary about Mumbai’s wealthiest real estate moguls.
He stood proudly beside his wife.
My son—laughing, playing beside them.

They were happy.
And I?
I had been erased, forgotten—a stain removed from his story.

Now, I look in the mirror, seeing a pale, sunken version of myself, and I wonder:

Will justice ever come?
Or will I forever remain just another woman destroyed by a man’s 30 lakh promise?