The trial was a media circus, a feeding frenzy for the ravenous 24-hour news cycle. The story was irresistible, a lurid tale made for primetime television: The Angel of St. Xavier's, A Devil in Disguise. The beautiful, brilliant, beloved college president with a hidden past as a brutal, psychopathic killer. The courtroom was packed every single day with a jostling, sweating horde of reporters, curious students whispering behind their hands, and the stony-faced families of her victims, both old and new.
Ruhi, or Ananya as the prosecution relentlessly and deliberately insisted on calling her, was a shadow of her former self. Without Rihan's unwavering belief to sustain her, without the carefully constructed persona of 'Ruhi Soni' to hide behind, her fortress had no foundation. She was quiet, withdrawn, and seemed to float through the proceedings in a dissociative haze, her eyes vacant. Her expensive, high-powered lawyers, hired by a blind trust fund her parents had ironically left behind, argued a case of diminished responsibility.
They brought in a parade of eminent psychologists who spoke in clinical, compassionate tones about her severe childhood trauma—the horrific physical, emotional, and sexual abuse she had suffered at the hands of her powerful, respected parents and a trusted schoolteacher. They spoke of the Dissociative Identity Disorder that had been born from it. The "Ananya" persona, they argued, was not her true self, but a ruthless, primitive protector, a separate entity forged in unimaginable pain to shield the gentle, fragile, and terrified child within.
The prosecution painted a very different, much simpler picture. They portrayed her as a cold, calculating psychopath, a master manipulator who used her intelligence and charm as a camouflage to hide her monstrous, predatory nature. They paraded her recent victims before the court. Vikas was wheeled in on a gurney, his testimony a bitter, resentful account of the attack that had crippled him for life. Professor Verma hobbled to the stand on crutches, his voice shaking with a mixture of rage and residual fear as he described the terrifying, shadowy figure that had pushed him from behind on the darkened staircase.
Through it all, every single day, Rihan was there. He sat in the front row of the gallery, a solitary, defiant figure. His presence was a silent testament of his loyalty. He ignored the whispers, the disgusted looks from other students, the tearful, pleading phone calls from his own parents to abandon this "monster" and save himself. His loyalty was absolute, an anchor in the chaotic storm of judgment. His presence was her only lifeline. In the chaotic, hostile courtroom, their gazes would often meet. In those silent, fleeting exchanges, an entire universe of shared love and shared pain passed between them.
Kritika and Ashutosh were called to testify. Their voices were heavy with sorrow and a terrible, gut-wrenching conflict. They told the simple, unvarnished truth about what they had found in the apartment, about the file, about Ruhi's chilling confession. Their testimony, honest and reluctant, sealed her fate. After their appearance, they stopped coming to the trial. The friendship that had once been Rihan's entire world was fractured, perhaps irreparably. But Rihan, in his heart, understood. They had done what they thought was right. They had acted out of fear, not malice. He couldn't hate them for it.
The verdict, when it finally came after weeks of grueling testimony, was a complicated compromise, a reflection of the case's own moral ambiguity. Guilty, but with significant mitigating circumstances. The new crimes—the savage assaults on Vikas and his friends, on Professor Verma—were undeniable. But her well-documented history of mental illness, the clear provocation, and the testimony about the abuse she had endured led the judge to a sentence that satisfied no one.
She wasn't sent to a maximum-security prison to rot. She was sentenced to a secure, high-walled psychiatric facility. The sentence was for one year. One year to face her demons, to undergo intensive therapy, to try and integrate the shattered pieces of her personality, to pay the price for her brutal, misguided acts of love.
On the day she was to be transferred, Rihan was allowed to see her one last time. They met in a sterile, white, featureless room, a thick pane of reinforced glass separating them. She looked small and lost in her drab, ill-fitting institutional uniform, her glorious hair tied back severely.
"I'll wait for you," he said, his voice steady and clear, pressing his hand flat against the cold, unyielding glass.
Tears, the first she had shed since her confession, welled in her eyes. But for the first time, they weren't tears of anguish or rage, but of a profound, soul-deep gratitude. "Why?" she whispered, her voice raspy and thin through the crackling speaker system. "After everything... how can you still love me?"
"Because I love you," he said simply, his voice unwavering. "And because I understand. The world hurt you, and you learned to hurt it back. I don't love what you did. But I love you. When I get you back, we'll learn how to heal. Together."
He made a promise to her then, and to himself. He wouldn't just wait. He would become someone strong enough to be her shield, her real protector, so she would never have to be a monster again.
The next year was a blur of reinvention for Rihan. He threw himself into his studies with a ferocious, obsessive intensity. His mind, once clouded by fear and self-doubt, was now sharp and focused, driven by a singular purpose. He started working out with Ashutosh—who had quietly, guiltily, resumed their friendship—slowly and painfully building his skinny frame into one of quiet strength. He took public speaking classes, forcing himself to overcome his innate timidity, learning to command a room with his voice. He was no longer the frightened boy from the gazebo. He was becoming the man Ruhi needed him to be, a man who could stand by her side without needing her shadow to hide in.
He visited her every week, without fail, his unwavering presence her only lifeline to the outside world, her only hope for a future. He wrote to her every single day, long letters filled with details of his life, his studies, his hopes, and his unwavering love. His letters were a constant reminder of the future they would build, a future beyond the walls and the pain.