Three years ago.
The monsoon rain had turned Mumbai into a city of blurred headlights and restless traffic. Inside Courtroom 7, however, the air felt heavier than the storm outside.
Mahi Sachdev stood at the prosecution table, files arranged with clinical precision, her expression carved into professional calm.
Across from her stood Nikhil Ahuja.
Back then, they weren't exes.
They were partners — in law, in life, in every fragile dream they had built together.
And today, they were standing on opposite sides of the courtroom for the first time.
The case had shaken the entire firm.
A powerful industrialist, Rajveer Khanna, was accused of financial exploitation and illegal asset seizures from small-scale factory owners. The case carried public attention, political pressure, and the promise of career-defining recognition.
Mahi was leading the prosecution.
Nikhil had been assigned to the defense.
Neither of them had expected it. Neither had known how to refuse.
"Ready?" Nikhil had asked earlier that morning in their shared apartment kitchen, trying to sound normal while stirring untouched coffee.
Mahi adjusted her watch, avoiding his gaze. "We don't have a choice."
"We could request reassignment."
"And let the firm think we're incapable of professionalism?" she replied sharply.
He sighed. "That's not what I meant."
She finally looked at him then — eyes tired, conflicted, but determined.
"We've always believed law is bigger than us," she said.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah… we have."
But even then, something in his chest had begun to ache.
Back in the courtroom, the judge called the proceedings to order.
Mahi began her opening statement, her voice steady, powerful, slicing through the silence with controlled conviction.
"Your Honour, this case represents not just financial misconduct, but the calculated destruction of livelihoods…"
Nikhil watched her as she spoke, admiration mixing with something darker — fear.
She looked brilliant. Untouchable. Completely certain.
And he realized, with a quiet dread, that she would destroy his client without hesitation.
Which meant… she would destroy his case.
Days turned into weeks of hearings.
Arguments grew sharper.
Evidence presentations became battles of intellect and endurance.
But outside the courtroom, their home had begun to fracture.
They worked late nights separately. Conversations became brief updates. Dinner plates remained untouched between files and legal drafts.
Then came the night everything changed.
Mahi returned home past midnight, rainwater dripping from her blazer. The apartment lights were still on.
Nikhil sat at the dining table, surrounded by defense documents, his laptop screen glowing with financial reports.
"You're still awake," she said softly.
He nodded without looking up. "Needed to review tomorrow's witness testimony."
She placed her bag down slowly. "You're calling Khanna's financial advisor, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"He's unreliable," she said immediately. "He's changed statements twice."
"He's still my witness."
Mahi exhaled sharply. "He's lying, Nikhil."
He finally looked up, eyes tired but defensive. "He's not lying. He's protecting himself."
"That's the same thing," she said.
Silence fell — thick, dangerous.
"You're starting to sound like this case is personal," he said quietly.
"It is personal," she snapped. "Those factory owners lost everything."
"And my job is to defend my client regardless of public sympathy."
"Your client caused this," she insisted.
"You don't know that for certain," he replied.
Mahi stared at him like she didn't recognize him.
"You used to hate corporate exploitation cases," she said, voice breaking slightly.
"I still do," he replied. "But law isn't about what we hate or like."
"No," she said bitterly. "Apparently it's about who pays better."
The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them.
Nikhil's chair scraped harshly as he stood up.
"That's unfair," he said, hurt flashing across his face. "You know I didn't take this case for money."
"Then why defend him so fiercely?"
"Because if I don't defend him properly, the justice system fails. And you taught me that."
The argument hung there — both of them standing on beliefs they had once shared, now weaponized against each other.
Two days later, during cross-examination, Mahi presented new financial documents proving Khanna had manipulated loan structures to force bankruptcies.
The courtroom buzzed with murmurs.
Nikhil hadn't seen those documents before.
He looked toward her, shock flashing across his face.
She avoided his gaze completely.
Later, during recess, he cornered her in an empty hallway.
"You had those documents for three days," he said, voice shaking with disbelief.
"They were verified yesterday."
"You could've told me."
"Why would I?" she asked, though her voice trembled slightly.
"Because we promised each other transparency."
"In life," she said. "Not in litigation."
He stared at her like something inside him had cracked.
"You blindsided me," he whispered.
"I did my job," she replied, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
The real fracture came that evening.
News channels began covering the case heavily. Social media praised Mahi as a champion for small industries. Editorials called her "the face of ethical litigation."
And quietly, cruelly, speculation began questioning Nikhil's integrity for defending Khanna.
When Mahi entered the firm the next morning, she found Nikhil standing in the lobby, surrounded by journalists.
"Mr. Ahuja, do you believe your client is innocent?" one reporter asked.
"Do you think you're enabling corporate exploitation?"
The questions came like bullets.
Before Nikhil could respond, one reporter turned toward Mahi.
"Ms. Sachdev, how does it feel to prosecute against your own partner?"
The word hung there — partner.
Professional? Personal? Both?
Mahi froze.
She saw the cameras. The expectations. The firm's reputation balancing on her response.
And she said, calmly and clearly:
"Mr. Ahuja and I maintain strict professional boundaries. Our personal associations are irrelevant to legal proceedings."
The words were measured. Perfect. Safe.
But Nikhil's expression collapsed almost invisibly.
That night, he packed a small suitcase.
Mahi stood in the doorway of their bedroom, watching him fold shirts with mechanical precision.
"You're leaving?" she asked quietly.
"I think we both need distance," he replied without looking up.
"You're punishing me for doing my job."
"I'm not," he said, voice cracking slightly. "I'm protecting myself from forgetting that you'll always choose law over us."
"That's not fair," she said, tears finally spilling.
"You didn't defend me today," he said softly. "You defended your reputation."
"I was protecting the case!"
"I needed you to protect me for once," he whispered.
The room fell silent except for the distant thunder outside.
Mahi stepped closer, grabbing his wrist.
"You think this is easy for me?" she said, voice breaking completely. "Every time I question your witness, it feels like I'm tearing apart the person who taught me how to believe in justice."
He looked at her then — really looked.
"Then why does it feel like you don't care if it destroys us?" he asked.
Her lips parted, ready to say something honest… something irreversible.
"I…" she began.
The word trembled between confession and retreat.
Then her phone buzzed — a reminder for the next day's final hearing.
Reality returned like cold water.
She released his wrist slowly.
"The case ends tomorrow," she said instead. "We'll… figure things out after that."
But Nikhil shook his head, pain settling into resignation.
"By the time this case ends, Mahi," he said quietly, "I don't think there will be anything left to figure out."
The next day, during closing arguments, something unexpected happened.
One of Khanna's executives tried shifting legal blame entirely onto Nikhil, claiming the defense strategy had been fabricated by him to hide corporate misconduct.
The accusation risked professional ruin.
Before the defense team could respond, Mahi stood up.
"Your Honour," she said firmly, "the prosecution would like to clarify that defense counsel has conducted proceedings with complete legal integrity. Any suggestion otherwise is baseless."
The courtroom fell silent.
Nikhil stared at her, stunned.
She continued, voice unwavering, "This case is against Mr. Khanna, not against the ethical conduct of opposing counsel."
It was brief. Professional. But fiercely protective.
And in that moment, Nikhil realized she still cared.
Maybe too much.
Khanna was ultimately convicted.
The firm celebrated Mahi's victory.
But Nikhil moved out the same week.
They never finished that conversation.
They never crossed that final emotional distance.
And jealousy…
Jealousy became their deepest wound — not because they doubted love, but because they knew exactly how much they had lost when ambition and belief forced them apart.
Present Emotional Echo
That is why, years later, when Mahi sees another lawyer standing close to Nikhil…
When Nikhil hears someone praise Mahi's brilliance…
It doesn't feel like insecurity.
It feels like history repeating.
Like watching someone else step into a space that once held everything they were.
And neither of them knows how to survive that again.