I am his second wife – a woman who came later in the life of a seasoned man battling terminal liver cancer.

His name is Rajiv Malhotra, a wealthy businessman in New Delhi. When I met him, his life had almost lost all hope. His first wife had passed away many years earlier, his only son – Aarav – was grown up, living and working in Mumbai, rarely visiting his father. His large mansion in Greater Kailash was now just him, his illness, and his loneliness.

Perhaps my appearance – a kind and caring woman – brought him some warmth in his final days.

For the past three years, I have been by his side, caring for him, preparing his meals, administering his medication, and enduring sleepless nights. Partly out of compassion, but also… I don’t deny, because of the chance for a better life. Rajiv was no longer young, yet he possessed immense wealth: a company, shares, luxury cars, and, most notably, a villa worth nearly 10 crore rupees – the one he had built with his late wife.

These things made me disregard all criticism and accept the label of “the one who came later.”

The day he made his will, I knew my dream was very close.

He asked me and his private lawyer to come to a private hospital in South Delhi. In the small hospital room, the pungent smell of disinfectant filled the air. He held my hand, his voice weak but clear:

“I leave the villa in Greater Kailash to my wife.”

I almost burst into tears. I had never dared to dream of such a thing. In my deepest calculations, I only hoped to receive a few million rupees as capital. And yet now, an entire villa…

Aarav – his son – jumped up, his face flushed with anger:

“Dad, you’re so unfair!

That’s Mom and Dad’s property. Why would you give it to this woman?!”

I bowed my head, feigning hurt, but inwardly I couldn’t hide my joy. My three years of sacrifice had finally paid off.

The next morning, I took all the documents to the notary office in Connaught Place to complete the transfer of ownership.

The staff member flipped through the pages of the file, their gaze making me feel something was amiss. But I remained confident:

“This is the property I legally inherited according to the will.”

The staff member looked up, his voice calm but cold:

“I’m sorry, madam. This villa was transferred two months ago. It no longer belongs to Mr. Rajiv Malhotra.”

I was speechless.

“Transfer?
Who is currently the registered owner?”

“His son – Aarav Malhotra.
The contract has been signed and legally notarized.”

My ears buzzed, my legs trembled. The whole world seemed to collapse beneath my feet.

That evening, in my small rented room on the outskirts of Delhi, I called Rajiv’s private lawyer.

He answered calmly: “Before making the will, Mr. Rajiv transferred all ownership of the villa to his son.
The will is merely a formality.”

My voice trembled:

“So… what about me?”

The lawyer was silent for a second, then continued:

“He didn’t want you to feel abandoned in your final days.

But in reality, the property has long ceased to be his.”

I sat silently, staring at the will in my hand, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

It turned out, it was all just a charade.

Rajiv saw through my heart early on. He knew my devotion wasn’t entirely out of love, but rather driven by an ambition to seize his wealth. He didn’t reproach me, didn’t expose me, but quietly taught me a harsh lesson.

Three years I spent caring for him, all for nothing. My dreams of a luxurious life in a mansion in Greater Kailash vanished like soap bubbles.

Now, in my cramped rented room, all I have left is bitterness and regret.

The 10 crore rupee mansion, and my dream of a better life, will forever remain unattainable.