The CEO married a domestic worker who had three children by different men… but when she undressed on their wedding night, he was left paralyzed by what he saw!

In a grand mansion in Lutyens’ Delhi, Ananya Rao worked as a domestic helper. At twenty-five—simple, hardworking, and quiet—she was the most trusted servant of Arjun Mehra, a thirty-year-old bachelor and CEO of a multinational conglomerate. Arjun was kind, though strict at work. The only things he knew about Ananya came from whispers among the staff: that she was supposedly a “loose woman” back in her rural village in Jharkhand.

Month after month, Ananya sent almost all her salary back home. When her coworkers asked where the money went, she would reply softly:

“For Rohit, Aman, and Meera.”

Naturally, everyone assumed Ananya had three children born out of wedlock.

Despite the rumors, Arjun fell in love with her. Ananya cared for people in a way he had never seen before. When Arjun fell seriously ill and spent two weeks hospitalized at AIIMS Delhi, Ananya never left his side. She fed him, bathed him, and stayed awake through countless nights. Arjun saw the purity of her heart.

“I don’t care if she has children,” he told himself. “I’ll love them as I love her.”

Arjun began courting Ananya. At first, she refused.

“Sir, you come from the sky and I come from the dust,” she said, her eyes lowered. “And besides… I carry many responsibilities.”

But Arjun persisted, proving he was willing to accept everything. Eventually, they married.

The marriage caused a massive uproar. Arjun’s mother, Mrs. Kavita Mehra, shouted:

“Arjun! Have you lost your mind? She’s a servant—and she has three children by different men! Are you turning this house into an orphanage?”

His friends mocked him openly:
“Bro, instant father of three! Hope your salary can handle that!”

But Arjun stood firmly by Ananya. They married in a simple ceremony. At the mandap, Ananya wept.

“Arjun… are you sure?” she asked trembling. “You may regret this.”

“I won’t,” Arjun said calmly. “I love you—and I love your children.”

Then came their wedding night.

They were in the master bedroom. Silence filled the air. Ananya was visibly nervous. Arjun approached her gently. He had already prepared himself to accept everything—stretch marks, scars, any sign of motherhood. To him, they were symbols of sacrifice.

“Ananya, don’t be ashamed,” he said softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m your husband now.”

Ananya slowly removed her shawl. Then the strap of her nightdress slipped down.

When Arjun saw her body, he froze.

Smooth skin. No scars. No stretch marks. No sign—none—that she had ever given birth, not even once.

“A-Ananya?” he asked, stunned. “I thought… I thought you had three children.”

Her hands trembled as she lowered her head. She reached for a bag beside the bed and pulled out an old photo album and a death certificate.

“I didn’t lie,” she whispered. “I just… didn’t have the strength to tell the truth.”

Arjun swallowed hard. His heart raced—not with anger, but with unease.

“Then tell me now,” he said gently. “Whatever it is… I’m here.”

Ananya opened the album.

The first photograph showed a younger Ananya, barely eighteen, standing in front of a crumbling mud house in Jharkhand. Three small children—two boys and a girl—clung to her sari, their faces thin, their eyes far too mature.

Arjun struggled to breathe.

“They’re… not yours?” he asked.

Ananya shook her head. Tears streamed down her face.

“They’re my sister’s.”

She turned the page.

A hospital bed. A frail woman lay connected to tubes, her skin pale. Ananya sat beside her, holding her hand, eyes swollen from crying.

“My elder sister, Pooja Rao,” Ananya said. “Her husband abandoned her when she became pregnant with her first child. She worked in a factory—long hours, little pay. Later she met another man… then another. Not because she was careless—because she was desperate.”

Each man promised support. Every one disappeared.

Arjun clenched his fists.

“She died giving birth to the third child,” Ananya continued. “Postpartum hemorrhage. We were poor. The nearest hospital was hours away.”

Her voice broke.

“She died holding my hand, Arjun. Her last words were… ‘Please don’t abandon my children.’”

She showed him the death certificate. The date was seven years ago.

“I was eighteen,” Ananya said. “I dropped out of school the next day. Sold my phone. My clothes. Everything. I became their mother overnight.”

Arjun’s eyes filled with tears.

“Then why… why did everyone think they were yours?”

Ananya smiled bitterly.

“Because society is kinder to a ‘fallen woman’ than to orphaned children.”

She closed the album and finally looked straight at him.

“When I came to Delhi to work,” she said, “I had two choices: tell the truth and risk being rejected because I had three dependents who weren’t legally mine… or let people believe I was immoral. People pity ‘sinners’ more than orphans.”

The room felt suffocatingly silent.

Something shattered inside Arjun—not disappointment, not betrayal, but deep, aching shame for every cruel joke, every whisper, every judgment he had heard—and ignored.

“Rohit,” Ananya added softly, “isn’t even my sister’s biological son. He’s my sister’s husband’s child with another woman. Still, she raised him. Aman and Meera… are mine only in love, not blood.”

Arjun covered his mouth.

“My God…”

“I took responsibility for three children the world abandoned,” Ananya said. “I educated them. Fed them. Even lied to them—I told them their mother worked far away.”

She smiled faintly.

“They call me Maasi Ananya. They don’t know I’m all they have.”

Arjun could no longer stand still. He paced the room, hands shaking.

“Everyone mocked you,” he said hoarsely. “My mother… my friends… even I did. I thought I was being noble by ‘accepting’ you.”

He knelt in front of her, tears streaming down his face.

“But you were the one holding us all together.”

Ananya lowered her head.

“If you regret marrying me—”

“No,” Arjun said firmly. “I regret living in a world that taught me to judge women by gossip instead of courage.”

Still kneeling, surrounded by luxury he no longer noticed, he said:

“You didn’t just raise three children.
You saved three lives.”