Words count - 2107

As soon as I stepped into the room, the door slammed shut behind me.

Before I could even blink, strong hands grabbed me and pinned me against the cold wall.

A sharp gasp escaped my lips.

My heart skipped a beat—then began hammering wildly against my chest.

My eyes widened in pure shock as I found myself staring into the bloodshot eyes of Nikshant ji. His face was terrifying—veins popping at his temple, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful.

He looked like a storm barely holding itself together.

A chill slithered down my spine.

My throat ran dry.

Sweat formed along my brow, and my limbs trembled beneath his harsh grip.

I couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

"Just tell Dadi you don't want to go," he rasped, his voice low but seething.

His breath was hot against my face, and I flinched as it hit my cheek.

"Why don’t you say it yourself?" I managed to whisper, my voice breaking despite my attempt to stay strong.

"Just do as I say, wifey," he spat the word with venom, his fingers tightening slightly around my throat. "Don’t test my patience."

I gasped.

"Let go of my throat! It feels like you’ll strangle me to death," I choked out, fear making my knees weak.

His jaw tensed, and his eyes darkened.

"If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it the first day," he snapped.

I clenched my fists to keep myself from falling apart.

"I can’t upset Dadi," I said shakily, my voice barely above a whisper. “If you don’t want to go to Singapore, then tell her yourself.”

His proximity was suffocating, yet something in me… something else stirred. I hated how my body betrayed me—how even through the fear, I noticed the warmth of his skin, the intensity of his presence.

I never let any man come near me after that incident.

But him?

He was different.

And I hated that I couldn’t push him away.

I thought I would stay away from him, draw lines, build walls… but the more I tried, the more he tore them down with every step closer.

What if he ever found out about my past?

Would he judge me too?

Would his hatred grow even colder?

No, not now, Aaravi.

Not the time to think about this.

"I’m not going to refuse," I said, finally gathering the strength to speak with more control. "If you want to say no, then you do it."

His face twitched with irritation, and his hand finally dropped from my throat.

He stepped back with a bitter scoff, his eyes still burning.

“Aap khud ko samajhti kya hai?” he exploded, voice echoing off the walls in pure frustration.

(“What do you think of yourself?”)

I met his fiery gaze calmly, refusing to flinch. “Aapki patni,” I said softly, yet with quiet strength.

(“Your wife.”)

His jaw clenched, and I could see the storm building behind his eyes.

“I don't consider you my wife,” he growled through gritted teeth, every word laced with venom.

I blinked slowly, letting his hatred pierce through me—but not shatter me.

“You can believe whatever you want,” I said, my voice steady, “but it won’t change the truth. I am your wife. Whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me… for seven lifetimes.”

My words weren’t sarcastic, just raw and honest. It was the kind of honesty that didn’t beg for love—it just spoke the truth, and the truth alone.

He stared at me—his eyes burning, breathing ragged—then suddenly realized how close we were. His arms were still caging me in, hands pressed against the wall on either side of my head.

I tilted my chin, locking eyes with him. “If you’d move aside, I could go to sleep.”

His arms dropped in stunned silence, as if he’d only just registered our closeness.

I turned my face away, letting my eyes roam the room for the first time.

The walls were dark—deep greys and charcoals. Cold, colorless.

Just like his heart.

Inke room bhi rangeen nahi... ekdum inke dil ki tarah.

(His room isn’t colorful either… just like his heart.)

Areh zindagi mein thoda rangeen insaan hona chahiye…

(A person should have a little color in their life.)

Aaravi… filter lagao zubaan par. Kya bol rahi ho tum?

(Aaravi… put a filter on your mouth. What are you even saying?)

My eyes scanned the space again.

No couch.

No spare bed.

Great.

Where am I supposed to sleep now?

I turned to look at the cold marble floor.

It looked unwelcoming, but at least it wouldn’t bite me.

Seems like the floor and I are going to be good friends.

Because let’s be honest—my devil of a husband wasn’t going to offer me even a corner of the bed.

Not that I’d ask.

My body ached.

“Mrs. Kapoor, come here,” he ordered, his voice sharp, emotionless.

The name Mrs. Kapoor hit me like a sudden chill—cold and unfamiliar, yet it twisted something deep in my stomach. I hated how those two words sounded so distant coming from his mouth… like I was just a burden he was obligated to carry.

“I don’t repeat myself. Mrs. Kapoor, come here,” he said again, firmer this time.

Why does he always talk like this? Like he's reading instructions out loud?

With slow, hesitant steps, I walked toward him, my breath caught in my throat. I stopped right in front of him, unsure what to expect.

“Come and sit beside me,” he said, patting the bed.

I blinked.

Is he going to smother me with a pillow?

God, Aaravi, what are you even thinking?

I mentally shook off the ridiculous thought and sat down cautiously, keeping enough distance between us so I could breathe.

To my surprise, he got up and walked toward the drawer. He opened it and pulled something out.

A first aid kit.

My breath hitched again.

Is he… going to treat my wounds?

The memory of last night flashed before my eyes—his hand on my throat, his voice like fire, my body trembling. And now… this?

He sat down beside me, the kit in hand.

“Show me your hand,” he said flatly.

I slowly extended it, my fingers trembling slightly. He held it gently—but firmly—and the moment his skin touched mine, a jolt ran through me. Goosebumps spread across my arms.

He didn’t speak as he cleaned the wound. His focus was sharp, brows furrowed in concentration, like he wasn’t just applying ointment, but wiping away evidence.

“I don’t want Mom and Dadi to know this happened because of me,” he muttered without looking at me. “So I’m applying the ointment. Don’t misunderstand.”

Ah. There it was. The reminder. The dagger.

Of course. Not out of guilt. Not out of care.

Just to hide the truth.

Why would I expect more from him? A sorry? A glance of concern? Stupid, Aaravi. So stupid.

Once he finished with my hand, he leaned down and reached for my foot. Instinctively, I pulled it away from him, panic rushing up my spine.

“What are you doing?” I asked quickly, voice a little higher than usual.

“Bring your foot here,” he said, reaching for it again.

“No, no… a husband shouldn’t touch his wife’s feet,” I blurted, trying to stop him. “It brings bad luck to the wife.”

His eyes met mine. Cold, firm, unwavering.

“That should apply to wives too, then,” he said. “Why should only women touch their husbands’ feet?”

There was a strange softness in his rebellion—a challenge wrapped in logic.

“I don’t believe in all this,” he added, more quietly.

My lips parted to protest, but nothing came out.

And slowly… hesitantly… I gave him my foot.

My heart thudded in my chest, loud and wild. His hands, rough yet strangely careful, worked on the small wound there. Neither of us spoke. The silence was heavy, thick with unspoken thoughts and unshed emotions.

What is this man doing to me?

One moment he breaks me. The next… he’s bandaging the pieces.

And just like that… I was falling deeper into the storm that was Nikshant Kapoor.

First, he gently wiped away the dried blood on my foot, his fingers grazing my skin with unexpected tenderness. I flinched at the sting, but he didn’t pause—his hands were steady, focused. Then, he carefully wrapped the bandage around the wound, securing it like it was something fragile. Like I was something fragile.

When he was done, he didn’t say a word. He got up from the bed and silently walked toward the bathroom.

My eyes followed him.

He's rude. Arrogant. Cold.

But he just treated my wounds like they mattered.

I looked down at my hand—cleaned, wrapped. Then at my foot. And before I could stop it, a small smile crept onto my lips.

He didn’t say sorry. But sometimes actions speak louder than apologies ever could.

I got up slowly from the bed, careful not to disturb the bandage. I walked toward the corner of the room, pulled out a pillow and quilt, and just as I was about to settle down—

“Where are you going?”

His voice echoed behind me.

I turned to find him standing there, fresh out of the bathroom. The sharp, formal suit was gone, replaced by soft track pants and a plain black t-shirt. His damp hair curled slightly at the edges.

"To sleep," I replied softly, almost cautiously.

“And where, exactly, are you planning to sleep?” he asked, walking toward me with that same cold expression.

“On the floor,” I answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He scoffed. “Do you even know how cold the floor is? I don’t want to get scolded by Mom tomorrow when you catch a cold. Because let’s be real, she won’t say a word to you—but me? She’ll roast me alive.”

His words were rude. His tone even ruder. But somehow, I could hear the concern buried deep beneath his harsh delivery.

“So sleep on the bed,” he said bluntly, like it was an order.

I blinked. “And where will you sleep?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “What do you mean, where? Obviously, I’ll sleep on the bed. I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

There it was again. That arrogance. That matter-of-fact tone.

But I couldn’t let go of the bitterness from before.

“Don’t you have a problem sharing a room and a bed with a characterless girl?” I asked, the words sharp and cold. “Because that night… you didn’t even want to be in the same room as me. What’s changed now?”

I watched his jaw tighten. His nostrils flared slightly. For a second, I thought he’d yell.

Then he said, “You’re right. It is a problem. I do have an issue with it.”

Each word felt like a slap.

“But,” he continued, “I’m not ready for Mom and Dadi to find out that we’re not just distant—we’re strangers under the same roof. It would crush them.”

His voice had softened at the end, just a little.

And suddenly, I felt like crying.

Not because he didn’t want to share a bed.

But because he didn’t even try to hide it.

This marriage is just a performance to him. A show. And I… I’m just playing my part.

“Doesn’t it hurt me?” My voice trembled, my chest rising and falling a little too fast. “One moment, you call me characterless… the next, you act like you care. And then again, you go back to being cold, rude, and indifferent.”

My throat tightened. I forced the words out.

“If you want to hate me, then hate me properly. If you want to care, then do that too. But this—this in-between thing… it’s breaking me.”

My voice cracked at the end, and I quickly turned my face away, hiding the way my eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

I didn’t want to show him the effect he had on me.

I didn’t want to give him that power.

He looked at me for a long moment. His face unreadable. Cold, still, emotionless.

“If you want to sleep, then sleep,” he said finally, his voice distant. “I’m really tired.”

He walked toward the bed, pulled two pillows from behind, and placed them neatly in the center—his way of drawing a line. A silent boundary.

It’s fine. I would've done the same.

I didn’t say anything. Just let out a long, quiet sigh, and walked to the other side of the bed.

We were inches apart, yet worlds away.

I laid down slowly, pulling the quilt up to my shoulders. I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come.

How could it?

My mind was a storm of thoughts. Of memories. Of pain that lived deep inside my bones.

This was the first time I’d ever shared a bed with someone.

And it scared me more than I could admit.

What if I get a panic attack tonight?

It’s happened before—unexpected, uncontrollable.

I don’t want him to see me like that.

I don’t want anyone to see that part of me.

Because then they’ll start treating me like I’m broken. Like I need fixing.

And they’ll send me to therapy, force me to speak about things I’ve locked away in the darkest corners of my heart.

I’m not ready to unlock that door. Not yet.

I lay perfectly still, trying to calm my breathing. Trying to push away the memories creeping up my spine.

I hope tonight is quiet. I hope sleep finds me before fear does.

I turned to the side, facing away from him, curling into myself like a shield.

Please… not tonight.

And somewhere between the hope and the fear, I finally drifted into a restless sleep.

♡

I slowly fluttered my eyes open as golden sunlight poured across my face, warming my skin. For a moment, I stayed still, disoriented, letting the brightness seep into my senses.

Then the realization hit me.

Wait... what time is it?

I shot up with a jolt, rubbing my eyes, blinking hard. The bed beside me was empty—no sign of Nikshant. He must’ve gotten up long ago.

Panic rushed through me like a wave.

Oh God… I overslept. On my first morning in my new home?

I grabbed my purple saree with trembling hands and rushed into the bathroom. As the water cascaded down my body, I kept scolding myself in my head.

How could you sleep in like this? This isn’t you, Aaravi! You’ve always been an early riser!

My heart pounded as I stepped out of the bathroom, quickly patting my hair dry and wrapping the saree around me. I didn’t even bother looking in the mirror—I just needed to get downstairs before anyone noticed.

But of course, they would have noticed. It was already 9 a.m.

They’ll think I’m lazy. Irresponsible. Not fit to be a daughter-in-law.

That knot in my chest grew tighter with every step I took down the staircase. I spotted Mom and Dadi sitting together on the sofa, talking in soft tones.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, my palms clammy with nervousness.

“Good morning, Mom… Dadi,” I said softly, forcing a smile on my face. “I—I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize I had slept in this late…”

I could feel the embarrassment crawling up my neck like fire. I bit my lower lip to stop it from trembling.

They both looked at me.

And then… they chuckled.

Laughed, even.

I blinked in surprise.

“Oh, beta,” Dadi said, still smiling warmly, “it’s okay. You can wake up whenever you want. Just like Aahana, this is your home too.”

Her words made something inside me soften.

Mom nodded, her voice kind. “Yes, Aaravi beta, Maa ji is right. You don’t have to be so tense all the time.”

I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and my shoulders slumped in relief.

This warmth... this kindness… I’m not used to it.

I smiled a little, and for the first time since entering this house, I didn’t feel like a stranger.

Nikshant's pov:

I blinked my eyes open and froze.

Her face—Aaravi’s face—was dangerously close to mine. Our breaths were nearly mingling. And my hand… it was resting gently on her waist.

Shit.

What the hell? Why did I end up hugging her in my sleep?

A groan of frustration escaped my lips. I carefully removed my hand, as if touching something forbidden, and sat up abruptly.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I couldn't look at her. Not now. Not when the warmth of her skin still lingered on my palm. Not when my chest felt… weird.

I grabbed my gym bag and rushed to the home gym, needing to release the tension building inside me.

After the workout, I walked straight into the bathroom, stripped off my sweat-soaked clothes, and let the cold water rain down on me. But even the icy sting couldn’t wash away the confusion in my mind.

What are you doing, Nikshant? What game are you playing with her… and with yourself?

After the shower, I wrapped a towel around my waist and stepped out, still wrestling with my own thoughts. I threw on a crisp black suit, slicked my hair back with gel, and before walking out, my gaze involuntarily shifted toward her.

She was still asleep.

Peaceful. Innocent.

Why does she look so… fragile when she sleeps?

I clenched my jaw and tore my eyes away, heading downstairs.

Mom and Dadi were sitting on the couch, chatting quietly. Aahana was glued to her phone. As soon as they noticed me, Mom spoke up.

"Nikshant, where’s Aaravi?"

"She’s still sleeping," I muttered, not in the mood to elaborate.

"I’m heading to the office," I added quickly, eager to escape the chaos in my own mind.

"Breakfast?" Mom asked, almost hopefully.

"I’ll have it at the office," I replied, already halfway to the door.

“Hey, wait, Bhai! Drop me at college,” Aahana called out, suddenly scrambling for her bag.

I raised an eyebrow. “What happened to your car?”

“Tyre got punctured yesterday,” she huffed, catching up to me.

I just nodded and walked toward the garage.

The ride with Aahana was mostly silent, and I was thankful. My thoughts were a mess.

After dropping her off, I drove straight to the office, handed the car keys to the guard, and stepped inside. I didn’t bother greeting anyone—I just headed straight to my private elevator and went up to my cabin.

As soon as the door shut behind me, I let out a heavy breath and slumped into my leather chair.

The documents were already on my desk. I picked them up, but my mind was somewhere else.

Her voice. Her words. Her eyes.

I tried to focus, to drown in work like I usually did, but her question from last night echoed in my ears again.

"Don't you have a problem sharing a bed and a room with a characterless girl?"

That word—characterless. I had thrown it at her, not even realizing how deep it would cut.

I remembered the look in her eyes when she said it. The pain. The vulnerability.

I didn’t mean to hurt her… but I also didn’t know how else to deal with this madness.

I wasn’t supposed to care.

But I do.

I’m losing grip on my own emotions. One moment I want to push her away, punish her for something she hasn’t even done, and the next, I find myself staring at her as if she’s… someone I need to protect.

She’s my best friend’s sister. Karanveer's little sister.

And until Ravi returns to India and uncovers the truth about those damn photos, I won’t know