Surprise flickered across her face. “Okay?”
He nodded, jaw still tight, hands still fisted. “Two years. Contract marriage. Then freedom.”
He paused, the next words feeling like gravel in his throat.
“If that’s what you want.”
She searched his face, looking for the performance, the charm, the Bollywood hero who could talk his way through anything.
She found only Vikram, serious and raw in the dim light of her parents’ room.
“Okay, Boss,” she whispered.
The word struck differently now. Not professional. Defensive. A wall she was rebuilding even as she agreed to marry him.
He almost asked her not to call him that. Almost closed the distance between them and told her without words that this wasn’t damage control, wasn’t obligation, wasn’ttemporaryno matter what contract they signed.
But she was too raw. Too breakable. Adding his own intensity to her burden would be selfish.
“Two years,” he repeated softly, the words tasting like ash. “Then you’re free.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, a habit when she felt exposed. A strand of hair fell across her cheek. She didn’t fix it.
Through the thin walls, the murmur of their parents’ voices continued, his father’s deep tone, her father's measuredresponses, already planning a future that had just been capped with an expiration date.
Vikram wanted to reach out, to draw her close, to tell her this wasn’t what he wanted at all.
But she was already moving past him toward the door, careful not to let even the fabric of her sleeve brush against him in the tight space.
Her hand paused on the doorknob.
“Thank you,” she said without turning around. “For doing this.”
The gratitude felt like acid on his skin.
She was thanking him for agreeing to leave her life in two years. Thanking him for treating her like an obligation with an end date.
Before he could respond, she opened the door and stepped out.
Vikram remained alone in the bedroom for a moment, staring at the space where she’d stood.
His hands were still fisted. His jaw still tight. The phantom pain of those two words,two years, echoing in his chest like a countdown clock he couldn’t stop.
Two years, he thought.Two years to earn what she’s too afraid to believe. Two years to make sure she never asks for an exit again.
He unclenched his fists slowly, feeling the half-moon marks his nails had left in his palms.
Then he followed her out, composing his face into something acceptable for her parents to see.
But inside, the war had already begun.
Two years.
He’d make every single day count.
Chapter 15
Three Days Later
