I didn't answer. I know he is right. I looked at him, then at Dadi’s silent, pleading face, and finally at the amber liquid swirling in my glass. The ice clinked—a cold, lonely sound in the quiet study.
I drained the last of the whiskey, the burn in my throat matching the heat behind my eyes. Setting the glass down with a definitive thud, I stood up. Without a word of protest or agreement, I walked out.
Chapter 6
Armaan
I stood outside my bedroom door, my hand resting on the cold metal of the doorknob. The hallway was silent except for the distant ticking of the clock downstairs. Each second felt heavier than the last, stretching time into something thick and suffocating.
This was my room. My sanctuary. The one place in this sprawling mansion that had always been entirely, unquestionably mine. I had designed every corner of it myself. The color of the walls, the placement of the furniture, the view from the windows. Everything had been chosen with careful precision to create a space where I could breathe, where I could think, where I could exist without the weight of expectations pressing down on me.
And now I was sharing it with a stranger.
A wife I had married not out of love, not out of choice, but out of obligation and fear.
The irony was not lost on me.
I took a breath and knocked. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway, absurd and formal. I was knocking on my own bedroom door like a guest seeking permission to enter. The thought would have been amusing if everything else about this situation was not so utterly wrong.
When no response came, I turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
I stepped inside, my eyes sweeping across the familiar space that suddenly felt foreign. The bed was untouched, the silk covers still perfectly smooth and arranged just the way Mamta always left them. The lamps on either side cast a warm, golden glow across the room, creating pools of light and shadow. But there was no sign of her anywhere.
Where was she?
I walked further into the room, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. I checked the corners, the sitting area near the window, even behind the door, as though she might be hiding somewhere. Then I moved toward the bathroom and knocked on that door as well.
Silence.
I opened it. The marble floors gleamed under the soft lighting, everything pristine and untouched. Empty.
A flicker of something sharp moved through my chest. Confusion, perhaps. Or maybe annoyance. I could not quite identify it.
My wife should be here. On our wedding night, she should be in this room, in this bed. That was how it was supposed to work, was it not? Regardless of the circumstances that brought us together, regardless of the lack of love or choice or consent, she was mine now. She belonged here.
The thought came unbidden, possessive and primal, and I did not bother to push it away.
Then I noticed the balcony door. It was open, just slightly, the sheer curtains billowing inward with the night breeze. The white fabric moved like ghosts in the dim light, dancing to a rhythm only they could hear.
I crossed the room and pushed the door open fully, stepping out into the cool night air.
And there she was.
She was curled up on the recliner, her body folded into itself like a flower closing its petals against the cold. She had changed out of the heavy wedding attire and into simple cotton pajamas, pale blue with tiny white flowers scattered across the fabric. Her hair was loose, no longer pinned and styled the way it had been during the ceremony. It fell in long, dark waves across her shoulders and face, moving gently with each breath she took.
She was fast asleep.
I stood there for a moment, just watching her. The balcony stretched out before me, offering an unobstructed view of the Rajmer mountains in the distance. Their jagged peaks rose against the night sky like ancient sentinels, their edges softenedby the silvery light of the full moon. The moon itself hung low and impossibly bright, a perfect circle of luminescence that bathed everything in an ethereal glow.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of jasmine from the garden below and something else. Something fresh and clean, like rain on stone.
I moved closer to her, my footsteps silent on the wooden planks of the balcony floor. I knelt down beside the recliner, careful not to disturb her, and simply looked.
Her face was peaceful in sleep, all the tension and fear from earlier completely gone. Her features were delicate, almost fragile. High cheekbones. A small, straight nose. Long lashes that cast tiny shadows on her cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted, soft and vulnerable.
The cold wind blew harder, and I watched as strands of her hair lifted and fell across her face, obscuring her features. Without thinking, I reached out. My fingers moved of their own accord, gently brushing the dark strands away and tucking them behind her ear. Her hair was incredibly soft, like silk slipping through my fingers.
