10. PROBLEM
VEERANSH:
I didn't realize how quiet the room had become until she stopped trying to speak altogether.
Her mouth opened, nothing. Opened again, still nothing. Just a broken breath, a weak tremor in her chest, tears falling without control. Completely voiceless. I should've felt something.
Guilt. Sympathy. Regret. But I didn't.
I only felt irritation tightening beneath my ribs, the day's frustrations piling over each other, the press outside the mansion, the board threatening to question my sudden marriage, the vultures digging for the identity of my wife, the tension in every business call.
And now this.
Her. Collapsed on the floor with no voice left to explain herself. "Enough," I snapped, the word cutting through the silence. She flinched, shrinking into herself like the sound hurt.
I almost sighed. She was too fragile, too breakable, and I didn't have time for this display.
"Get up." She didn't move. Not because she was disobeying. Because she physically couldn't. Her arms trembled violently each time she tried to push herself up. I watched her for a moment that felt too long. Then finally, I turned away.
"Useless," I muttered under my breath, picking up my documents again.
But the word didn't land the way it usually did. Instead, it settled in the air, strange, heavy. Her faint gasp told me she heard it. Footsteps approached the room, hesitant, almost scared.
One of the senior maids stood at the doorway, wringing the ends of her dupatta. "Sir... the doctor is here."
The doctor. Right. She came yesterday, after the basement incident, and I had dismissed her quickly, not wanting to hear anything that sounded like reproach. I waved a hand. "Send her in." The doctor walked in with her medical bag, her expression serious.
Her eyes flicked to Aarohi on the floor, not with pity, but with professional alarm. She crouched beside her, checking her pulse, touching her wrist, brushing hair from her forehead.
Aarohi didn't even lift her eyes. "She still hasn't eaten properly," the doctor said quietly. "Her body is extremely weak." I leaned back in my chair.
"Fix it." The doctor paused, long enough to irritate me.
"Mr. Sarkar," she said, tone controlled, "I told you yesterday that her condition has been deteriorating for a long time. Not just physically. Her voice disorder"
"Temporary," I cut in, not wanting to hear more. The doctor didn't agree. In fact, she looked at me like she wished she could argue.
"It is not temporary," she said sharply. "Her voice is shutting down because of trauma. Stress. Fear. Her vocal cords are tightening beyond her control. If this continues, she may permanently lose the ability to speak."
A cold silence filled the room. Aarohi's fingers curled on the floor. She heard that. The doctor adjusted her glasses, her tone firm but cautious.
"She needs rest, proper meals, a stable environment, and absolutely no emotional strain. And she should not be locked in a cold basement for twelve hours ever again."
Her eyes met mine. The implication was clear. My jaw tightened. I didn't appreciate the accusation. Or the truth in it.
"And her mother?" I demanded. The doctor looked startled. "Her mother? Why"
"Is she in the hospital or not?"
"No," the doctor replied, frowning. "Her mother is healthy. I checked her personally this afternoon when the staff insisted. She is at home."
Another silence. Heavy. Dense. Complicated. Her mother was never in the hospital.
I said it to control her. To break her defiance. To force obedience. The doctor exhaled slowly.
"Mr. Sarkar... this girl can't handle that type of stress." My irritation flared again. "I don't need parenting advice."
"And she doesn't need trauma," the doctor replied, not stepping back. It annoyed me more that she didn't fear me like the rest of the staff did.
She stood up, lifting Aarohi by the arm gently. The girl swayed instantly, her knees buckling again. The doctor glared at me.
"She needs rest. Immediately. And food. And water." I finally stood. Not because I wanted to. Because the sight of Aarohi barely standing made the doctor's words echo louder inside my mind than I wanted.
Permanent loss of voice. Trauma. Fear.
Her mother is fine. I stepped closer. Aarohi's breath hitched when she sensed me. The doctor placed a hand on her shoulder protectively.
"Mr. Sarkar," she said quietly, "if you want her alive, she cannot continue like this."
Alive. The word hit harder than I expected. I stayed silent. The doctor guided her away slowly, step by trembling step, like she was moving a piece of fragile glass.
I watched them leave. Something sharp and unfamiliar twisted in my chest.
No regret. Not guilt. Not softness. Just... pressure. Like something I couldn't name, or didn't want to name. I exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of my desk. Too much was slipping out of control.
Her voice. Her health. The media. My empire. And for the first time... I wondered if making her my pawn might cost more than it gained.
The doctor's words kept circling in my mind long after the door closed.
Permanent loss of voice... If you wanted her alive... Alive. The word lodged somewhere deep, refusing to move. I dragged my hand down my face and sank back into my chair, but the silence in the room felt different now, not peaceful, not controlled. Uneasy. Annoying. Disobedient.
Like the air itself refused to cooperate. I tried focusing on the stack of contracts on my desk, acquisitions, merger drafts, property updates following the inheritance confirmation. documents that should command my undivided attention. But every line blurred.
Every sentence bounced off my mind. Every attempt to concentrate snapped the same image in front of me,
Her. On the floor. Eyes swollen. Mouth opening but no sound coming out. Struggling to speak and failing. I clicked my pen aggressively, irritation growing like a pulse.
This wasn't how my nights were supposed to go. Not after finally securing the empire.
Not after finally stepping into the power my grandfather withheld. Everything should've been aligned. Perfect. Clean. Instead,
A wife with a failing voice. A mansion full of staff. Unwanted chaos. Unforeseen complications. I slammed the pen onto the desk. Enough. I stood abruptly and walked toward the hallway, the echo of my footsteps sharp and controlled.
The staff scattered instantly, their eyes lowering, backs straightening. Good.
Fear was necessary here. I reached her room. The door was half open, the doctor must have left it that way.
Inside, she sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a blanket, her hair damp from the earlier bath, her hands trembling faintly in her lap.She didn't look up when I stepped in.
Not out of defiance. Out of pure exhaustion. Her breathing was shallow, her shoulders lifted slightly with each inhale, as if even that required effort.
The doctor stood beside her, packing her bag, her expression tight.
"She is severely dehydrated," the doctor said immediately. "She hasn't eaten properly in days. Her vocal cords are strained to the point of inflammation. She needs complete rest for at least forty-eight hours."
"And after that?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe. The doctor's eyes narrowed.
"After that, she needs treatment. And stability. And mental safety." Mental safety.
I almost laughed. In the Sarkar mansion? The doctor handed me a prescription list.
I didn't take it. She placed it on the bedside table instead, annoyed.
"She'll need warm liquids. Vitamins. Soft foods. And someone near her at all times. She's fainted twice today already." Aarohi's fingers curled at that, a faint tremble running through her hands.
My jaw hardened. "Can she speak?" The doctor hesitated. That hesitation irritated me more than everything else today.
"Can. She. Speak?" I repeated, slower, colder. "No," the doctor said.
"Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this week." A pause. "Maybe longer." The room felt too still.
Aarohi's shoulders sank a little, as if the words crushed something inside her. But something in the back of my mind whispered, How will she answer you now?
How will she obey you? I ignored it. I walked closer.
Aarohi stiffened immediately, her breath hitching, fingers gripping the blanket tighter. Her eyes lifted to me.
And silent. Completely silent. "Your voice," I said, watching her reaction, "is your responsibility. Fix it." Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to respond, to apologize, maybe, or beg again to see her mother, or explain herself.
But nothing came. Nothing. Just a faint tremor in her throat. Her eyes filled again, glistening but not falling, as if she was trying not to cry this time. The doctor glared at me.
"You're making it worse." I ignored her and turned toward the door. Before leaving, I said without looking back.
"I expect her condition to improve. Quickly. Cause I want to announce my wife. She is a Sarkar wife. She will behave like one." The doctor muttered something under her breath, too soft to catch.
Aarohi didn't move. Didn't raise her head. Didn't try to follow me. Just sat there, shoulders curled inward, clutching the blanket as if holding herself together with both hands.
I stepped out and closed the door behind me. Not slamming it. Not locking it. Just closing it. Silence settled in the hallway again. I walked toward my wing of the mansion, my footsteps echoing clean and sharp.
I should have felt victorious, the empire secured, the marriage sealed, the world at my feet. Instead... Her silence followed me down the hall like a shadow.
Not defiant. Not manipulative. Not dramatic. Just... Empty. I shook it off, straightening my cuffs, forcing my mind back into order. Feelings were irrelevant.
Softness had no place in the Sarkar name.
And she was a piece of my game, nothing more. But even as I entered my study again, the echo of her failed breaths, her mouth opening with no sound, lingered like an unwanted ghost at the edge of my thoughts.
I sat down. I opened my laptop. I tried to work. But for the first time in years, I couldn't focus. Not on the empire I'd waited my entire life to control. Because somewhere two rooms away...
She couldn't speak.
And it wasn't an accident. I had done that. And the silence it left behind refused to leave me.