16. ANNOUNCEMENT
VEERANSH:
The moment I stepped out of her room, the air in the hallway felt too thin, too bright, too loud, too full of people who kept looking at me from the corners of their eyes with questions they didn't dare ask.
I walked faster. Down the stairs. Across the marble foyer.
Out the main doors. The wind hit my face, but even that didn't clear the heaviness sitting on my chest.
By the time I reached the car, the driver already knew better than to speak. He opened the door, and I slid inside, shutting the world out with one sharp slam. I didn't go home. Not back inside that mansion. I went to the only place where silence made sense, the office.
The moment I entered the building, chaos swallowed me whole. My assistant sprinted toward me with two phones in his hands. "Sir, we've been trying to reach you. There are reporters outside, business partners have been calling nonstop, and"
"Not now." My voice cut through him like a blade. He shut up instantly. But the office wasn't quiet. Not today. Phones rang. People whispered. Screens flashed with headlines.
Everywhere I looked, my face. Everywhere I turned, our marriage. The entire damn city buzzing like flies around a carcass. I walked into my glass-walled cabin, slammed the door shut, and for a moment, just a moment, I let my head fall back.
The glass vibrated faintly behind me from the pressure of my breathing. My inbox had 147 unread messages. My phone had over 300 notifications. The news channels screamed the same headline again and again.
VEERANSH SARKAR MARRIED? DID HE CLAIM THE SARKAR EMPIRE IN SECRET CEREMONY?
Idiots. Parasites. Every one of them. My legal head barged in without knocking, something only he was stupid enough to attempt. "Veeransh, the media won't sit quietly anymore. Investors want statements. Partners want confirmation. You can't keep the wife a secret forever."
I closed my eyes once. Just once. Then I opened them and stared straight at him. "Fine."
He blinked. "...Fine?"
"Yes." I pushed away from the glass, unbuttoning my sleeves. "Prepare the statement."
His eyes widened. "You're revealing her?"
I didn't even hesitate. "It's time." The words tasted like metal. Sharp. Cold. Necessary. Because every minute of silence was costing me deals, shares, contracts, control. And control was something I refused to lose. Not to the media. Not to the board. Not to the vultures waiting to see me slip.
He nodded quickly and rushed out. I stood there, staring out the window at the city, my city, stretching below like an empire waiting for instructions. And in that reflection, I caught my own eyes. Hollow. Angry. Tired.
And for a fraction of a second, the image of her unconscious on the bed flickered across my mind. Her pale face. Her cracked lips. The bandage on her temple. Her voice trying, aching, to form a single word for her mother.
I clenched my jaw so hard the muscle jumped. This was not the time for weakness. This was not the time for distraction. She was my wife. My pawn. My key to the Sarkar inheritance. Nothing more.
The world needed answers. Fine. They would get them.
The press conference started at 3:00 PM sharp. I stepped onto the stage with the confidence of a man who owned everything he touched. Cameras clicked. Lights flashed. Reporters shouted over one another, desperate for a single scrap of information.
I lifted a hand. Silence dropped instantly.
I adjusted the mic and said only four words. "My wife is Aarohi."
The crowd erupted. Gasps. Shouts. Frenzy. I continued, voice crisp and precise. "Her full name is Aarohi Veeransh Sarkar. She is legally my wife. And the matter is not open for discussion."
More chaos. More questions. More noise. But none of it mattered. The world wanted a name? I had given it. I ended the conference, turned my back on the chaos, and walked offstage without a single look back.
But as soon as I reached the corridor, my phone buzzed. A text from home. From my mother.
"She woke up again. She's asking for water. Her voice isn't there."
My hand tightened around the phone until the veins on my knuckles stood out. For the first time all day, the pressure in my chest shifted. Not loosening. Not softening. Just shifting. Uncomfortable. Unwelcome. But real.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and walked toward the elevator, the world waiting outside, the empire now fully mine, and one unconscious girl in my house bearing a name she never asked for.
Aarohi Veeransh Sarkar.
My wife. My answer to the world. My problem to control. And whether I liked it or not, my responsibility.
The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the roaring chaos of the building. For the first time all day, everything went silent. Too silent. I leaned back against the cold metal wall, loosening my collar.
I should've felt victorious. I had shut down the media, stabilised the stock market, and sent every business rival into silence. But instead, all I could hear was my mother's message echoing in my head.
"She woke up again. She's asking for water. Her voice isn't there."
Something twisted in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. I ignored it.
The car was already waiting downstairs. The moment I slid inside, the driver caught the tension in my posture and pulled away without a word. The city blurred past me, glittering beneath the evening lights.
People outside were celebrating my announcement, gossiping about my secret bride, speculating why I'd hidden her. Idiots. None of them knew the truth. That she was little more than a locked door I needed to open. A mandatory key. A necessary match.
And yet, the image of her lying unconscious, skin cold, lips pale, a bandage stark against her hair, wouldn't leave. I shut my eyes. It didn't help.
When I walked into the mansion, the staff scattered like frightened birds. Probably because of the news. Probably because of me. My mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded, expression tense.
"She's awake," she said before I could ask. "Still weak. Still silent. Still scared."
I didn't react. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Veer... she looks at the door every time it opens. Every footstep in the hallway, she freezes. She thinks someone is coming to hurt her."
The words scraped something inside me. A bruise I didn't want to acknowledge.
"She's not eating," my mother continued. "Not drinking unless we force it. She keeps trying to say something but nothing comes out. She's terrified."
"She'll recover," I said flatly.
"That's not the point." Her eyes flashed. "You need to see her."
I didn't want to. Not while the memory of her collapsed body was still too fresh. Not while my mother's pitying eyes made it worse. Not while something in my chest felt unsettled.
But I didn't argue. I went upstairs. Each step felt heavier than it should have.
Her door was half-open. Dim light spilled out. The curtains were drawn, the room quiet. She sat on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, fingers tangled together in her lap.
Her eyes lifted the second I stepped inside, and she flinched. A small, involuntary shrinking of her spine. It hit harder than any insult.
I shut the door behind me. Slowly. Quietly. She didn't look away, but her shoulders tightened as if bracing for something. A pathetic thing inside me twisted again.
Her IV still dripped beside her. Her throat moved when she swallowed, painfully, cautiously. I moved closer. She curled in on herself a little more. My jaw clenched.
"Why aren't you drinking your water?" I demanded. Not gentle. Not soft. I didn't know how to speak that way.
Her lips parted. Nothing came out. Just a thin gasp of air. She tried again. Her hand lifted slightly, as if she wanted to point, gesture, explain. But her fingers shook too much.
Her breathing hitched, growing faster, more panicked. I stepped forward without thinking. Her eyes widened, breath breaking. She recoiled instantly.
My hand froze midair.
A quiet lightning cracked through my chest. I lowered my arm. Slowly. Controlled. Barely containing the sudden burn behind my ribs.
"Stop panicking," I said sharply. "You're not in danger."
Her eyes didn't believe me. Of course they didn't. After everything I'd done, after everything I'd taken, belief wasn't something she had left. I moved to the small table beside the bed, picked up the glass of water, and placed it in front of her. "Drink it."
Her hands didn't move. I waited. She hesitated. Then, finally, she reached out. But her fingers trembled so badly she nearly spilled the glass.
I grabbed it before it could fall. She froze. I didn't touch her. Not even a brush of skin. I simply held the glass steady and brought it closer to her lips. "Drink," I repeated.
Her throat bobbed. She took one shaky sip. Another. Then coughed softly from the pain. I looked away before something in my expression could betray itself.
When she finished, I set the glass down. She sat there, small and silent, watching me with wide, uncertain eyes. I exhaled once. Hard.
"The media was demanding answers today," I said. "I gave them your name." Her body stiffened. I continued. "You are now Aarohi Veeransh Sarkar. Publicly. Officially." Her breath caught. A tiny, broken inhale. Fear? Shock? Pain? I couldn't tell. I didn't want to tell.
"This means," I said quietly, "you will follow certain rules. Appear a certain way. Learn how to behave as my wife." She blinked up at me, slow, tired, frightened. "And," I added, voice dropping lower, "you will stay alive long enough to fulfill what this marriage requires."
My words hung in the air. Cold. Heavy. Uncompromising.
And yet, before I turned to leave, I caught her watching me with something I didn't expect. Not anger. Not hatred. Not defiance. But confusion.
Like she couldn't understand why I said "stay alive" with pressure in my voice instead of indifference.
I stepped out of the room before I could think too much about it. Before I could feel too much. Before I could admit that the sight of her unconscious still haunted me.