19. CONDITION
VEERANSH:
The night settled heavy over the Sarkar mansion, thick and silent, the kind of silence that wasn't peace but pressure. Even the staff walked softer, doors closed quieter, lights dimmed earlier. Everyone moved like they were trying not to set me off again. I knew why. I wasn't proud of it.
But I didn't regret it either. Not yet. I entered my study, shutting the door behind me with controlled finality.
The weight of the entire day, my mother's fury, my sister's disappointment, the media claws tearing at my reputation, the investors demanding answers, pressed against the inside of my skull.
And the bruise on her cheek. That image wouldn't leave. I should have ignored it. I should have dismissed it. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the way she flinched.
I exhaled slowly, loosening the knot of my tie. The fabric felt too tight, my collar too suffocating, my own name too loud in my ears. Veeransh Sarkar. Heir. CEO. Untouchable. Not anymore.
The marriage that was supposed to be a weapon, a tool, a formality, a signature, had become a crack in the armor I'd built my entire life around.
A crack shaped like her. I sank into the leather chair, staring at the documents on my desk, the shareholders' agreements, the property transfer confirmation, the official announcements prepared for tomorrow.
Tomorrow. My jaw tightened as I leaned back, exhaling sharply. Because tomorrow, I had no choice. The world was demanding answers. The media had caught the scent; my marriage was now a wildfire.
Hiding her wasn't an option anymore. I had to present her. Not just as someone connected to me. Not as an employee. Not as a name on a register. As my wife.
A decision I never wanted to make. A decision I had avoided since the day my grandfather forced this condition into his will. But now I would have to do it publicly, unapologetically, in front of cameras, reporters, partners, the entire business empire.
She would stand next to me. She would be seen. She would be judged. And she had to act the part flawlessly. I rubbed my temples slowly.
I knew she wasn't ready. Her voice was barely returning. Her body was weak. Her fear of me was obvious. But the world wouldn't care if she broke in front of them.
I would. Because one mistake from her, one trembling moment, one wrong touch of her voice, and the world would devour her. And somehow that thought angered me more than anything else had today.
The door clicked open softly, too softly for any staff member. Only one person entered my rooms without knocking. My mother. But she stopped at the threshold, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unreadable.
"She's sleeping," she said quietly. I didn't respond. "She's frightened," she added. Still nothing. She sighed, shaking her head.
"You're burying yourself in something ugly, Veeransh. I only hope you understand the consequences." I didn't look at her. "What consequences?" I muttered. "You're treating a human being like she's a liability."
"She is a liability," I snapped, harsher than intended. My mother flinched, then straightened. "Then why does she haunt you more than your assets, more than your board, more than your own name?" I looked away.
She gave a bitter laugh. "You can lie to me. But you can't lie to yourself." She left without another word, shutting the door behind her. I stared into the quiet for a long time.
Then stood. Then walked. The corridor to her room felt longer than usual, each step echoing through the cold marble floors. The staff kept their heads low as I passed.
Good. I wasn't in the mood for staring or questions. I reached her door. Just stood there for a second. Then turned the handle.
She was awake. Not sitting. Not standing. But awake, curled on the bed, eyes open, staring at the blanket like it had answers she couldn't find. Her cheek still red.
Something twisted deep in my gut. She jolted the moment she realized I was there, her breath catching, shoulders tightening, body curling inward. She was afraid of me. The realization hit harder than I expected.
I stepped inside slowly, shutting the door behind me. Her hands gripped the blanket tighter, her voice trembling even before she spoke. "W... wh... what...?" She swallowed hard, fighting through the stutter.
"W... what d-do... you... w-want...?" It wasn't defiance. It wasn't attitude. It was terror disguised as a question. I took a measured breath, keeping my tone even.
"Tomorrow," I said, "you will meet your mother." Her eyes widened instantly. Her lips parted in a small, stunned sound. She pushed herself upright slowly, shaky hands gripping the headboard for support.
"M... m-ma...?" Her voice quivered, but she didn't break. She didn't collapse. She spoke a full word. Clearer than before.
Her throat was healing. She could speak again. A small victory for her. A necessary one for me. "Yes," I said. "Tomorrow."
Tears filled her eyes instantly, blurring the exhaustion and fear into something fragile and painfully human. She clutched her chest, as if the relief itself was hurting her. But before she could speak another broken thank-you, I added, "But there is a condition."
Her breath froze. I stepped closer, my shadow falling across her. "You will be presented as my wife." Her relief cracked instantly. Her lips trembled; her fingers tightened painfully around the blanket.
I continued, voice calm and controlled. "The media will be there. Business partners. The entire board. Our reputation will be under a microscope." She swallowed hard.
"The world will see you," I said. "And you need to behave like you belong beside me." Her eyes dropped, fear blooming across her expression. "You will stand with me. You will speak when spoken to. You will keep your voice steady."
My tone sharpened. "You will not cry in front of them. You will not tremble. You will not embarrass me." Her breath hitched painfully. "If you want to see your mother," I said softly, "you will follow everything the head maid teaches you tonight."
Her eyes flicked up to mine, pleading, desperate, terrified. I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "And if you make even one mistake..." One pause. One cold breath between us.
"...you will not meet your mother. Ever." Her entire body froze. Tears spilled down her cheeks silently, but she nodded, small, rapid, terrified. I watched her for a moment.
Her voice, broken as it still was, pushed out a trembling whisper. "I... I... w-will... d-d-do... it..." She was scared. So scared it shook through her bones. But she would do it.
Because she had no choice. Because I was her only path to her mother. Because I had the power to give or take everything from her. And she knew that now.
I straightened, turning toward the door. "Be ready," I said. "The training starts in an hour." I left the room without looking back.
Because if I had, if I had seen her sitting there with tears streaking down her cheeks, trying to practice the simple act of breathing, I wasn't sure what I would've done. And I wasn't ready to know that yet.
The hallway outside her room felt colder than it should've. Too quiet. Too still. I walked away without looking back, each step sharp against the floor, but something in my chest felt unsettled.
Like a thread was pulling, tight and persistent, refusing to snap even when I commanded it to. I hated that feeling. I made my way downstairs, the grand staircase swallowing my footsteps, and found the head maid already waiting.
Straight posture, hands folded, eyes lowered. "Prepare her," I said without stopping. She bowed immediately. "Yes, sir." "She will be presented tomorrow. Groom her, teach her how to stand, how to address the media, how to sit beside me."
"She must look and act like a Sarkar." "Yes, sir." "And make sure she rests in between. She is already weak." The maid blinked in faint surprise, then lowered her head again.
"Yes... sir." I didn't want to explain that part. I didn't want to analyze why I even said it. I walked past her to the study, closing the door behind me.
The moment it clicked shut, the weight of the day crashed into me again. Photos of the press crowding the gates flashed across my phone screen. Board members demanding a formal introduction. Messages from investors, business rivals, journalists.
Everyone wanted a glimpse of the mysterious "secret wife." Everyone wanted to know what I had done, why I'd done it, who she was. Useless noise. But tomorrow, I'd silence all of it.
I sat down behind my desk and loosened my tie, exhaling slowly. The relief I expected didn't come. My jaw ached; my temples throbbed. And in the back of my mind, her voice echoed.
"I... I... w-will... d-d-do... it..." The way she said it, shaking, desperate, like her throat was fighting every sound she tried to make. I should have been satisfied.
She finally listened. She finally obeyed. She finally understood who held the power. But instead, something sharp tugged at my chest in an annoying, unfamiliar way.
I brushed the feeling off like dust and pulled the file toward me, the official outline for tomorrow's press appearance. At the top, in bold letters, AAROHI VEERANSH SARKAR - PUBLIC REVEAL.
I stared at her name next to mine. My wife. Legally, yes. Strategically, yes. Emotionally? No. She wasn't meant to be anything more than a key.
A silent key to unlock my grandfather's empire. But everything about her was noisy. Her trembling. Her stutter. Her fear. Her tears. Her fragility.
Nothing about her obeyed silence. I flipped the page aggressively. There were instructions on how she should walk beside me, notes about body language, the kind of saree she should wear, how she should keep her hands folded.
How her voice should sound if she was asked anything. My assistant had written, "Keep her close to your right side. It makes her look protected." I scoffed.
Protected wasn't the word anyone would use if they saw her now. Still, the world would tear her apart if she made a mistake tomorrow. The media wouldn't spare her. My competitors wouldn't spare her.
Hell, even the board wouldn't spare her. And for some reason, the idea of anyone else breaking her made irritation spark under my skin, deep and hot. If she was going to be harmed, it would be by me.
No one else had that right. I pushed away from the desk, irritated with my own thoughts, and stood. A sudden knock pulled me back to the present.
"Come in," I said sharply. The head maid entered, bowing slightly. "S-sir... I started her training. She's eager to learn, but she's exhausted. Her throat hurts."
Of course it did. "She needs to cooperate," I said. "She is, sir. She didn't argue once." The maid's voice softened. "She kept saying, 'ma... ma...' while practicing. She wants to meet her mother very badly."
My jaw tensed. Of course she did. That was the only reason she agreed so quickly. The maid hesitated before adding, "Sir... she's trying very hard. She wants to speak full sentences."
"She will. By tomorrow," I said. The maid exhaled, relieved. "I'll continue the lessons, then." "Bring her downstairs in an hour for posture training."
"Yes, sir." She left again, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I leaned back against the desk, rubbing my temples once more. A wife. A public reveal.
A fragile girl who could barely speak three days ago now forced to stand in front of cameras. Was it too much? Was it too soon? It didn't matter.
I needed this. My position. My control. My empire. And she needed her mother. We were both trapped in chains of different kinds.
I checked the clock. Midnight. Tomorrow morning was going to be a battlefield. And I had decided she would stand right beside me, whether she was ready or not.
Just as I moved to sit again, I noticed the faintest reflection in the glass door, a figure standing at the top of the stairs. Small. Shaking. Watching.
Aarohi. Hair still damp from the shower. Hands clasped tightly in front of her. Posture stiff, the maid's training already visible in the way she tried to stand straight.
But her eyes. Her eyes were terrified. I walked toward her. Slow steps. Measured steps. She swallowed hard, trying to hold her gaze steady.
"W... w-wo... work... sh-start... n-now?" Her voice trembled, but the sentence came out. A full sentence. I stopped in front of her.
For a moment, I didn't speak. Then, "Yes," I said. "It starts now." She nodded quickly, anxiety rippling through her entire body.
"And remember," I added, lowering my voice so only she could hear, "tomorrow decides if you see your mother... or lose her." A soft gasp escaped her.
She nodded again, more desperate, more terrified. I turned and began walking toward the interior hall. Her footsteps followed. Soft, shaky, obedient. Exactly the way I needed them to.