ONLY ONE ROOM
I sat on the edge of the registration office desk, right in front of the officer, tapping my fingers lazily as I enjoyed my money for what could be the last few minutes of freedom.
After today, it wouldn’t technically be mine for a year.
Marrying that poor asshole was annoying, yes—but choosing him?
That was brilliant.
Making him agree had been embarrassingly easy. People like him always folded the moment you touched their family. Predictable. Emotional. Weak.
I had told him to be here this morning. No drama. No delays.
The wall clock ticked loudly in the otherwise dull office.
We were supposed to sign the marriage certificate at sharp ten.
I glanced at my watch.
9:58 a.m.
My jaw tightened slightly.
He was nowhere to be seen.
I leaned back, crossing my arms, irritation prickling under my skin. He wouldn’t dare back out—not after everything. Not after the choice I’d given him.
Still, a tiny, unwelcome thought crept in.
What if he doesn’t come?
I wouldn't kill his family. Never. I just told that to threaten him.
I scoffed inwardly.
He would come.
Men like him always do—when fear walks ahead of them.
The door creaked open.
I looked up instinctively.
He walked in—slow, quiet, like someone stepping into a sentence he already knew the ending of. Just tired eyes and a face stripped of whatever courage it once carried.
He walked straight toward the desk, stopped beside me, and stood there silently. No questions. No arguments. No anger.
I arched an eyebrow.
“You’re late,” I said coolly.
The officer cleared his throat and slid the papers forward.
“Names?”
I answered first, crisp and confident.
He followed when prompted, his voice low, almost mechanical. He signed where he was told to sign. Initialed where he was told to initial. Every movement precise, obedient—like he was afraid that any mistake would cost someone else their life.
I watched him from the corner of my eye.
Not a word.
Not a protest.
Not even hatred.
That surprised me more than it should have.
When the officer pushed the final document toward him, he picked up the pen without hesitation. His hand trembled just slightly—but he didn’t stop. He signed.
Done.
Just like that.
I leaned back, satisfied, crossing my legs as the officer stamped the papers.
He finally looked up then—not at me, but straight ahead.
I smiled faintly.
Obedient.
Quiet.
Exactly what I needed.
My grandfather’s friend stood in front of us, staring at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.
Disbelief. Disappointment. A hint of pity.
“You forced him, didn’t you?” he asked quietly.
I tilted my head, unfazed.
“He’s poor,” I said smoothly. “And yes—no rich background.” I smiled, slow and wicked. “Exactly what the will demanded.”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t argue. Instead, he held out his hand.
“Give me all your cards.”
I stiffened. Irritation flared instantly.
I snapped my fingers at my secretary.
She stepped forward—but he raised his hand, stopping her.
“No,” he said firmly, eyes never leaving mine. “You no longer have authority over them. Not for one year.”
The words landed heavier than I expected.
I laughed softly, masking unfamiliar feeling of losing control.
“Fine,” I said, sliding the cards across the desk one by one. “Take them. It’s just a year.”
He collected them carefully, as if handling something fragile.
“One year,” he repeated. “Living by the rules you were so confident you could bend.”
I straightened, lifting my chin.
“Don’t worry,” I replied coolly. “I always survive my own games.”
Mr. Justice saviour, stood there quietly, hands at his sides, eyes lowered.
“So come, Mr. Husband. Let’s go to your home,” I said, standing right in front of him.
He stiffened. Terror flashed across his face so clearly it almost amused me.
“Y-you are coming with me?” he asked, voice barely steady.
“Where do you think wives go after marriage?” I replied coldly.
He looked away. “I can’t take you to my family’s house.”
I tilted my head. “Why?”
“My family… they don’t know about this marriage,” he said quietly.
“Then come. Let’s go and reveal it,” I said, already taking a few steps forward.
No response.
I turned back. He was still standing there, frozen.
“What?” I snapped, my patience thinning. I sighed sharply.
Without saying a single word, he suddenly walked past me.
I blinked.
What just—?
My mouth fell open as I watched him walk out of the registration office like I didn’t even exist. Behind me, the old lawyer chuckled.
I shot him a glare and stormed after my dear husband.
Outside, I saw him sitting on a bike—an old one—putting on his helmet. He started it.
“Hey!” I called, walking straight in front of the bike to stop him.
He looked at me once… then revved the engine loudly.
I scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare—”
The bike moved forward.
I stumbled back instantly.
“Are you crazy?!” I shouted.
He stopped a few feet away and glanced at me over his shoulder.
“Wait,” I said, annoyed. “Take me with you.”
He removed his helmet slowly, narrowing his eyes. Sweat dotted his forehead.
“I don’t have a BMW like you,” he said flatly.
For a second, I didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll pay you for everything after one year,” I said quickly.
He scoffed.
“I’ll just sit on the back,” I added, moving closer. “I’m legally your wife. You can’t avoid me.”
I tried climbing onto the bike, carefully avoiding touching his shoulders.
I had never sat on a bike in my life. Only cars. Comfortable, air-conditioned cars.
This thing felt… ridiculous.
I struggled, nearly losing balance.
He didn’t help. Didn’t look back. Just waited.
Finally, awkwardly, I managed to sit—stiff, uncomfortable, leaving a clear distance between us.
“There,” I muttered.
He put his helmet back on and started the bike again, this time slowly.
As the bike moved, panic hit me.
“Slow—wait—!” I grabbed the back of his shirt instinctively.
He stopped the bike immediately. I took my hands off. Shit.
The road stretched ahead, nothing like my world. Wind hit my face, dust clung to my clothes, and every bump made me tense.
Yet he adjusted his speed, careful on turns, steady on rough patches.
Silent. Controlled.
I stared at his back—the cheap shirt, the ordinary man I had forced into my life.
The bike cut through the city streets with a low, steady hum—nothing luxurious, nothing smooth. The seat was hard. The road was worse. Every bump jolted straight into my spine, and I clenched my jaw, refusing to let a sound slip.
This was ridiculous.
We slowed… then stopped.
I leaned forward slightly and looked past his shoulder. A sea of vehicles stretched endlessly ahead—autos, buses, bikes, people weaving through gaps like it was normal.
Traffic.
My nightmare.
“Oh my god,” I muttered under my breath.
Smoke rose around us, thick and choking. I lifted my hand immediately, shielding my face. “This pollution—are you serious?” I scoffed, wiping my cheek as if the air itself had insulted me. “Do you know what this does to skin?”
The bike remained still.
I exhaled sharply, annoyed. I had never waited like this. Police always leave way for my car in mid traffic.
I glanced at the rear-view mirror.
He was looking at me.
Only his eyes were visible through the helmet, dark and unreadable, fixed on my reflection. There was no fear in them now. Just something sharp.
“What?” I snapped, irritated.
He looked away instantly, like he’d been caught doing something forbidden. His voice came out flat. “Just wondering how a person can be this disgusting.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Say something I don’t know about myself.”
The traffic inched forward a few feet and stopped again.
He rested his foot on the road, steady, unbothered. “You don’t even realize it,” he said quietly. “You breathe like the world owes you clean air.”
I turned cold. “And you breathe like poverty makes you holy.”
That earned me silence.
A small tap brushed my arm. I flinched.
A little boy stood beside the bike—barefoot, dirt on his cheeks, holding crushed flowers in his tiny hand. He looked up at me with hopeful eyes.
“No. Don’t touch me.”
I pulled back instantly, disgust curling my lips. “And also—we’re in the same situation. You have no money, and I also have no money. The only difference is, you’re begging… and I’m not.” I shrugged like it was the most obvious truth in the world.
The boy stared at me, confused, not understanding half the words—only the rejection.
“Hi,” Mr. Justice Saviour said instead, crouching slightly to the boy’s level, his voice warm, painfully gentle.
I rolled my eyes. Of course. The hero act.
He spoke to the boy softly, asking his name, where he studied—if he studied. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
I glanced at it. Wallet Almost empty.
Just a few crumpled notes.
My mouth parted as he took all of it out and placed it in the boy’s hand.
All of it.
“Buy some notebooks,” he said, patting the boy’s head lightly. “And practice writing. Okay?”
The boy’s face lit up like someone had handed him the world. He nodded furiously and ran off into the crowd, clutching the money like treasure. The signal turned green, and he started the bike.
The city moved again. Noise swallowed us.
Finally, he stopped in front of a lone house.
I looked at it.
Small. Old. Quiet.
Not the house where I had met him yesterday.
I got down from the bike, my feet touching the dusty ground with hesitation. He parked the bike to the side and got down, pulling off his helmet. Sweat clung to his hair, strands falling over his forehead as he took the keys from his pocket.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. A faint creak echoed in the silence.
“This is… not your house,” I said, my voice lower than I intended.
He didn’t look at me. Then he stepped aside, making space.
“Come in.”
I stood frozen for a second. The house wasn’t grand. No gates. No guards. No luxury cars. Just a simple doorway leading into a life I had never even brushed against.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“My place,” he replied calmly. “I stay here alone.”
I walked in slowly, my eyes scanning everything—the modest furniture, the faint smell of coffee and old books. It was nothing like my world.
Nothing like the luxury I ruled.
“Hmm,” I hummed, unimpressed. “I thought you were super poor. Turns out you at least have a roof.”
He placed his helmet and keys on the small table near the entrance. “I’m a tenant,” he said flatly. “I came here because the hospital is nearby—”
He stopped himself, jaw tightening.
“Why am I even talking to you,” he muttered under his breath and walked into the room, leaving me standing there.
I rolled my eyes.
As if I cared.
Still, my feet moved on their own. Instinctively, I slipped off my shoes and placed them neatly aside. I didn’t even realize I had done it until I straightened up.
The house was… simple.
One small hall.
A tiny room with a single bed pushed against the wall and a study table cluttered with books and papers.
A narrow kitchen.
An attached bathroom.
Wait .... Only one room? Then where will I sleep?