CHAPTER 8! BROKEN BED
The walk upstairs felt like a funeral procession-not for a person, but for a life.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was something far more suffocating: silent. Aadhira walked ahead, her steps painfully careful, her spine rigid as if it might snap under the sheer weight of the man following her.
One hand clutched the edge of her ivory dupatta, a desperate, spiritual shield against the presence behind her.
It could not protect her.
Nothing on earth could.
Behind her, Aryav Rai Shinghania walked with the terrifying, rhythmic calmness of a man who had never rushed for anything in his existence.
He didn't need to. The world didn't move past him; it waited for him to decide its direction. Aadhira could hear almost nothing-no heavy thud of heels, no rustle of fabric. Just the cold, massive, predatory pressure of his presence.
Radha Rani... if I survive this room, I will personally organize a bhajan night for the entire colony.
No divine answer came. Even the gods betrayed her.
The corridor lights glowed softly against the polished cream walls, a stark contrast to the violent, bruised purple sky bleeding rain against the distant windows.
Downstairs, a faint ripple of laughter echoed from the family. It felt a lifetime away.
No rescue was coming. Shaurya was a traitor, her mother was an optimist, and she was walking into a room with a man who breathed frost.
Aadhira reached her bedroom door. Her fingers, betraying her despite her best efforts, trembled as she pushed it open. She stepped aside, her voice a mere thread of sound.
"Come..."
Aryav entered first.
The room didn't just change; it was colonized. Aadhira's bedroom was a sanctuary of warmth-soft off-white walls, cream curtains swaying in the rain-chilled breeze, and the chaotic beauty of an artist's life.
Sketchbooks were stacked beside rolls of raw silk; tiny fairy lights twinkled like captured stars near her bookshelf. The air smelled of sandalwood, fresh jasmine, and the earthy scent of rainwater.
It was a room that breathed humanity.
And in the center of it stood Aryav.
Black shirt.
Black trousers.
The steel watch glinting like a surgical blade. He looked violently out of place, like a loaded weapon placed on a prayer altar.
His dark eyes began to move. It was a slow, systematic sweep-an gathering mission disguised as a glance.
The indoor plants she'd nurtured, the fashion sketches pinned to her mirror, and the small Radha-Krishna idol sitting beside her study with fresh flowers.
His gaze paused there. A flicker-something dark and unreadable-passed over his face. Then his eyes shifted to the photographs.
He looked at the frame of Shaurya and Aadhira covered in cake, their laughter frozen in time.
Then the proper family portrait.
Then, finally, he stopped at the smallest frame: two-year-old Ayaan, giggling with cream on his nose.
Aryav stared at it the longest.
His thumb rested briefly against the edge of Ayaan's photograph.
Then he withdrew his hand immediately.
Like the gesture itself annoyed him.
Aadhira stood near the door, trying to merge spiritually with the wallpaper.
Her heartbeat was now a loud, illegal rhythm against her ribs. Why is he looking at my room like it's a crime scene? Does he hate the plants? Are billionaires allergic to jasmine?
Aryav finally turned toward her.
Aadhira immediately looked at the ceiling. Then the floor. Then the idol. Protect me, radha rani.
Without a word, Aryav walked toward the chair near her study table. He sat down.
He didn't "sit" like a normal guest; he occupied the space like a king reclaiming a throne.
One ankle crossed over the other. A large, elegant hand rested on the armrest.
Then, he spoke.
The words weren't thrown like an insult. They were placed, like a cold stone on a flat surface. No emotion. No hesitation. Just a brutal, surgical fact.
Aadhira's fingers tightened around her dupatta. Of course. Five years, and the first proper thing he says isn't "Hello" or "How was Milan?" but a declaration of his own lack of desire.
Her throat felt like it was filled with ash.
Aryav continued, his voice a low, melodic vibration.
"The families want stability. Ayaan wants you. Everything else is paperwork."
The silence returned, heavier this time. Aadhira looked down at her feet.
Hearing it from him hurt in a way she hadn't expected. It reduced her entire existence to a function-a nanny for the heir, a peace treaty for the elders, a piece of furniture for the Shinghania legacy.
Aryav reached inside his coat pocket with a slow, deliberate movement and pulled out a folded document.
Prepared.
Signed.
Waiting.
He placed the papers on the table between them with a faint thud that sounded like a gavel.
"A contract," he said.
Aadhira blinked.
Seriously A contract Radha rani? This is what you choose for me?
Aryav leaned back, his eyes never leaving her face. He looked almost bored, but it was the boredom of a lion watching a wounded deer.
His voice was soft. That was the most frightening thing about him. Men who shout are desperate for control; Aryav spoke softly because he already owned it.
Aadhira walked toward the table as if approaching a landmine.
She picked up the papers.
Aadhira lowered her gaze to the document.
TERMS OF CONTRACT.
The title alone felt clinical enough to drain warmth from the room.
Her eyes moved down the page.
Public unity would be maintained at all times.
1.No emotional obligations would exist between the parties involved.
2.Discretion was mandatory.
3. Ayaan's well-being would remain her primary responsibility.
4. Absence without prior notice would not be tolerated.
5.Separate personal lives would remain separate.
6.No interference. No dependency. No attachment.
7.The marriage would continue for one years before dissolution could be discussed privately.
Aadhira stared at the page for a long moment.
Every sentence sounded exactly like Aryav.
Controlled. Precise. Completely untouched by tenderness.
Her grip tightened slightly against the paper.
This wasn't a marriage proposal.
It was a behavioral agreement drafted by a man who trusted contracts more than people.
It was a cage made of fine paper.
She lifted her eyes.
Aryav was watching her, his expression lethal and calm.
He was waiting for her to break, to cry, to scream. He wanted to see if she would be "difficult."
Aadhira's voice came out as a fragile whisper. "You... already signed it."
"Yes."
"You were very confident I would agree."
"If you intended to refuse," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "you would've done it downstairs."
He was right. God, she hated that he was right. He had read her better than she read her own sketches.
She stared at the final page. Then, almost unintentionally, the question slipped out.
"Did you ever want this engagement?"
The air in the room shifted. Aryav's eyes became sharper, more dangerous.
He looked at her for a long, agonizing pause.
"Want had very little to do with it."
The honesty was a blade through her heart. No diplomacy. No sugar-coating. Just a cold, hard no.
Aadhira nodded once, mechanically. She picked up the pen.
Her fingers trembled so much the pen nearly slipped.
Aryav noticed-he saw every twitch of her muscles, every skip of her pulse. But he offered no comfort. He just watched her.
She signed it. Aadhira Agrawal.
The moment the ink hit the page, the cage locked. She placed the papers back. "Okay."
Aryav picked up the contract. He checked the signature, his movements precise and elegant.
Business completed.
He stood up, and the room instantly felt five degrees colder.
Aadhira stepped back unconsciously, a tiny, instinctive retreat.
His eyes rested on her for a long, terrifying second.
He wasn't offended; he was studying her fear.
His gaze again drifted to the Radha-Krishna idol, then back to her.
His gaze dropped briefly to her trembling fingers.
A pause.
Then-
"Nothing changed." he said quietly.
Soft.
Calm.
Deadly.
Aadhira's throat tightened.
Lying to him was like trying to hide from the sun. He peeled back layers of her soul with just a look.
"I..." she started, but her voice failed her.
Aryav moved closer.
Only one step, but it was enough to send her pulse into a frantic spike.
He stopped at a perfectly controlled distance-not touching, never touching, but dominating her nonetheless.
"Your body answers honestly."
"You should learn from it."
he said softly, his voice a low, dark melody.
Aadhira looked at the floor, humiliation burning in her chest. Why was he saying it out loud? Why was he forcing her to acknowledge her own weakness?
Aryav's gaze dropped to her shaking hands.
"Control that."
Aadhira looked up sharply.
"The moment people smell fear, they start calculating your value."
"Sit down before you faint."
A pause.
"I have no interest in explaining that downstairs."
Aadhira stared at him, humiliation and a sudden, sharp spike of white-hot anger twisting together beneath her ribs so tightly she could barely separate one emotion from the other.
He had said it with absolute serenity. Not mockingly. Not cruelly.
Worse. Like a clinical observation. Like her visceral, suffocating fear was simply another minor data point he had already categorized, calculated, and filed away somewhere inside that bureaucratic mind of his.
Outside, a massive wave of thunder rolled across the Mumbai sky, low, violent, and deep enough to vibrate through the floorboards.
Rain struck the glass windows in uneven, aggressive sheets, the chaotic sound filling the vast silence that neither of them seemed particularly interested in breaking.
He slid the document back inside the hidden pocket of his coat.
That should have been the end of it. By all laws of corporate negotiation, the meeting was adjourned.