Chapter 6
Armaan
I stood outside my bedroom door, my hand resting on the cold metal of the doorknob. The hallway was silent except for the distant ticking of the clock downstairs. Each second felt heavier than the last, stretching time into something thick and suffocating.
This was my room. My sanctuary. The one place in this sprawling mansion that had always been entirely, unquestionably mine.
I had designed every corner of it myself.
The color of the walls, the placement of the furniture, the view from the windows.
Everything had been chosen with careful precision to create a space where I could breathe, where I could think, where I could exist without the weight of expectations pressing down on me.
And now I was sharing it with a stranger.
A wife I had married not out of love, not out of choice, but out of obligation and fear.
The irony was not lost on me.
I took a breath and knocked. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway, absurd and formal. I was knocking on my own bedroom door like a guest seeking permission to enter. The thought would have been amusing if everything else about this situation was not so utterly wrong.
When no response came, I turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
I stepped inside, my eyes sweeping across the familiar space that suddenly felt foreign.
The bed was untouched, the silk covers still perfectly smooth and arranged just the way Mamta always left them.
The lamps on either side cast a warm, golden glow across the room, creating pools of light and shadow. But there was no sign of her anywhere.
Where was she?
I walked further into the room, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. I checked the corners, the sitting area near the window, even behind the door, as though she might be hiding somewhere. Then I moved toward the bathroom and knocked on that door as well.
Silence.
I opened it. The marble floors gleamed under the soft lighting, everything pristine and untouched. Empty.
A flicker of something sharp moved through my chest. Confusion, perhaps. Or maybe annoyance. I could not quite identify it.
My wife should be here. On our wedding night, she should be in this room, in this bed. That was how it was supposed to work, was it not? Regardless of the circumstances that brought us together, regardless of the lack of love or choice or consent, she was mine now. She belonged here.
The thought came unbidden, possessive and primal, and I did not bother to push it away.
Then I noticed the balcony door. It was open, just slightly, the sheer curtains billowing inward with the night breeze. The white fabric moved like ghosts in the dim light, dancing to a rhythm only they could hear.
I crossed the room and pushed the door open fully, stepping out into the cool night air.
And there she was.
She was curled up on the recliner, her body folded into itself like a flower closing its petals against the cold.
She had changed out of the heavy wedding attire and into simple cotton pajamas, pale blue with tiny white flowers scattered across the fabric.
Her hair was loose, no longer pinned and styled the way it had been during the ceremony.
It fell in long, dark waves across her shoulders and face, moving gently with each breath she took.
She was fast asleep.
I stood there for a moment, just watching her.
The balcony stretched out before me, offering an unobstructed view of the Rajmer mountains in the distance.
Their jagged peaks rose against the night sky like ancient sentinels, their edges softened by the silvery light of the full moon.
The moon itself hung low and impossibly bright, a perfect circle of luminescence that bathed everything in an ethereal glow.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of jasmine from the garden below and something else. Something fresh and clean, like rain on stone.
I moved closer to her, my footsteps silent on the wooden planks of the balcony floor. I knelt down beside the recliner, careful not to disturb her, and simply looked.
Her face was peaceful in sleep, all the tension and fear from earlier completely gone. Her features were delicate, almost fragile. High cheekbones. A small, straight nose. Long lashes that cast tiny shadows on her cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted, soft and vulnerable.
The cold wind blew harder, and I watched as strands of her hair lifted and fell across her face, obscuring her features.
Without thinking, I reached out. My fingers moved of their own accord, gently brushing the dark strands away and tucking them behind her ear.
Her hair was incredibly soft, like silk slipping through my fingers.
She looked so innocent lying there. So pure and untouched by the ugliness of the world. She looked like someone who had never harmed a soul, who had never known cruelty or manipulation. She looked like someone who would give everything and ask for nothing in return.
She looked ethereal in the moonlight. Like something not quite real. Like a dream that would vanish the moment I tried to touch it.
I found myself glancing up at the full moon, then back down at her face.
The comparison was inevitable. People had written poems about the moon for centuries.
They had compared it to beauty, to perfection, to the divine.
But looking at her now, I knew with absolute certainty which one was more beautiful.
The moon was just a dead rock reflecting borrowed light. She was alive, breathing, real.
There was no contest.
My gaze drifted lower, to her lips. They were trembling.
Just slightly, but enough to notice. The temperature had dropped significantly since sunset, and she was out here with nothing but thin cotton to protect her from the cold.
Her skin had taken on a faint pallor, and I could see goosebumps rising on her exposed arms.
She was freezing.
Something tightened painfully in my chest. Something that felt uncomfortably like protectiveness.
I did not allow myself to analyze it. I simply acted.
I slipped one hand behind her head, cradling it gently, and brought my other hand beneath her knees.
She was impossibly light as I lifted her into my arms. Lighter than she had been in the elevator.
Lighter than she had any right to be. I could feel every delicate bone, every soft curve.
She fit against my chest as though she had been made to be held by me.
The thought should have alarmed me. Instead, it settled into my mind like something inevitable.
I carried her back inside, moving carefully so as not to wake her.
The warmth of the room enveloped us immediately, a stark contrast to the cold balcony air.
I walked over to the bed and laid her down on the mattress as gently as I could manage.
She stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping her lips, but her eyes remained closed.
I reached for one of the pillows and began positioning it behind her head, adjusting it so she would be comfortable.
That was when her eyes opened.
They were wide and dark and filled with immediate, visceral fear. Her entire body went rigid beneath me, her hands coming up instinctively as though to push me away.
And I realized, with a jolt of awareness, exactly how this must look to her. I was leaning over her, one hand behind her head, my face mere inches from hers. I was practically on top of her, looming over her in the dim light of the bedroom.
I pulled back immediately, almost violently. I moved to the edge of the bed and sat there, putting as much distance between us as the mattress would allow.
She sat up slowly, her breathing quick and shallow. Her hands gripped the silk covers tightly, her knuckles going white with the force of it.
"I am sorry," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "I did not mean to frighten you."
She shook her head quickly, her hair falling forward to hide her face.
"It is okay. I just... I was confused for a moment. I did not know where I was."
The silence that followed was heavy and awkward, filled with all the things neither of us knew how to say.
"I was feeling claustrophobic," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes remained fixed on her hands, refusing to meet mine. "That is why I went to the balcony. I needed the open air. I did not realize I fell asleep out there."
I nodded, even though she was not looking at me.
"It is okay. You do not need to explain yourself to me."
She did not respond. She just sat there, her shoulders hunched inward, making herself as small as possible. She looked lost in the middle of my large bed, like a child who had wandered into a place she did not belong.
I was about to say something, anything to break the oppressive silence, when my gaze fell on her hand. Her left wrist, specifically.
There was a cut there. A thin, angry line of dried blood trailing down from her wrist toward her palm.
My eyes narrowed. Something cold and sharp twisted in my gut.
I reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to. When she did not move, I took her hand gently in mine and turned it over to examine the wound more closely. She flinched at the contact, but she did not withdraw.
"What happened?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully controlled.
She glanced down at her wrist as though seeing it for the first time.
"One of the bangles broke when I was removing them. A piece of glass must have cut me. I did not notice until later."
I looked more closely. There was still a tiny shard of glass embedded in her skin, catching the lamplight and glinting like a malicious little star.
That cold, sharp feeling in my gut intensified, spreading through my chest like ice water.
I stood up abruptly and walked toward the bathroom without saying a word. I opened the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out the first aid kit.