Author's POV
The clock struck half past ten when the black Range Rover pulled up to the Singh-Raghuvanshi mansion.
No lights. No band. No relatives. Just a fortress of black marble and glass, standing under the moonlight like a predator waiting to swallow her whole.
The gates opened automatically. The guard didn't even blink.
Ishani stepped out. Her Midnight black saree shimmered like liquid fire under the floodlights. Her heels clicked against the marble like a countdown. Her mother's bangles, heavy, gold, older than her, slid down her wrist as she picked up her clutch.
"Yahan toh welcome bhi koi nahi karne aaya. Kya shaadi hai, kya zindagi hai," she muttered under her breath. (No one even came to welcome me. What a wedding, what a life.)
She walked toward the massive door. Her anklets chimed with every step. The sound echoed in the empty night like a warning.
The door opened before she could knock.
A man stood there. Tall. Broad. Black t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. Arms crossed. Face like he'd never smiled in his life.
"Ishani?" he asked.
"No, I'm the ghost of Christmas past," she said. "Yes, I'm Ishani. You are?"
His lips twitched. Almost. "Karan. Head of security. Advait's cousin."
"Advait has a cousin who works as a bodyguard?" she asked.
"Advait has a cousin who is a bodyguard," he said. "Come. I'll show you your room."
Where's Advait and why he's not welcoming me? She asked.
Karan ignored her question.
He turned and walked away. Didn't wait. Didn't offer to carry her bag.
"Family ka pehla member. Very Rude," she said to herself, following him. (First member of the family. Very Rude.)
Ishani's POV
I have walked into a lot of intimidating buildings in my life. Boardrooms. Corporate headquarters. Five-star hotels. But this mansion? This was something else entirely.
Black marble floors so polished I could see my own confused reflection staring back at me. Floor-to-ceiling windows every few feet, letting in moonlight that made everything look silver and cold. Chandeliers that looked like they cost more than our family car. Art, so much art,paintings and sculptures and things I couldn't even identify, all of it probably worth more than my entire wardrobe.
But no photos.
No family pictures. No childhood memories. No evidence that actual human beings lived here.
People don't live here, They just exist, I muttered to myself.
We passed at least six guards on the way to my room. Each one stared at me like I was a criminal walking through their crime scene.
"Contract wife. Same thing, I guess," I muttered under my breath.
Karan stopped in front of a door on the second floor. Dark wood. Gold handle. A small table next to it with nothing on it, just empty, like everything else in this house.
"This is your room," he said.
He opened the door. Stepped aside.
I walked in.
And stopped.
The room was... not what I expected.
A king-sized bed with grey silk sheets that looked softer than anything I'd ever owned. A floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a garden full of roses and a fountain that glittered under the moonlight. A walk-in closet that was half-empty, waiting for my clothes. A vanity table with a crystal mirror and soft golden lamps on either side.
And on the bedside table, a laptop. Open. Screen glowing. A yellow sticky note stuck to the keyboard.
I walked over. Bent down. Read it.
I stared at it.
Then stared at it again.
Then burst out laughing.
"Something funny?" Karan asked from the door.
"Your cousin," I said, holding up the sticky note. "He thinks he's hilarious."
"Is he?" Karan asked.
"Unfortunately, yes," I said.
Karan's lips twitched again. That was twice now. Almost a smile. Almost human.
"Advait bhai-sa ne kaha hai ki aapko jo bhi chahiye, aap maang sakti hain," he said. (Advait brother said you can ask for whatever you need.)
"Advait kahan hai?" I asked. (Where is Advait?)
"Bhai-sa apne kaam mein vyast hain. Kal aapse milenge," he said. (Brother is busy with his work. He'll meet you tomorrow.)
I blinked.
"Hamari shaadi ho gayi, main uske ghar mein hoon, aur woh mujhse kal milega?" I asked. (We're married, I'm in his house, and he'll meet me tomorrow?)
Karan shrugged. "Bhai-sa aise hi hain," he said. (Brother is like that.)
He left before I could say anything else.
I stood there, holding the sticky note, staring at the words.
"IshaniIsMyWife."
I read it again. "Yeh aadmi mujhe pagal kar dega." (This man will drive me crazy. )
I threw the sticky note on the bed.
My phone buzzed.
Rhea: WHAT'S THE STATUS?
Rhea: GHAR KAISA HAI? (How's the home?)
Rhea: PATI KAISA HAI? (HOW'S THE HUSBAND?)
Rhea: SERVANTS TO BOHOT HONGE NA ? (THERE'LL BE MANY SERVANTS,RIGHT?)
Rhea: BATA NA MUJHE (TELL ME PLEASE)
Rhea: MAIN JANANE KE LIYE MARI JA RAHI HOON (I'M DYING TO KNOW)
I laughed. Actually laughed. For the first time since I signed that contract.
Ishani: Rhea, it's 11:30 PM.
Rhea: TOH? MAIN TERI BEST FRIEND HOON. MUJHE RAAT MEIN BHI JAANNE KA HAQ HAI. (SO? I'M YOUR BEST FRIEND. I HAVE THE RIGHT TO KNOW EVEN AT NIGHT.)
Ishani: Ghar bahut bada hai. Pati bahut weird hai. Aur main bahut bhookhi hoon. (The house is very big. Husband is very weird. And I'm very hungry.)
Rhea: WTF. UNHONE TUJHE KHANA BHI NAHI DIYA? (WTF. THEY DIDN'T EVEN GIVE YOU FOOD?)
Ishani: I don't think he remembers I exist.
Rhea: MAIN AA RAHI HOON. SACHI MEIN AA RAHI HOON. ADDRESS BHEJ. (I'M COMING. REALLY COMING. SEND THE ADDRESS.)
Ishani: Rhea. No. Main theek hoon. (Rhea. No. I'm fine.)
Rhea: TU THEEK NAHI HAI. MAIN THEEK NAHI HOON. KAL SUBAAH MAIN AARHI HOON. TERA PATI MUJHE ROKE TOH DEKHTI HOON. (YOU'RE NOT FINE. I'M NOT FINE. I'M COMING TOMORROW MORNING. LET YOUR HUSBAND TRY TO STOP ME.)
Ishani: You're insane.
Rhea: TERI BEST FRIEND HOON. INSANE HONA ZAROORI HAI? (I'M YOUR BEST FRIEND. IT'S NECESSARY TO BE INSANE?)
Ishani: Haan, kal subah aa jana ab soja.(Yes,Come Tommorow but sleep now.)
Rhea: OK. Ishu Good Night,Love you
Ishani: Good Night,Ri
I laughed again. My stomach growled.
"Chalo. Kitchen dhundo. Khaana khao. Aur kal subah Advait ka muh dekhna," I said to myself. (Fine. Find the kitchen. Eat food. And see Advait's face tomorrow morning.)
Advait's POV
The garden was the only place in this house where I could actually hear myself think.
No business calls. No contracts. No memories of my father rotting in jail while that man,Vikramaditya Vardhan-Rajpoot,walked free. Just the fountain. Just the roses. Just the silence.
I had been sitting here for three hours.
Three hours of staring at the water. Three hours of listening to it splash. Three hours of trying not to think about her.
"Tu pagal hai, Advait. Tu ne use yahan bulaya. Tu ne contract sign karwaya. Uske baap ne tere baap ko jail mein daala, aur tu uski beti ko apne ghar mein laaya. Ab tu usse milne se bhaag raha hai?" I thought. (You're crazy, Advait. You called her here. You made her sign the contract. Her father put your father in jail, and you brought his daughter to your house. And now you're running away from meeting her?)
I ran my hand over my face. My stubble scratched my palm.
She was here. In my house. In the room I had kept empty for twenty years,the same room where my mother used to sit and read, the same room where she used to braid her hair, the same room that had been collecting dust since she died.
And I couldn't go near her.
Not because I was afraid of her.
Because every time I looked at her, I remembered that night. The restaurant. The argument. Her voice, sharp and fierce, cutting through her father's lies. "Aap galat kar rahe hain, Dad. Aapne us family ko barbaad kar diya. Aur main aapki is galti ka hissa nahi ban sakti." (You're doing wrong, Dad. You destroyed that family. And I cannot be a part of this mistake of yours.)
I had been sitting at the table behind her. Hidden. Watching. Listening.
She didn't know I was there. She didn't know I heard everything. She didn't know that in that moment, something in me shifted. Something cracked. Something I had built to protect myself from feeling anything.
"Tu revenge ke liye laaya hai use. Apne baap ka badla lene ke liye. Bhool mat," I reminded myself. (You brought her for revenge. To avenge your father. Don't forget.)
But the voice in my head was getting quieter.
The door creaked.
I turned.
She was standing there.
Barefoot. Her gold heels dangling from her fingers. Her saree slightly crumpled now, like she had been tossing and turning in bed. Her hair,that long, dark, hair,had escaped its bun completely, falling in waves around her face, some strands sticking to her cheeks.
She looked tired.
She looked annoyed.
She looked like she wanted to murder someone.
And she looked beautiful.
"Shit," I muttered.
"You're awake," she said. Her voice was flat. Accusing. Like it was my fault she was standing here.
"So are you," I said.
"Obviously. I'm standing right here," she said.
I leaned back against the bench. Crossed my arms. "Tumhe Bhook lagi hai?" I asked. (Are you Hungry?)
She narrowed her eyes. "Depends. Are you going to poison me?"
"If I wanted to poison you, I would have done it in the boardroom. Less cleaning," I said.
She stared at me.
I stared back.
Then, against my will, my lips twitched.
"Starving," she admitted. "But I didn't want to call anyone. Felt weird. 'Hi, I'm Ishani, can I please have some food at midnight, thanks bye.'"
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"Kitchen mein pasta hai. Main garam kar deta hoon," I said. (There's pasta in the kitchen. I'll heat it up.)
She tilted her head. "You cook?" she asked.
"When I can't sleep," I said.
"And you can't sleep because...?" she asked.
I looked at her.
"Kyunki mere papa jail mein hain. Unhe wahan daalne waale ki beti mere ghar mein hai. Aur woh mere garden mein khadi hai, mujhse sawaal pooch rahi hai," I said. (Because my father is in jail. The daughter of the one who put him there is in my house. And she's standing in my garden, asking me questions.)
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Didn't apologize.
"Fair enough. But I'm still hungry. So if you're not going to heat that pasta, at least point me to the kitchen. I'll feed myself," she said.
"Yeh ladki mujhe pagal karegi," I muttered under my breath. (This girl will drive me crazy.)
I stood up. Walked past her. Didn't wait.
She followed anyway. Her anklets chiming with every step.
Ishani's POV
The kitchen was warm.
Not in temperature. In feeling.
Copper pots hung from the ceiling, their surfaces darkened with age. A long wooden table sat in the center, covered with a faded red cloth that looked like it had been there for decades. Clay jars lined the shelves, some chipped, some cracked, all of them loved. And in the corner, an old stove that looked like it had cooked thousands of meals.
This wasn't a show kitchen. This was a real kitchen. The kind where people actually cook.
Advait walked to the fridge without looking at me. Pulled out a container of pasta. Heated it in the microwave and plated it like he had done this a thousand times.
He placed the plate on the cooktop. Pushed it toward me.
"Sit," he said.
I sat on the stool across from him.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me.
"You're staring," I said.
"I'm observing," he said.
"Same thing," I said.
"Different intentions," he said.
I picked up the fork. Took a bite.
It was good.
Really good.
Which was annoying. Because I didn't want to admit that my contract husband could cook better than me.
"Who taught you?" I asked.
"My mother," he said.
"She taught you well," I said.
"She taught me to survive. Cooking was part of it," he said.
I put my fork down.
"Advait," I said.
"Hmm?" he said.
"Main tumhari dushman nahi hoon," I said. (I'm not your enemy.)
"Tumhare baap ne mera baap ko jail mein daala. Tum uski beti ho. Is hisaab se tum meri dushman ho," he said. (Your father put my father in jail. You're his daughter. By logic, you're my enemy.)
"Iss Hisaab se tumne meri family ko bachaya. Toh tum mere dost ho," I said. (By logic, you saved my family. So you're my friend.)
He stared at me.
"Friend?" he asked.
"Contract friend," I said. "Limited period. Terms and conditions apply."
His lips curved. Just slightly. Just barely.
"Tum weird ho, Ishani," he said. (You're weird, Ishani.)
"Tum bhi," I said. (You too.)
Advait's POV
She ate like she hadn't seen food in days.
I watched her. The way her eyes closed slightly when the taste hit her tongue. The way her bangles chimed when she reached for water. The way her hair kept falling across her face and she didn't bother pushing it back.
"Tum dekh kyun rahe ho?" I thought. (Why are you watching?)
"Kyunki tum chahti hai," the voice in my head answered. (Because you want it.)
I didn't argue.
"Pasta tasty hai," she said. (The pasta is tasty.)
"Thank you," I said.
"Needs more salt though," she said.
I stood up. Walked to the cabinet. Brought her the salt shaker.
"Here," I said.
"Thank you," she said.
Our fingers brushed.
Neither of us pulled away.
Her hand was warm. Small. Her fingers were thin, delicate, covered in rings. Her mehendi was dark,deep red, almost brown,and the patterns were intricate. Peacocks. Flowers. Vines.
Someone had spent hours on her hands.
Something twisted in my chest.
I didn't like it.
I pulled my hand back.
She didn't say anything.
She finished the pasta. Drank the water. Opened the fridge and took a chocolate from it.
I watched all of it.
"Full?" I asked.
"Full," she said.
"Good. Now go to sleep," I said.
"What about you?" she asked.
I looked at the window. The garden was dark now. The fountain had stopped.
"Mujhe Kaam hai," I said. (I have work.)
"It's 1 AM," she said.
"Work doesn't have a schedule," I said, mocking my voice.
I glared at her.
She grinned.
"Yeh ladki..." I thought. (This girl...)
She stood up. Picked up her heels from the floor.
"Good night, Advait," she said.
"Good night, Ishani," I said.
She walked to the door. Paused. Turned back.
"Advait," she said.
"Hmm?" I said.
"WiFi password. 'IshaniIsMyWife'? Really?" she asked.
I smirked. "Haan," I said. (Yes.)
"Kyun?" she asked. (Why?)
"Kyunki har baar jab tum woh password type karogi, tumhe yaad aayega ki tum meri ho. Chahe paper pe hi kyun na ho," I said. (Because every time you type that password, you'll remember that you're mine. Even if it's just on paper.)
She stared at me.
I stared back.
"Tum psycho ho, Advait Singh-Raghuvanshi," she said. (You're psycho, Advait Singh-Raghuvanshi.)
"Tum bhi," I said. (You too.)
"Main psycho nahi hoon. Main helpless hoon. Difference hota hai," she said. (I'm not psycho. I'm helpless. There's a difference.)
"Helpless?" I asked. "Tum? Woh ladki jo mere boardroom mein table pe chadh ke baith gayi?" (You? The girl who climbed onto my boardroom table and sat down?)
She shrugged. "Desperate times."
"Desperate measures," I finished.
She smiled.
Not a fake smile. Not a polite smile. A real one. Small. Tired. But real.
And something in my chest cracked.
Just a little.
Just enough.
"Tu jaanta hai kyun tu uske saath aisa behave kar raha hai," I told myself. (You know why you're behaving like this with her.)
"Haan, main jaanta hoon," I admitted. (Yes, I know.)
But I wasn't ready to say it out loud.
Not yet.
Ishani's POV
I climbed into bed at 1:15 AM.
The sheets were soft, softer than mine at home. The pillow smelled like lavender,not overpowering, just enough to make me close my eyes and breathe deep. The room was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the window, painting silver patterns on the floor.
I looked at the laptop on the bedside table. Still open. Still glowing.
"IshaniIsMyWife," I whispered, reading the sticky note again. "Yeh aadmi mera dimaag kha raha hai." (This man is eating my brain.) I said to myself
"Par tu usse kyun allow kar rahi hai?" I asked myself. (But why are you allowing him?)
"Kyunki... main nahi jaanti," I answered. (Because... I don't know.)
My phone buzzed.
Rhea: So? Did you meet him?
Ishani: Haan. (Yes.)
Rhea: And?
Ishani: He made me pasta.
Rhea: WHAT.
Ishani: He said he couldn't sleep.
Rhea: OH SHIT. OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT.
Rhea: BHAI, TU LOVE TRAP MEIN PHAS RAHI HAI. (SISTER, YOU'RE FALLING INTO A LOVE TRAP.)
Ishani: Rhea. It's a contract marriage. He hates me. My father put his father in jail.
Rhea: PASTA KE SAATH NAFRAT? NAHI BHAI. PASTA KE SAATH PYAAR HOTA HAI. (HATE WITH PASTA? NO BRO. LOVE HAPPENS WITH PASTA.)
Ishani: You're insane.
Rhea: TU PAGAL HAI JO USKE GHAR CHALI GAYI. BUT MAIN KAL AA RAHI HOON. APNE PATI SE BOL DE. (YOU'RE CRAZY FOR GOING TO HIS HOUSE. BUT I'M COMING TOMORROW. TELL YOUR HUSBAND.)
Ishani: He's not my "pati." (He's not my "husband.")
Rhea: TU USKE GHAR MEIN REH RAHI HAI. USNE TERA WIFI PASSWORD APNA NAAM RAKH DIYA. USNE TERE LIYE PASTA BANAYA. USNE TERI FAMILY BACHAAYI. WO TERA PATI HAI. (YOU'RE LIVING IN HIS HOUSE. HE SET YOUR WIFI PASSWORD TO HIS NAME. HE MADE PASTA FOR YOU. HE SAVED YOUR FAMILY. HE'S YOUR HUSBAND.)
I stared at the screen.
She wasn't wrong.
But she wasn't right either.
"Tu kya kar rahi hai, Ishani?" I whispered to myself. (What are you doing, Ishani?)
I didn't have an answer.
I put the phone down. Closed my eyes.
And for the first time that night, I smiled.
A real smile.
"Kal dekhte hain, Advait Singh-Raghuvanshi. Tum kitne strong ho," I whispered. (Tomorrow we'll see, Advait Singh-Raghuvanshi. How strong you really are.)
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