You’re getting married in three days.”

The words hung in the air like a slap.

Anaya stared at her father from across the dining table, spoon halfway to her mouth, completely frozen. The late morning sun streamed through the glass windows of their Delhi home, but the warmth didn’t reach her.

“I’m sorry… What did you just say?” she asked, voice tight.

Her father didn’t look up from the newspaper. His tone was calm — too calm.

“I said, you’re getting married. In three days.”

Her spoon clattered against the ceramic bowl.

“To who?”

A pause.

Her mother shifted uncomfortably beside her, wringing the edge of her dupatta. That’s when Anaya knew — this wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t a surprise proposal. This was a deal.

“To Aarav Raichand,” her father said finally.

Silence. Thick and heavy.

Anaya blinked.

“The Aarav Raichand? The billionaire? The recluse? The one who doesn’t even attend his own press events?”

Her father nodded once, still not meeting her eyes.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she snapped, standing up from her chair. “You want me to marry someone I’ve never even spoken to? Why? Because he’s rich?”

“Because he’s our only way out,” her father growled, finally looking at her. “Our company is on the edge of collapse. Investors are pulling out. The Raichand Group offered to help us — but only if you agree to the marriage.”

“Help us?” she scoffed. “You mean buy us.”

Her mother stepped in quickly, her voice gentle. “Anaya beta, it’s not like that. You’ll have security. Comfort. You won’t have to struggle.”

Anaya turned to her, voice rising. “I’m not marrying for comfort, Ma. I’m not a pawn.”

“Maybe not,” her father said quietly. “But you're the only one who can save this family now.”

Later that night...

Anaya sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the plain white envelope in her hand — the “agreement.” The marriage would be legal, but temporary. A contract for two years. No personal expectations. No emotional entanglements.

In simpler terms: a business arrangement. She signs, and her father’s company survives.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She just signed.

Not because she wanted to.

But because it was the only way to protect the people she loved — even if it meant destroying her own freedom.

Three days later...

The wedding was held in the Raichand estate — a modern palace hidden behind tall gates and stricter NDAs.

There were no flowers. No music. No laughing relatives. Just a notary, two families, and an atmosphere so tense, it could crack stone.

Anaya stood in front of the mirror in the bridal room, dressed in a deep red lehenga that felt like armor more than silk. Her makeup was flawless, but her eyes held no spark.

A soft knock on the door.

“It’s time,” her mother whispered, peeking in. Her eyes looked puffy — she had cried enough for both of them.

Anaya took a deep breath, adjusted her veil, and walked down the empty hallway toward her future.

When she entered the ceremonial hall, everyone was already seated — including him.

Aarav Raichand.

Tall. Sharp. Immaculate in a black tailored suit. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t offer a greeting.

He just… watched.

She walked past rows of expressionless witnesses — lawyers, secretaries, and two people from the press who were sworn to secrecy.

As she stood beside him, her heart thundered in her chest. Not from excitement — from fear.

The priest began chanting quietly. Vows were read aloud, legally binding but emotionally hollow.

When it came time to exchange rings, Aarav slid the platinum band onto her finger with mechanical precision. His touch was ice cold.

“You may say your vows,” the priest said.

Anaya turned to look at him.

Aarav met her eyes for the first time — and said nothing for a long second.

Then he spoke.

“This is a contract. Nothing more. I expect you to remember that.”

Gasps echoed faintly from the few guests present.

Anaya’s throat went dry, but she forced herself to lift her chin.

“If it’s just a contract, then let’s get it over with,” she replied sharply.

And just like that, the signatures were made. The photos were taken.

That night...

Anaya sat on the edge of a king-sized bed in a luxury penthouse she now lived in — as a Raichand.

Aarav was in the next room, already on a call, discussing mergers and stock prices as if he hadn’t just married someone.

She looked down at the sparkling diamond ring on her finger.

Wife.

Legally, yes.

Emotionally? She was still just… alone.

But she made herself a promise that night.

If love wasn’t part of this marriage... then she wouldn’t expect it. But she would survive it. On her own terms.

What she didn’t know was that her new husband had secrets buried deeper than she could imagine.

And marrying him? Was just the beginning.

The Raichand penthouse was nothing like a home.

It loomed over the Delhi skyline like a silent fortress of glass and steel, its windows reflecting the evening lights of the city. Anaya stood at the entrance, her bridal veil still draped over her shoulders, clutching it as if it were the only familiar thing she had left.

Inside, the silence was suffocating. There were no flowers, no family chatter, no rituals to mark her first night as a bride. Only the echo of her own footsteps on the marble floors.

Aarav didn’t slow down, didn’t look at her. His long strides carried him through the wide hallway, his presence as cold as the air-conditioned walls around them. He stopped only when they reached a door at the far end.

“This is your room,” he said flatly, pushing it open.

Your room. Not ours.

Anaya stepped inside cautiously. The bedroom was enormous — larger than her entire college flat. A king-sized bed sat in the center, the sheets perfectly tucked. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the glittering city below. The closet doors stood open, revealing rows of designer lehengas, sarees, and gowns already arranged by size.

Everything was perfect. Immaculate. Soulless.

She turned sharply. “So that’s it? A contract, a room, and silence? Am I supposed to thank you for this arrangement?”

Aarav leaned against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable. “You don’t need to thank me. You just need to remember your role.”

Her chest tightened. “And what exactly is my role?”

His gaze was unflinching, sharp enough to cut. “Be the Raichand wife in public. Keep quiet in private. That’s all.”

Her fists curled at her sides. “And you? What’s your role in this farce?”

For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes — a shadow, a weight, a memory perhaps. Then it was gone, replaced by that same cold detachment.

“My role,” he said slowly, “is to protect what’s mine. Don’t test me, Anaya.”

The way he said her name — low, warning, almost dangerous — sent a shiver through her.

Before she could retort, his phone rang. He answered immediately, his tone clipped, professional, ruthless. Without another word, he left the room, the sound of his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Silence swallowed her again.

Anaya sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the sparkling city lights beyond the glass. This wasn’t marriage. This wasn’t love. This was a cage — only gilded, not iron.

She pressed her palms against her knees, steadying her breath. You chose this for them, she reminded herself. For Ma. For Papa. For the company. You’ll survive this.

But as her eyes drifted to the closet, something unusual caught her attention.

Behind the neat row of gowns and saris was a narrow line in the wall — a seam. Almost invisible.

A door.

Her heart skipped. Why would a bedroom have a hidden door?

Curiosity clawed at her. Slowly, cautiously, she reached for the handle and pushed.

The door creaked open an inch.

Her breath hitched.

On the other side was something that made her gasp aloud.

The closet door creaked softly, its sound swallowed by the silence of the penthouse.

Anaya’s hand trembled against the cold brass handle as the hidden door cracked open. A sliver of darkness stared back at her, thick and unsettling.

For a moment, she hesitated. Don’t. Her instincts screamed at her to close it, to step away, to pretend she hadn’t noticed. But curiosity pressed harder than fear. If this house was now her prison, she wanted to know its secrets.

She pushed the door wider.

A narrow passage revealed itself, dimly lit by a single bulb overhead. Dust lingered in the air, proof that this place wasn’t meant to be seen.

Her bare feet carried her inside before her mind could object.

The walls were stark, stripped of the penthouse’s luxurious sheen. No marble, no art — just concrete. It felt more like the service corridors of a hotel, hidden from guests, unseen by the world.

At the end of the passage, another door waited. This one wasn’t elegant. Heavy, metallic, almost industrial.

Anaya swallowed hard and reached for it.

But before she could turn the knob—

“Looking for something?”

She froze.

The deep voice echoed through the narrow passage, calm yet sharp, like the edge of a knife. Slowly, she turned.

Aarav stood behind her.

His broad frame filled the cramped hallway, his tailored suit untouched by the shadows. His expression, however, was carved from ice.

“A secret passage in my own house,” Anaya said, forcing her chin up, her voice laced with defiance. “Don’t you think your wife deserves to know what’s behind it?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. His eyes, dark and unreadable, studied her — not with affection, but with calculation.

“Wife?” His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t mistake a contract for a relationship.”

Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t back down. “Then consider me a tenant. Tenants usually know what’s behind their own doors.”

His gaze hardened. He stepped closer, each footfall deliberate, echoing in the confined space. When he stopped, only inches separated them.

Anaya’s breath caught, but she refused to step back.

“Curiosity,” Aarav murmured, his voice low, “is a dangerous thing, Anaya. Especially in this house.”

Her pulse thudded in her ears. “Then what are you hiding?”

Something flickered across his face — so quick she almost missed it. A flash of pain? Anger? Fear?

Then it was gone.

“You’re not ready to know,” he said simply, his hand reaching past her. With a swift motion, he pulled the hidden door shut. The click of the lock echoed like a verdict.

Anaya stared at him, fury bubbling in her chest. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” he interrupted, his tone final. “And I will. Don’t ever come here again.”

With that, he turned and walked back down the passage. His stride was calm, but she noticed the tightness in his shoulders, the stiffness in his movements.

Whatever was behind that door… it mattered.

And it terrified him enough to keep it hidden.

Back in her room, Anaya paced restlessly. Her mind replayed the look in his eyes — that fleeting crack in his armor.

What could Aarav Raichand, billionaire, recluse, and self-proclaimed husband-for-contract, possibly be hiding in his own penthouse?

She sank onto the bed, her hands gripping the sheets. Secrets. Layers of them. And I’m trapped right in the middle.

The night stretched long, sleepless. At some point, she heard him return, his voice muffled through the walls as he spoke into his phone. Words like shipment, deadline, and damage control floated in the silence. None of it sounded like corporate jargon. It sounded… dangerous.

She pressed her ear to the wall, straining to catch more, but the conversation ended abruptly.

Moments later, footsteps approached. She scrambled back onto the bed, pulling the blanket around her as the door to her room opened.

Aarav stood there, shadowed in the dim light.

“You should be asleep,” he said.

She met his gaze, her voice sharper than she intended. “Hard to sleep in a stranger’s house.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he set a glass of water on the bedside table and turned to leave.

“Aarav,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He paused.

“Why me?” Her voice cracked despite her efforts. “Of all the women you could have bought into this… arrangement, why me?”

For the first time, his shoulders stiffened as if she’d touched a wound. Slowly, he turned back, his eyes unreadable.

“You were convenient,” he said. His tone was flat, his expression detached.

But Anaya’s gut told her he was lying.

The days that followed blurred into routine. She played the role of Mrs. Raichand in public — silent, graceful, untouchable. Photographs of their wedding leaked into the media, headlines calling her the mysterious bride of India’s most elusive billionaire.

But behind closed doors, the distance remained. Aarav was a ghost in his own house, moving from calls to meetings, vanishing for hours, sometimes days.

Every time she asked where he was going, he gave the same cold response: “Not your concern.”

But the hidden door haunted her.

One evening, when she was alone again, Anaya stood before it, fingertips brushing the seam. Her reflection in the glossy wood stared back — a bride, a pawn, a prisoner.

She whispered to herself, “Whatever you’re hiding, Aarav… I’ll find it.”

Across the hall, unseen, Aarav watched her through the half-open study door. His eyes were shadowed, unreadable.

He raised a glass of whiskey to his lips, his jaw tense.

“She’s curious,” he murmured into the darkness.

A man’s voice crackled through the phone on his desk. “Then keep her out of it. If she learns what’s behind that door, it won’t just ruin your contract… it’ll ruin her life.”

Aarav’s grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles whitened.

His gaze drifted back to the hidden passage, where Anaya lingered dangerously close.

And for the first time in years, the man who never feared anything felt something he couldn’t control.

Fear.

Not for himself.

For her.

💍 To be continued…