1. The Marriage of Convenience

“Some people marry for love. Some for survival. And sometimes, survival pretends to be love for far too long.”

The world saw them as perfect.

Kaira Khurana—elegant, poised, brilliant. A professor of English literature at one of Mumbai’s most prestigious universities, adored by her students and envied by her colleagues. And beside her, always impeccably dressed and quietly commanding, stood Aviraaj Khurana—business magnate, philanthropist, husband.

To the outside world, theirs was a fairy tale—the quiet kind, the sophisticated kind. A couple carved from the pages of a glossy magazine. But behind the soft smiles and the red carpet appearances was a truth so raw that even Kaira had stopped trying to name it.

Because this marriage… wasn’t about love.

It had been a choice made in desperation, a decision born from grief, pride, and a shattered home. After her mother’s death, Kaira’s world fell into a silence she couldn't escape. Her father, once her hero, had become a stranger overnight—cold, bitter, accusing. They had grown distant in a way that words could no longer bridge.

She still remembered the night she left her childhood home—her father’s cruel words echoing behind her, her hands shaking as she dialed Aviraaj’s number. She hadn’t planned to ask him. But the moment the call connected, the words had stumbled out in a whisper:

“Marry me.”

He didn’t hesitate. That was Aviraaj.

They had known each other through family circles. He had always looked at her with quiet admiration, always polite, always respectful. He had never tried to charm her, never crossed boundaries. But he had always seen her.

When she asked, he simply said, “If that’s what you want, Kaira.”

The wedding was elegant. A few whispered questions floated among guests—Why so sudden? Was it love?—but they were silenced by the grandeur of the event, the way Aviraaj never let go of her hand, the way Kaira smiled and played the part.

And over the years, it worked.

He never demanded affection. He gave her space to breathe. He brought her tea when she worked late on lectures, warmed her hands in his when hers went cold. He touched her gently, if at all. When she couldn’t sleep, he lay beside her and let her cry silently into the pillow without asking questions.

It was comfort.

It was safety.

But it wasn’t passion.

There were nights—endless nights—when Kaira lay awake, staring at the high ceiling of their bedroom, wondering what it would feel like to burn with someone. To lose herself in the arms of someone who needed her—not because she was broken, not because she was escaping, but because he couldn't help it.

She never said it aloud. That would be betrayal.

And yet, the thought lingered. Like the bitter taste of wine left too long in the mouth.

It was on one such night that she stood alone in the balcony of their penthouse, the city glittering beneath her. The wind tugged at the silk of her robe, and her hair danced like shadows behind her. Aviraaj was away on a business trip to Singapore, his absence like a warm silence in the home they shared.

She loved him. In her own way.

But did she love him enough to never wonder?

Kaira closed her eyes and sighed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the balcony. Her wedding ring caught the moonlight. A sudden chill ran down her spine.

The next day would change everything.

The next evening, her department hosted a celebration for her—an academic grant she had worked years to win had finally been approved. It was supposed to be a professional, modest affair. But her colleagues insisted on drinks at a plush South Mumbai lounge.

She wore a black dress—not revealing, but the kind that hugged in the right places, whispering of elegance rather than shouting. Her hair was in soft waves down her back, and her makeup subtle, eyes lined in charcoal that made them look even more haunted than usual.

The lounge was dimly lit, golden lights casting long shadows on wine glasses and polished mahogany. Music thrummed gently, unobtrusively—jazz, slow and smooth.

Kaira barely touched her drink at first. But then came a toast. Then another. And then… she let go.

Laughter came easier than it had in weeks. The tightness in her chest loosened. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the freedom of not pretending for one night.

And then she saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sitting alone at the bar, sipping whiskey like it was meant to be worshipped. Dark eyes smoldered beneath thick lashes, his lips curled in a half-smile that spoke of mischief and sin. He looked… younger. But not too young. Old enough to know danger. Young enough to chase it.

Their eyes met.

And something clicked.

It wasn’t innocent. It wasn’t accidental. It was the kind of eye contact that asked questions without words, that threatened to turn breath into fire.

She looked away.

He didn’t.

Moments later, he was beside her.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” he said, voice low, masculine, smooth like silk soaked in smoke.

Kaira arched a brow. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or a pickup line?”

He smirked. “Both, I hope.”

She laughed, surprising herself.

They talked. About poetry. Politics. Her work. His interest in literature. He was intelligent—sharp and articulate—but it was the way he listened that unnerved her. Like he could read between her words. Like he knew she was crumbling on the inside.

He didn’t ask if she was married.

She didn’t offer.

Another drink.

A whisper too close to her ear.

A brush of his fingers along her wrist.

It was insanity.

It was temptation.

And when he leaned in and said, “Let’s get out of here,” she didn’t stop herself.

Not when he led her into the waiting cab.

Not when his hand rested just above her knee.

Not when they burst through the door of a hotel room like two sparks desperate to become a blaze.

They didn’t speak.

His mouth found hers the moment the door shut, urgent and hot. Her back slammed against the wall, and her dress was bunched at her thighs before she could think. His fingers slid along the bare skin of her waist, and Kaira’s gasp was swallowed by his kiss.

She was drowning—and for once, she didn’t want to swim.

His shirt came off. Her dress fell to the floor. Every inch of his body was honed like marble, but his touch was fire—everywhere at once, possessive and reverent. Her bra snapped away with a practiced flick, and he stared at her like a starving man.

“You’re perfect,” he said, voice ragged.

She didn’t feel perfect.

She felt alive.

They moved to the bed, tangled and breathless. When he entered her, she cried out—a sound she hadn’t made in years. He moved slowly at first, watching her, learning her. Then faster, deeper, until she was clawing at the sheets, her body unraveling beneath him.

It wasn’t just sex.

It was something feral. Something that shattered the cage she had built around herself.

And in the moments after, when her head lay against his chest, she wanted to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it did.

And she knew it would cost her everything.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***