Behind the Door

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…

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