The black Maybach glided through the rain-slicked streets like a silent predator, cutting across the chaos of Mumbai's midnight traffic. Anaya sat stiffly in the back seat, still in her damp clothes, the garlands limp in her lap.
Beside her, Aarav Raichand stared out the window, silent, distant.
She couldn't believe it had been barely two hours since she'd said yes. A lifetime decision compressed into a heartbeat.
"You'll stay in the east wing," he said suddenly, his voice crisp and clinical. "My staff has been instructed."
Anaya turned slightly toward him. "East wing?"
"My house has rules," he continued without looking at her. "You'll follow them. No media attention. No interviews. No entering the west wing. Ever."
"What's in the west wing?" she asked softly.
He finally looked at her, his gaze like winter. "That's Rule Number One. Don't ask questions."
The rest of the ride passed in silence, but the tension sat heavy between them, like a third passenger.
---
The car finally pulled into a vast circular driveway lit with soft golden lights. Anaya's breath caught as she looked up.
This isn't a house. It's a palace.
The Raichand Estate stood like something out of a dream—white marble, tall glass windows, balconies covered in vines, and silent fountains glistening under the night sky. She'd only ever seen places like this in magazines or movies.
The car door opened, and a tall butler bowed slightly. "Welcome, Mrs. Raichand."
Anaya flinched. Mrs. Raichand. That name didn't belong to her. Not really.
She stepped out, shoes sinking slightly into the polished stone path, and followed Aarav up the massive steps.
The moment they entered, a row of staff lined up and bowed. Maids, chefs, housekeepers. No one looked at her directly, but their eyes flickered with curiosity.
A dignified woman in a silk sari stepped forward. "I'm Madhuri, the housekeeper. I'll escort your wife to the guest wing, sir."
"She's not a guest," Aarav said sharply. "She lives here now. But the boundaries remain."
He turned to Anaya, and for the briefest moment, she thought he might say something—anything—human.
But all he said was: "You're not my wife in this house. You're my contract. Remember that."
Then he walked away.
---
Madhuri led her through grand hallways filled with chandeliers, oil paintings, and silence so thick it echoed. Anaya's heart pounded. This place felt less like a home and more like a museum.
"You may call me if you need anything," Madhuri said, pushing open a door.
Anaya stepped inside—and gasped.
The room was twice the size of her family's entire flat. A four-poster bed stood in the center, draped in sheer white fabric. A fireplace glowed softly. The balcony overlooked the city skyline.
There was even a walk-in closet already filled with designer clothes.
"All your measurements were prepared ahead," Madhuri said. "You'll find jewelry, phones, and account cards in the drawer."
Anaya turned slowly. "This is… too much."
Madhuri smiled faintly. "Nothing here is free, dear. Everything comes with a price."
With that cryptic note, the housekeeper left.
---
Alone at last, Anaya sat on the edge of the bed, her hands still shaking.
What had she done?
She opened the drawer. Inside were two phones—one for her, one strictly for Aarav. Next to them, a sleek black folder. She opened it.
Contract Terms:
1. Marriage is valid for exactly 12 months.
2. No physical intimacy unless mutually agreed.
3. No public disclosure of arrangement.
4. Wife to maintain personal discretion at all times.
5. Violation of clause = immediate termination with no compensation.
At the bottom was a signature: Aarav Raichand.
And hers, scribbled just hours ago.
Anaya closed the folder and looked at herself in the mirror.
Red sindoor. Designer room. A mangalsutra hanging heavily from her neck.
But her heart?
Still in the little flower shop where dreams barely bloomed.
---
A knock at the door startled her.
She opened it to find a servant holding a tray. "Mr. Raichand asked me to bring you this."
On the tray sat a sealed envelope.
She took it with trembling fingers and opened it.
Inside was a single note, handwritten in cold, clean letters:
> Stay out of my way, and this year will pass smoothly. Break the rules, and you'll regret entering this house.
— Aarav Raichand
---
Anaya stared at the letter for a long time. Then she folded it neatly, placed it in the drawer, and whispered to the night,
"I didn't come here to love you, Mr. Raichand. I came to survive you."
And with that, she turned off the light.
Outside her window, the city sparkled with lights.
But inside the mansion, darkness had only just begun.