The Raichand mansion, with its endless corridors and silent grandeur, felt more like a fortress than a home. Anaya wandered aimlessly through the east wing, her steps echoing against the polished marble floors. The walls were lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors, their eyes seeming to follow her with silent judgment. She felt like an intruder in a place where every inch was scripted, every gesture calculated.
Her mind replayed the chilling conversation she had overheard that morning at breakfast—the whispered plans of her in-laws to oust her, the cold contempt in their voices, the way they saw her as nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.
One year. That's all she had.
That phrase echoed relentlessly inside her head. One year to survive this marriage, one year to protect herself and her family, one year to figure out what was really happening behind the silk curtains and marble pillars.
Despite Aarav's warning, her curiosity was unbearable. There was one part of the house she hadn't yet dared to explore—the west wing. She'd noticed the heavy door earlier that day when she'd been wandering the hallways. It stood apart from the rest: grander, darker, and unmistakably forbidding.
Now, as the sun began to dip below the city skyline, casting long shadows through the mansion's tall windows, she found herself standing before that very door again.
The sign on the door was blunt: PRIVATE — NO ENTRY.
Anaya's hand hovered inches from the polished mahogany surface. Her fingers trembled with a mixture of fear and determination. What secrets lay behind this door? Why had Aarav, a man so controlled and reserved, been so adamant about keeping it locked? And why did her heart beat faster just being this close?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the softest sound—a shuffle of footsteps behind her.
She whirled around.
Aarav Raichand stood in the dim light, his silhouette tall and commanding. His eyes, usually unreadable, held a flicker of something darker—warning? Regret?
"You're not supposed to be here," he said quietly.
Anaya didn't step back. "Neither was I supposed to marry you, but here I am."
His gaze flicked to the door behind her. "Some doors are locked for a reason."
"I need to know," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I can't just live in a cage with no answers."
Aarav took a slow breath, the weight of unspoken stories pressing down on his shoulders. "That wing… contains things I buried long ago. Things I don't want anyone to see. Not the world. Not you."
Anaya's heart softened. For the first time, she saw a crack in his armor—not the cold billionaire she'd feared, but a man haunted by shadows.
"Then let me help," she whispered. "You don't have to carry this alone."
He looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes. Then, abruptly, his expression hardened again.
"I can't let anyone in. Not even you."
Disappointment crashed over her, but she nodded. "I'm not leaving. Not now. Not after everything."
Aarav's gaze lingered on her, a silent battle playing out behind those eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver key.
"This key won't open that door," he said. "But there are other doors, other truths you'll have to face."
Before she could ask more, he turned sharply and walked away, his footsteps fading into the mansion's vastness.
Anaya was left alone with her pounding heart and the oppressive silence.
---
The next morning dawned gray and heavy with humidity. Anaya woke early, the sunlight filtering through her window doing little to brighten the weight on her chest. The contract, the cold glances at breakfast, the locked door—all felt like a trap tightening around her.
Determined not to lose herself, she slipped into the study—a room she'd only briefly visited before. It was lined with dark bookshelves, filled with leather-bound volumes, corporate documents, and family albums. The scent of old paper and polished wood filled the air.
As she scanned the shelves, a particular book caught her eye. It wasn't a thick ledger or a legal tome but a simple photo album. Her curiosity piqued, she pulled it down and flipped it open.
The first photograph stopped her breath.
It was Aarav—but younger, softer, different.
In the photo, Aarav stood smiling beside a woman Anaya didn't recognize. Her eyes sparkled with warmth, and her smile was genuine, radiant. The caption read:
"Aarav & Meera – Summer 2012"
Anaya's fingers trembled. Who was Meera? Why had she never heard this name before?
She turned the pages, discovering more pictures: Aarav and Meera laughing at a beach, sharing an umbrella in the rain, holding hands in the sunlight.
And then, the last photo—a faded image of Aarav alone, staring out of a rain-streaked window, his eyes distant and hollow.
Anaya closed the album slowly, a thousand questions rushing through her mind.
Before she could dwell further, footsteps approached, and the door creaked open.
It was Aarav.
His eyes narrowed when he saw the album in her hands.
"That's not for you," he said sharply, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
Anaya met his gaze. "Who is she?"
Aarav's face tightened, shadows crossing his features.
"Someone I lost," he said quietly. "Someone who changed everything."
Silence hung between them.
For a moment, the cold walls of the mansion seemed to soften, just slightly.
Anaya took a step forward. "I'm here, Aarav. Not just as a contract, but as someone who wants to understand."
He looked away, then back again, vulnerability flashing in his eyes.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "I'll tell you everything."
And with that, he left the room, leaving Anaya with the weight of his secret and the rising hope that beneath his icy exterior lay a man waiting to be known.
---
That night, as Anaya lay awake in the quiet east wing, the locked door in the west wing no longer seemed just a barrier of wood and metal.
It was a symbol.
A symbol of the past locked away, the pain buried deep, and the fragile hope of a future that might still be written—together.