The clock blinked 2:08 a.m.
The silence in the penthouse was different at this hour—less like peace and more like a held breath. Aaryan's side of the bed was untouched again. The sheets still bore the sharp creases of being tucked earlier, unwrinkled, cold. Just like always.
He had left earlier that evening for an emergency surgery at Rathore Medical. He hadn't said when he'd be back. He rarely did.
I turned on my side, pressing my cheek into the pillow, and stared at the shimmering skyline outside our glass windows. The city sparkled like it had secrets to keep. So did this room. So did I.
Three months of marriage, and I still didn't know whether we were truly husband and wife, or just silent companions in a contract neither of us fully chose.
Except—I had chosen. Out of exhaustion. Out of resignation. Out of that aching hollowness from living in my mother's house where my presence felt ornamental, not essential. Where my voice went unheard, and Aleena's always resonated.
But had Aaryan chosen?
I had asked myself this question far too many times.
And each time, I remembered that day—the day the world tilted just enough to steal the breath from my chest.
Three Months Ago
She hadn't expected it.
Not the dinner table proposal. Not the way her mother had placed her fork down gently and said, "It's been decided. You'll be marrying Dr. Aaryan Rathore next month."
Not the way Aleena, sitting across from her in a satin blue blouse, had smiled—a little too sharply.
Not the way her stomach had twisted.
"But why me?" Inaaya had whispered.
Shabana had looked at her like she was dense. "Because he asked for you."
"But..." she'd dared to glance at Aleena.
Once, not long ago, Aleena and Aaryan had been rumored to be together. Prom photos. Whispered laughter. Eyes that lingered too long. The sort of perfect symmetry people noticed.
And Aleena had everything. Beauty. Charisma. Ambition that could level cities.
Her sister had only lifted her wine glass that night and said, "He's a good match, Inaaya. Don't ruin it."
That had haunted her.
Not the wedding—a quiet, efficient affair held in a private garden, her mother beaming like a queen—but the tone Aleena used.
Controlled. Careful.
Like something in her had already been lost.
Aaryan hadn't said much during the ceremony.
He hadn't touched her hand unless prompted.
His vows were brief, memorized, formal.
She remembered shivering that night when The wedding had happened within the week. Small. Quick. Clean. The kind of function where silence echoed louder than music. He hadn't looked at me much. I had watched him instead—Aaryan Rathore, with eyes like storms you could never outrun.
And the night after? Our first night?
He hadn't touched me.
He had taken a call in his study, returned hours later, and when he did, he'd found me curled at the edge of the bed, half-asleep. He had pulled a blanket from the armchair and slept on the sofa that night.
And the nights after.
For the first two months, he had been a ghost—returning only after I had drifted into dreams laced with old grief and unspoken questions, and leaving before I ever woke. The sheets were always cold on his side. Like he had learned to vanish before I could reach out.
In those weeks, I hadn't tried to stop him.
I told myself it was enough that I had left the loneliness of my mother's house behind. That this new life, however hollow, was quieter. But every now and then, I'd catch a flicker of him in the hallway, or hear him on a call—his voice low, composed, but carved from something distant. And something inside me would ache with a feeling I didn't know how to name.
I admired him. I respected him. He was everything a doctor should be. And yet—I didn't know if I loved him.
How could I, when I barely knew what love was supposed to feel like?
⸻
Tonight, that question was louder than usual.
Unable to lie still any longer, I pushed back the duvet and rose, the tiles cool against my bare feet. My hands itched to do something, anything. Revise. Read. Work.
I knew he kept patient files and surgical notes in his office down the hall. Maybe reviewing a few cases would ease the restlessness clawing at my chest. Maybe it would help me feel more like myself again—before this marriage, before all of this.
The penthouse was bathed in low moonlight. I walked quietly, my fingers trailing the wall as I reached his study and nudged the door open.
He hadn't locked it.
Mahogany shelves stretched to the ceiling, overflowing with medical journals, rare textbooks, neatly arranged files. His desk was immaculate—of course it was—and a small amber lamp lit the room with soft focus.
I sat in his chair and pulled open a drawer, fingertips brushing folders until I found something familiar. Cardiology case reports. I scanned through a few, the quiet rhythm of reading slowly lulling my frayed nerves.
Until I saw the name.
Dr. Saif Mirza.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
No. No, that couldn't be right.
I pulled the file closer. It wasn't just his medical records. It was something else entirely. Notes in a different handwriting. A hospital review, written in heavy, clinical detail.
Date: Five months before his death.
I flipped through it, fingers trembling.
There was a memo on hospital letterhead.
"Case flagged for internal review: irregularities in diagnosis timeline. Administered medication batch logged incorrectly."
My father's final few months had always seemed like a blur—a man once so strong, so principled, suddenly fading in front of us. Ammi said it had been exhaustion. That he overworked himself. That it was age catching up with him.
But this file—this file—suggested more.
My throat dried. I flipped another page.
There was a signature at the bottom.
Dr. Vikram Rathore.
Aaryan's father.
My breath caught.
What was this?
Why had Aaryan kept it?
And why hadn't I seen this before?
I didn't hear the footsteps at first—not until they stopped right outside the study door.
The door creaked.
I turned sharply, guilt and confusion surging as one.
Aaryan stood in the doorway, coat still on, face unreadable in the lamplight. His eyes dropped to the folder in my hand.
For the first time in months, we locked eyes, and he didn't look away.
Neither did I.