The door loomed before him, a monument of dark wood and iron, and Smithen ran toward it as if his entire existence depended on crossing its threshold. His bare feet slapped against the cold marble, each step a frantic heartbeat, his breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. Hope—anxious, fragile, barely held together—pounded through his veins, a wild drumbeat that drowned out the cavernous silence of the palace around him. He reached the door, his fingers brushing the ornate handle, already imagining the tall, imposing silhouette that would fill the frame, the cold eyes that might, just might, hold a flicker of acknowledgment.
The door swung open. But it was not Viran.
A watchman stood there, a middle-aged man with a face weathered by years of silent service, his uniform neat but clinging damply to his shoulders. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, the motion slow, almost apologetic. In his right hand, he held an umbrella, its fabric still glistening with the memory of a recent rain, and he opened the door with a measured, deliberate calm that felt like the slow turning of a blade. He glanced at Smithen—the young man still catching his breath, chest heaving, eyes wide and glistening with the residue of anticipation—but offered no reaction. The watchman already knew. He had seen this look before, on other faces in other grand hallways, the particular devastation of waiting for someone who would not come.
"Sir," the watchman began, his voice steady yet carrying an undercurrent of something that felt dangerously close to pity, "I received a call earlier. Viran Sir will not be coming today. He told me to inform you."
Smithen's smile—faint but genuine, the last fragile bloom of hope he had nurtured through hours of solitary waiting—faltered immediately. It didn't vanish all at once; it crumbled, shrinking by twenty, thirty percent, the corners of his mouth trembling as they fought to hold their position and lost. He wasn't seeing the person he had been waiting for, the man who had occupied his thoughts for two years and now, impossibly, occupied the space of husband. Instead, it was just the watchman, a messenger delivering news that landed in his gut like a stone dropped into still, deep water. "Oh," Smithen murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a single syllable that carried the weight of an entire deflating universe. His eyes instinctively, desperately, darted to his phone. The screen glowed back at him, empty and indifferent—no missed call, no unread message, not even the cold courtesy of a notification from his personal assistant. A knot of confusion and unease tightened in his chest, coiling around his ribs like a slow, constricting serpent.
The watchman, sensing the shift in the air, the way Smithen's shoulders had curled inward almost imperceptibly, added in a softer, more careful tone, "Sir has gone abroad, I believe. Maybe an important meeting. To make sure you are safe, I was sent here." He paused, searching Smithen's face for a reaction that didn't come. "Perhaps he was too busy to send a message himself." The words hung in the air, an offering of comfort so thin it was almost transparent. Smithen nodded slowly, the motion mechanical and hollow, his eyes still narrowed at his phone's blank screen as if he could will a message into existence through sheer longing. Without another word, he turned away, his movements heavy and slow, a marionette whose strings had been cut. "Okay," he said quietly, the word a surrender. "I'll go and sleep." And he left, each step a quiet retreat from hope.
The watchman watched him go, the young man's silhouette growing smaller against the vastness of the hall, and hoped, with the helpless sincerity of someone who had delivered too many bad messages, that his explanation had eased Smithen's worry, even just a little.
But the night was far from over. Cruelty, it seemed, was not finished with Smithen's heart.
At around 3 a.m., when the world outside was at its darkest and most silent, when even the grand palace seemed to hold its breath, Smithen's phone erupted with a notification that would shatter what remained of his fragile peace. The headline blazed across his screen, bold and merciless, the words searing themselves into his retinas: "Viran Sir is married to Akanya Shisha—billionaire heiress of a top client linked to Viran's company, where Viran himself is a major stakeholder." This was no minor rumor whispered in the back corridors of gossip sites; this was a full-throated declaration, a scandal dressed in the finest fonts and the most damning photographs. It was the first in what would become a series, but to Smithen, in that moment, it was the only one that mattered—a devastating, singular revelation that cracked his world cleanly in two.
Smithen, the most devoted anonymous online follower of Viran, the man who had sent gifts and emails and silent prayers into the void, and now—shockingly, inexplicably—his legal husband, couldn't tear his eyes away from the article. His thumb moved on its own, scrolling with a morbid, compulsive rhythm. He read every word carefully, from the audacious headline to the last cruel period, his heart growing heavier with each sentence, each implication. Sixteen photographs accompanied the story, each one a perfectly aimed dagger to his soul. Viran and Akanya dining under warm, amber restaurant lights, their faces bright with genuine, unguarded laughter—the kind of smile Viran had never, not once, offered Smithen. Images of their intimate conversation, heads bent close, the space between them charged with a familiarity that spoke of long nights and shared secrets. And then, the final photograph: the two of them entering a private room together, Akanya's hand resting on Viran's arm, their closeness undeniable, their connection a living, breathing thing that Smithen had only ever imagined.
His spirit shattered. Not cracked, not bent—shattered, into pieces so small they could never be reassembled into the same shape. He had once been only a distant admirer, and even then, the sight of Viran with someone else would have stung. But now, legally bound, wearing a ring that suddenly felt like a shackle, the betrayal was an ocean and he was drowning in it. Tears welled up instantly, hot and unbidden, spilling down his cheeks before he could even think to stop them. His phone slipped from his fingers, the screen going dark as he turned it off with a trembling, final motion. He sank onto his bed, not lying down so much as collapsing, his body folding into the mattress like a man broken beyond repair.
Sleep, that old, elusive enemy, refused to come. His exhaustion was a physical weight pressing down on his limbs, but his eyes burned with a moisture that wouldn't stop gathering, and he refused to close them. Instead, he lay there motionless, a statue carved from grief, as if half-dead, trapped in a terrible limbo between the hope he had nurtured for two years and the despair that now threatened to consume him entirely. The ceiling above him was vast and white and utterly indifferent.
Days passed in a colorless blur. College demanded his presence, and he gave it—his body showed up to lectures, his hands submitted reports, his voice participated in group projects with a hollow, automatic cheerfulness. Outings with friends became a performance, a mask he wore so tightly it sometimes fooled even himself. Through it all, Kiren, his closest friend, never once mentioned the scandal. He didn't need to; it was a specter that sat between them at every meal, an uninvited guest at every conversation. Instead, without judgment, without probing questions, Kiren simply advised one evening, his voice gentle but firm, "It's time to forget him and move on." Smithen had no desire to explain, no energy to defend the indefensible; the wound was too raw, still weeping fresh blood under the bandage of his silence. He hadn't seen Viran in nearly seven months, and sometimes, in the darkest hours, even his own mind began to doubt the reality of their marriage. Had it been a fever dream? A hallucination born of too many sleepless nights and too much longing?
No calls came from Viran's assistant, the same smooth voice that had once summoned him to the bridal house at 7 p.m. on their wedding day. No messages, no explanations, no acknowledgment that Smithen even existed. Only silence—vast, echoing, unbreakable silence. The scandal remained online, untouched and glaring, a permanent brand searing Viran and Akanya's secret marriage into public belief, an artifact for anyone to see, to judge, to believe. Anger simmered beneath Smithen's skin, a slow, constant burn that mingled with the discomfort and confusion twisting in his gut. The wedding ring on his finger—the same one Viran had placed there with such cold, mechanical efficiency—felt like a frozen weight, a circle of ice that mocked every romantic dream he had ever dared to dream. Yet he could neither confront Viran nor voice his frustration to anyone but the silence of his empty room. To scold, to demand answers, to rage—these were luxuries he simply could not afford. He was a husband in name only, a title without substance, a ring without a hand to hold.
Then, unexpectedly, shatteringly, his phone rang.
The same number. The one that had called on their wedding day, the one that had been silent for seven agonizing months. It flashed on his screen, and Smithen's heart stopped, then restarted at a sprint. Without hesitation, with the desperate reflex of a man starving for a crumb, he answered on the second ring. "Sir," came the calm, measured voice of Viran's personal PA, as if seven months of silence were nothing more than a brief pause in a conversation, "Viran Sir would like to meet you today. Can you come to the bridal house at 5 p.m.? He has a flight at 6 p.m. the same day."
Smithen's face brightened for the first time in months, a fragile spark of hope flickering in the darkness that had consumed him. It was a small thing, that light, but it was there. "Okay," he said quietly, his voice steadier than he felt. He left college without telling his friends, slipping away like a ghost. In the group chat, he sent a quick, sterile message: Not feeling well. Heading home early. Kiren, ever watchful, messaged him privately moments later. Are you okay? Should I take you to the hospital? Smithen's thumb hovered over the screen. No, I think after some sleep I'll be fine, he replied, hiding the storm of emotions that raged behind his eyes, the hope and the terror and the desperate, clawing need.
At 5:10 p.m., Smithen arrived at the bridal house—the grand, echoing villa that had been his gilded cage for a single, lonely night seven months ago. The evening sun poured through the towering windows, bathing the grand hall in a warm, golden glow that seemed almost cruel in its beauty. And there, seated like an emperor surveying a conquered land, surrounded by the interplay of shadows and dying light, was Viran.
His face was a perfect sculpture, carved by an artist who favored sharp lines and unforgiving angles. The fading sunlight traced the strong, defined edge of his jaw, caught the impossible depth of his red eyes—captivating, yes, but profoundly cold, as if the color itself held no warmth, only resolute, unyielding intent. He was more beautiful than Smithen remembered, and infinitely more distant.
For the first time since their wedding, Viran spoke directly to Smithen. His voice was steady, his expression utterly unreadable, a mask carved from stone. There was no warmth in it, no remorse, not even the flicker of recognition that one human being might offer another after seven months of silence.
"Do you want a divorce?" The words were blunt, surgical, a blade delivered without preamble. "I will give you alimony. Six months have passed. If you want to proceed, I can grant you a divorce."
Smithen's heart, that fragile organ that had endured so much, began to race uncontrollably. The ache in his chest was sharp and immediate, a physical pain that stole his breath. His lungs forgot how to expand; his throat closed around a gasp. For a suspended moment, he forgot how to breathe, forgot everything except the cold, indifferent beauty of the man before him.
Viran's PA approached silently, wheeling in three large silver suitcases. The first was opened, revealing a bed of golden bars that shone even in the dim, amber light, their smooth surfaces reflecting the last rays of the sun like captured, imprisoned sunlight. The second contained stacks of documents—ownership papers for grand villas, luxury buildings, sprawling estates, a kingdom of ink and paper. The third was filled with crisp currency notes, their scent filling the air, the unmistakable perfume of fresh money, cold and sterile and absolute. The tangible price of a marriage that had lasted barely two hours together over seven long months.
Smithen remained silent, his eyes locked on Viran's. Those red eyes stared back, and in their depths, he found nothing. Not anger. Not disgust. Just an empty void, a cold, indifferent chasm that had no room for him, had never had room for him.
Finally, gathering the frayed threads of his strength, Smithen asked, his voice a fragile thing barely holding its shape, "May I know why you married me?"
Viran glanced briefly, dismissively, at his watch, the gesture a slap. "Did you not ask your mother before the marriage?" His tone was sharp, a door slamming shut, a conversation terminated before it could begin.
A soft, melancholy melody drifted through the empty hall from some unseen source, its haunting notes filling the vast space between them, a soundtrack to the quiet wreckage of a heart. Smithen gasped, a small, wounded sound, stunned by the glacial cold in Viran's words. He just said—no. He won't even give me that. And then, without another word, without a backward glance, Viran turned and walked out. The door closed behind him with a soft, final thud, and Smithen was left alone with the three heavy suitcases, the golden bars glinting in the dying light, the room suddenly too large, too empty, too silent.
The question hung in the air, unanswered, a ghost that would haunt him long after the sun finally set. Why had Viran married him, if the plan was always to end it so coldly? And now, faced with a divorce wrapped in gold, Smithen had to decide whether to sign away the only connection he had ever truly wanted—or fight for a man who had never once looked back.