CHAPTER ONE

ANYA

I was pacing back and forth, a prisoner in the four luxurious, nude-coloured walls. The room was dimly lit, every object meticulously arranged, yet it felt utterly foreign. The heavy, over-bright lehenga I wore was a cruel, brilliant contrast to the soft glow of the scented candles, whose cloying perfume mingled with the crushed sweetness of rose petals scattered on the bed and floor. Why? Because I am married, and this is my wedding night. This immaculate room belonged to my husband, a man whose name I barely recalled.

Want the lowdown on my marriage? I'll happily share it with you.

This was a forced alliance, a true shotgun wedding of convenience. My father, facing a great loss from his new business venture, was desperate. His old friend—my now husband's father—offered to help, but at a tremendous cost: my hand in marriage. The entire twisted idea for this union, this coerced contract, was my step-mother's doing. I never liked her but now I truly hate her.

My mother abandoned me at five years old for an affair with my father's employee. Following the divorce, my father's family forced him into a new marriage—a mandate to secure a supportive mother for me. That 'mother' was Lara Malhotra, my stepmother. She was brought in to fill the void and offer the love my biological mother refused to give, yet her actions were the opposite of nurturing. The final blow? A baby sister, an arrival I never desired, appeared barely a year after Lara did.  It seems my fate simply doesn't include a mother's love.

Click!

There he was: the man I married, a striking figure in his white kurta set. The soft click as he closed the door was the only sound before his gaze snapped right to mine, and my body instantly locked up. My mind went blank—I thought, This is the moment. His deliberate, approaching steps set my nerves jangling while heightening every sense.

Am I supposed to strip now?

Was my sole and predetermined role in this arrangement truly to strip away my own identity, to slavishly abide by his every arbitrary rule and silently endure the charade of being a perfect, subservient wife, a role that apparently extended without limit to becoming his unpaid domestic servant—forced to cook his meals, meticulously clean his house, and tend to the endless needs of his family—leaving me to confront the appalling realisation: Am I nothing more than a maid?

Considering the intensity of this moment, I'll have to ask him plainly: is what you're suggesting that we consummate this marriage? I need him to understand my position clearly: I absolutely do not want that to happen this way.

His next move was a complete reversal of what I'd anticipated; I was shocked.

"Anya, you can take the bed. I'll take the couch." His voice was calmly offered, yet the inherent roughness—a gravelly edge born of stress or sleeplessness—still snagged the air. He moved past me toward the bathroom, then paused. "You can change. I'll be in the bathroom for about an hour. Get settled." The lock clicked shut with abrupt finality.

I fully expected him to force my hand and forcefully consummate our marriage stating that it was a mandatory tradition . But he didn't. What truly shocked me, though, was not his compliance, but the startling fact that he knew my name—a detail I couldn't reciprocate, as I didn't know his. 

I don't know my husband's name. All I know is his surname— Singhania.

The moment I got a chance, I changed into my ribbed pyjama shorts, but I kept the bangles, vermillion, and nuptial chain exactly as they were. I was waiting for him, and only after that could I finally wash the grime off my face.

I slowly slipped beneath the covers, surrendering to the silken coolness of the expensive, high-thread-count sheets. Leaning back against the bedpost, I felt the pleasant weight of sleep begin to settle. Just as my eyes began to drift shut, the heavy, cushioned silence was shattered by the unmistakable click and low creak of the washroom door swinging open.

I watched him. He had changed into sweatpants and a simple white t-shirt. He had his laptop under his arm and walked straight to the couch. He didn't look at me. He didn't say a word. He acted like I wasn't even there. He just opened his laptop and started typing, the clicking sound filling the room.

His complete indifference made me feel a mix of emotions. I was relieved, but I was also angry. How could he just ignore me? I hurried to the bathroom to finish my nightly routine, splashing cold water on my face to calm down. When I came back out, I crawled under the heavy blanket, trying to hide from the world.

But I couldn't sleep. I kept looking at him. He was focused on his screen, his face looking very peaceful. A sharp thought hit me: Maybe this marriage means nothing to him at all. I tried to tell myself that this was a good thing. I wanted a life with no expectations, right?

 But it still hurt. I felt a hollow ache in my chest as I realized our future would be lived as strangers. Finally, I drifted off to sleep, with the image of my husband's face in my mind—a man who was now my husband, but whose name I still didn't know. 

His name remained a stranger to my lip.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I saw was him. My husband was still there, lying on the small couch.

I sat up and looked at him for a moment. He looked so big compared to the narrow sofa; it didn't look comfortable at all. I climbed out of the bed and walked toward him.

Each step I took felt heavy in the quiet room. I watched his sleeping figure, wondering how a man who held all the power in this marriage could look so peaceful while sleeping on a cramped couch.

Walking towards him, I managed to cover his body with the quilt. After I did, I walked the bathroom, feeling the need to ground myself. I spent a few minutes there, simply washing my hands, looking in the mirror, and collecting my thoughts.

After stepping into the washroom, I started by brushing my teeth, the minty foam momentarily clearing my head. Then, the real preparation began: Taking a warm shower after washing my hair—the steam melting away the last remnants of sleep. I turned off the water, stepped onto the bathmat, and quickly lotioned my skin before starting to dry my hair. I dried my hair and pulled out a stunning red saree out of my suitcase. 

I stood in front of the steamy mirror, quickly wiping a clear patch. I applied a touch of kohl to my eyes, then filled the hairline with the vermillion, its deep red a promise of the day ahead. I slipped on the matching bangles, the gentle clinking. "Hope you manage well, Anya Malhotra," I spoke to my reflection, a final check before stepping out to face the day.

As soon as I walked out of the dressing room, I stopped dead in my tracks. The sight in front of me took my breath away.

My husband was right there on the floor, shirtless, doing intense push-ups. I could see the muscles in his back moving with every move he made. A single drop of sweat rolled down his face, and for some reason, I couldn't look away. My heart started racing, and I felt a strange warmth spread through my body.

Seriously, Anya, stop staring! I scolded myself in my head. Stop acting like a fan girl and just walk away. Don't let him distract you. I tried to turn around and leave quietly, hoping he hadn't noticed me. But then, his deep, rough voice echoed through the room.

"Anya, you're forgetting something."

I froze. I slowly turned my head back to look at him. His eyes were a dark, golden amber color, and he was watching me closely.

A sudden chill ran down my spine as the truth hit me: I had forgotten. Me. The person who is always organised, always careful, and always remembers every detail. This was a huge mistake for someone like me. I never forget anything—but somehow, looking at him, everything else had slipped my mind.

"What?" I asked. My voice was just a whisper, but it sounded sharp because I was so nervous.

He didn't say anything at first. Instead, he just took a step toward me. He moved slowly and on purpose, closing the gap between us until he was standing right in front of me. I could feel the heat coming off his body. It felt like the air in the room had suddenly disappeared. My mind went totally blank. I forgot all my worries, and for a second, I even forgot how to breathe.

Then, he held out his hands. His palms were open, and there it was—the thing I had forgotten.

Lying in his hand was my mangalsutra, the sacred wedding necklace. The diamond pendant glittered against his skin.

"The mangalsutra," he said softly. His voice sounded quiet and serious. "My aunt is a very traditional woman. She can be difficult. If she saw you weren't wearing this, she would have caused a huge scene."

He moved his finger slightly, touching the black and gold beads of the necklace. It was a silent sign that I needed to put it on and keep up our act.

"You left it on the nightstand," he added.

My hand shook just a little as I took the delicate gold chain from him. It was still warm from his skin. He didn't have to say anything; the look in his eyes told me exactly what to do. I slowly tied the chain around my neck. As the metal touched my skin, it felt heavy—like a golden anchor tethering me to him.

"Thank you," I whispered. The words felt small and empty.

Suddenly, I felt a wave of hot shame rush to my face. My cheeks burned. I was officially tied to this man, this handsome stranger standing right in front of me, and yet I still didn't know who he was.

I knew I had to ask. I forced myself to speak, even though my heart was pounding. "Excuse me," I said softly. He turned toward me, waiting for me to continue.

I couldn't look him in the eye. I kept my gaze fixed on the shiny marble floor, my head bowed in total embarrassment. "What is your name?" I finally managed to say. My voice was so quiet I could barely hear it myself.

The silence that followed was agonizing. It felt like an eternity. I was sure he was judging me. What kind of wife doesn't even know her husband's name? I thought, feeling more humiliated by the second.

Then, I heard a low, deep chuckle. It wasn't a mean laugh; he sounded genuinely amused. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth and calm.

"Agastya. Agastya Singhania, Anya."

I could hear the slight smile in his voice. He gave me one last, intense look—as if he were trying to read my mind—and then walked gracefully toward the bathroom.

When the door clicked shut, he was gone, but the room still felt full of him. I stood there alone in the silence, feeling the cool weight of my wedding necklace against my skin. My mind was a mess. I felt a strange attraction to him, mixed with deep shame and a desperate need to know more. This man, Agastya, had completely turned my world upside down in just one night.

ʚ♡ɞ

Oh, she said "We could do whatever you want

You could fuck me in the back of your car"
But I won't ever get to stay with her
'Cause all I ever had was one day with her

Oh, think her boyfriend might be Christian Dior
I'm getting feelings that I didn't before
And all I wanna do is lay with her
But I know all I have is one day with her

ʚ♡ɞ

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thank you for your love and support.

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