I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, the messages replayed in the dark like warnings written in fire:
"You ruined his brother's life."
"Ask your husband."
By morning, my head throbbed and my pillow was damp with tears I didn't remember shedding.
Sunlight slipped through the curtains and painted the room in soft gold — a strange contrast to the heaviness weighing on my chest.
I took a slow breath and stood.
A maid knocked right when I reached for the door.
She lowered her eyes respectfully.
"Madam… Ma'am has requested your presence for breakfast."
Requested.
But again… it felt like an order.
I nodded silently.
As I walked downstairs, the house felt even bigger in the morning, every polished surface reflecting a life I wasn't meant to enter.
When I reached the dining hall, almost everyone was already seated.
Except Riyan.
His chair at the head of the table was empty, which shouldn't have mattered — but somehow, it did.
His mother glanced at me once, just once, before turning back to her plate as if my existence was a glitch she refused to acknowledge.
The younger girl from last night smirked when our eyes met.
I took the same seat as before, quietly folding my hands in my lap.
A servant approached with plates, but before he set one in front of me, Riyan's mother spoke sharply:
"Give her something simple. She might not be used to rich food."
My heart pinched.
I stayed quiet — I had learned silence was safer here.
A few minutes later, Riyan finally entered.
Wearing a navy suit, crisp and perfect.
His expression unreadable.
His presence instantly changed the energy in the room.
Everyone straightened.
Except me — I stayed still, unsure if looking at him would start a war.
He took his seat without acknowledging anyone, including me.
But then his eyes flicked toward my plate.
Plain toast.
One banana.
A glass of water.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Who decided this?" he asked calmly.
His mother answered without hesitation,
"She shouldn't strain her stomach. Simpler food will be better for her."
Riyan turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"I don't remember assigning you the authority to decide what my wife eats."
Wife.
That word left his lips with no warmth, but still… hearing it made my breath catch.
His mother stiffened.
"Are you saying I cannot make basic decisions for this house?"
"I'm saying," he replied evenly, "that you don't decide for her."
Shock rippled across the table.
Riyan's family stared at me — and suddenly, instead of humiliation, a different question burned in their eyes:
Why is he defending her?
Riyan didn't look at me again.
He simply lifted his coffee, his expression back to stone.
After a few silent, tense minutes, he finally spoke:
"Aarvi."
My heart jumped.
"Yes…?" My voice came out softer than intended.
He placed his cup down.
"I'm leaving for the office in twenty minutes. You will receive a copy of the house rules today. Read them. Follow them."
House rules.
Of course.
He continued, "You'll attend a charity event with me next week. Until then, avoid unnecessary interaction with the media."
I nodded. "Okay."
"And," he added, "don't leave the mansion without informing me."
My fingers tightened around my napkin.
"Am I… not allowed to go anywhere alone?"
His eyes lifted to mine, sharp and cold.
"No."
"But why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "Why does everything feel like I'm being controlled?"
The room froze.
His mother stared.
His sister smirked.
The servants held their breath.
Riyan's voice dropped to something low, almost dangerous.
"Because you agreed to be controlled."
My throat closed.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving mine.
"You signed a contract, Aarvi. Don't pretend you didn't understand what you were trading."
I blinked hard, trying to contain the burn in my eyes.
"I understood," I whispered. "I just didn't know control would feel like this."
For one moment — one brief, flickering second — something changed in his expression.
Not softness.
Not guilt.
Something more fragile. More buried.
But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
He stood.
"Finish your breakfast."
He didn't wait for a response.
He walked out of the dining hall, leaving a silence behind him that was heavier than any insult spoken aloud.
As soon as he disappeared, his mother's voice sliced through the air.
"You think a little protection means he cares for you? Don't misunderstand his temper for affection."
I swallowed hard. "I never assumed he cared."
She tilted her head dramatically.
"Good. Because he won't."
Her words hit deeper than they should have.
Once breakfast ended, I quietly slipped upstairs, hoping to disappear into the walls.
But as I reached my room, I found an envelope placed on the table.
My name written in neat, bold letters.
I opened it slowly.
HOUSE RULES — MRS. AARVI MALHOTRA
The first rule read:
1. You are not allowed to enter the West Wing of the mansion.
The second:
2. You must avoid unnecessary contact with media or outsiders.
The third:
3. Do not ask questions about Riyan's family, especially his brother.
My heart stilled.
His brother.
The person the unknown message mentioned last night.
Rule after rule lined up like invisible chains.
Then I reached the final line —
a line that made my breath stop entirely.
10. If you attempt to uncover the truth behind the incident, this marriage will end immediately.
The incident.
The one I was supposedly responsible for.
I gripped the paper until it crumpled.
My marriage wasn't just a punishment.
It was a trap designed to keep me away from a truth that could break us both.
And somewhere in this house…
behind rules and locked doors…
was the answer to why the man I married hated me so much.