The envelope lay open on my lap for a long time.
Ten rules.
Ten invisible chains around my wrists and ankles.
But the one that haunted me the most was:
"Do not ask questions about Riyan's family, especially his brother."
I traced the line with my fingertip, trying to understand how I became tied to a past I had never lived.
A knock jolted me out of my thoughts.
The maid from earlier entered quietly. "Madam, Ma'am has asked you to choose a dress for tonight's family dinner."
"Another dinner?" My chest tightened.
"Yes… she said 'now that you're part of the family, you must present yourself properly.'"
Those weren't kind words.
They weren't even disguised.
I nodded anyway.
The maid led me to a smaller guest room where several dresses were laid out — elegant sarees, gowns, things far too expensive to touch.
As I sifted through them, something caught my eye.
A door.
Slightly open.
Leading into a dark hallway.
Not the main hallway.
Not the staircase.
A… side passage.
Something about it felt strange. Out of place.
"Madam," the maid said quickly, noticing the direction of my glance, "that area is not—"
But her words blurred.
Because the moment I looked fully at the passage, something pulled inside me.
Like I had seen this hallway before.
Like a memory was there… waiting, whispering.
I took a step toward it unconsciously.
"Madam!" The maid's voice rose sharply. "That is the West Wing."
I froze.
West Wing.
Rule #1:
"You are not allowed to enter the West Wing of the mansion."
My heartbeat picked up, thudding against my ribs.
"I didn't… I wasn't trying to go inside," I said quickly, stepping back.
But in that instant, a deep, cold voice came from behind us.
"You did."
My stomach dropped.
Riyan stood at the doorway — tall, unreadable, the kind of angry that didn't shout.
The maid immediately bowed her head. "Sir, I—I tried to stop her—"
"Leave," he said.
She vanished in seconds.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too quiet.
Too dangerous.
Riyan stepped inside, closing the door with a calmness that terrified me more than rage ever could.
His eyes landed on the passage behind me.
Then on me.
"Is it so hard to follow simple instructions?" he asked softly.
Too softly.
"I wasn't going inside," I said quickly. "I just saw the door open and—"
"And curiosity overcame you."
"No—"
"Aarvi," he cut me off, his voice still calm but sharp enough to cut, "don't insult both of us by lying."
My throat tightened.
"I swear I wasn't trying to break any rule. I only took one step forward—"
"One step," he repeated, moving closer. "One step into a place where you are forbidden."
I swallowed. "Why is it forbidden?"
His jaw clenched.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with something he wasn't saying.
"What is in the West Wing?" I whispered, unable to stop myself. "Does it have to do with your brother? Is that why—"
"Aarvi."
Just my name.
But it was enough to freeze the air.
He stepped closer until there was barely an arm's length between us.
"Don't," he said quietly. "Do not mention him."
The pain in his voice was raw — so raw that it didn't match the coldness of his words.
"I'm not your enemy," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Why do you act like I am? Why do you think I did something horrible to your brother when I don't even know what happened?"
Something flickered in his eyes.
Something broken.
Something angry.
Something… afraid.
He looked away first.
"You don't need to know anything," he said stiffly. "Your only job is to follow the rules and stay out of that part of the mansion."
"But how can I follow rules I don't understand?" My voice wavered. "What did I do, Riyan? What am I being punished for?"
He turned back sharply.
"You think you're being punished?"
His voice rose for the first time — not loud, but heated.
"You think this is punishment?"
I stepped back instinctively.
His eyes darkened, but not in cruelty — in memory.
"You want to know what punishment looks like?" he said bitterly.
"Punishment is watching someone you love lose everything. Punishment is knowing the person responsible is still breathing freely."
My breath caught.
"Punishment," he continued, "is looking at you every day and remembering the price he paid."
My heart crashed.
"I didn't do anything to your brother," I whispered. "I swear—"
"Stop," he snapped, pain cutting through the anger. "Just… stop."
His voice wasn't hard anymore.
It was tired.
Exhausted.
He looked away, running a hand through his hair.
"This conversation is over."
He walked toward the door.
But before leaving, he said quietly, without turning back:
"The next time you go near the West Wing… even by accident… this marriage will not continue."
The finality in his tone struck me like a blow.
The door clicked shut.
And I stood there, trembling, knowing one thing with painful clarity:
Whatever lay hidden in the West Wing wasn't just a secret.
It was the past that destroyed Riyan's brother.
And somehow —
for a reason I still didn't understand —
it was tied to me.