(POV: Pitaa)
The touch woke me.
Soft. Brief. Precisely at the center of my chest—as if the hand knew exactly where my heart rested after years of working too hard.
I opened my eyes with my breath still trapped in my lungs. My hand instinctively reached for my wife's forehead—a small habit before the world returns to numbers, schedules, and risk.
My lips nearly touched—
Then I froze.
The woman beside me was not her.
Her face was too symmetrical for this house. Pale skin with a warm Mediterranean undertone. Jet-black hair, long, falling like a line drawn with intention. A long neck. Sharp collarbones. Grey-blue eyes—not a color I often encountered in my life.
Eastern Europe, I thought.
Or the Levant.
Or the Balkans—regions that carve their women with a resilience that does not negotiate.
My awareness dropped one level deeper.
And the thing that made the air in the room feel fundamentally wrong:
There was not a single thread on either of our bodies.
No fabric. No folds. No boundaries.
I sat upright as fast as a man trained to extinguish fires before flames appear. My chest rose once—then I forced my breathing down, orderly. Panic is not a moral failure. Panic is a control problem.
I stood without looking at the woman again. Not out of shame. Because my mind had already opened a far more dangerous folder:
How could this have happened without a single person knowing?
The bathroom greeted me with a cold mirror and brutally honest white light. Water ran. I splashed my face, then stared at my reflection the way one stares at a performance graph that suddenly dips without explanation.
No bruises. No marks.
Only one thing that could not be washed away:
This was real.
I exited the bathroom with wet hair, a towel at my waist, and decisions already neatly arranged in my head.
Office. Now.
The device on my wrist lit up. I activated the service layer and summoned my executive assistant with a single, silent touch.
"Kavya."
My voice was flat—the tone that usually made boardrooms stop clicking pens. A thin hologram appeared:
Kavya's face, hair in a bun, sharp eyes—already prepared to receive a storm before I ever said the word storm.
"Good morning, sir."
"Rearrange," I said.
"Meetings one through three moved. Two cancelled. Don't ask why. Give clean reasons."
Kavya did not blink for too long.
"Yes, sir. Noted."
I put on my shirt, buttoning it with steady hands. Even in conditions like this, my body still knew how to look like a calm god.
"Kavya."
"Yes, sir?"
"Who did I leave with last night?"
A fractional pause.
Not because Kavya was slow. Because that question had never existed in this family's system.
"Sir… your schedule ended at 21:35. You exited the building via protocol vehicle. No guest log. No external dining record. No hotel entry registered through internal channels."
Professional tone. But embedded within it—something subtle:
The discomfort of an intelligent person when data does not align with reality.
I closed the device.
Of course.
If I had dared to do this, I would not have left a trail.
I called Major Varma. The call connected immediately, as if the man slept in his shoes.
"Sir."
"Varma," I held my breath briefly—not from weakness, but because I was restraining myself.
"House status?"
"Secure. No breach. No abnormal movement. All routine."
"My wife?"
"Normal. Tara and Dhruv on track."
"Armaan?"
"At post. No deviation."
Those answers were surgical—sharp, clean—and made one thing brutally clear. If there was no deviation… then the deviation was me.
I ended the call.
Like a man who does not believe in fate, I rechecked the logs. Sliding through last night's timeline. Studying timestamps, notifications, the micro-gaps most people ignore.
No holes. That was the problem.
As I lifted my coffee cup, the device on my desk activated itself—not with a corporate logo, not with an internal system.
An unfamiliar name.
Incoming call.
I answered without hesitation. A founder does not fear calls. He fears stupidity.
Her voice entered—confused, warm, far too casual for a violation.
"Why did you leave so suddenly? I—"
I ended the call.
No anger. Only efficiency.
The rest of the day proceeded normally. Projects discussed. Risks aligned. Overlaps eliminated. Vulnerabilities closed in places others didn't even know existed.
Evening arrived. I went home.
I entered wearing the same face: flat, stable, safe.
I passed the family room—soft laughter, clinking glasses, Tara's quick steps, Dhruv as always: more present than vocal. My wife greeted me warmly. Not excessive warmth. Blanket-warm—enough to make someone forget a storm is waiting outside.
We ate. We talked about small things. I waited for my body to believe everything was normal.
I almost succeeded.
Until one hour before sleep, she sat at her vanity and said quietly:
"Darling. I need fifteen minutes of your time."
My heart didn't race like a young man's.
It thudded like a server receiving an unannounced load.
"Now?" I asked, still flat.
"Now," she replied—too calm to refuse.
She activated her device. A transparent screen lit the air. The first slide changed the direction of the room.
POST-MORTEM: ASSET, MORAL, AND PHYSICAL LEAK ANALYSIS
She opened a bag of chips, chewing casually. That soft crunch—strangely—was more terrifying than screaming.
"Ma," I said, like correcting a scientist in a lab, not a wife at home.
"Snacks at this hour are bad for metabolism."
She nodded as if agreeing—without stopping.
Next slide.
Timestamps. Locations. Patterns. Trails too subtle for amateurs.
One line:
Physical involvement confirmed.
My face didn't move.
Inside, something I rarely felt began to rise:
Loss of control that could not be negotiated with numbers.
She looked at me for a long time. Then—with eyes sharp and a smile that never fully smiled—she lifted her hand and traced my cheek slowly.
Not affection. Not anger.
More like checking glass for cracks.
"Relax," she whispered.
"This is a presentation. Not a trial."
The room stayed dim. The white screen glowed.
I heard everything. Every word. Every pause. Every option arranged as if I were not her husband—but a risk to be closed.
OPS I — WE SEPARATE
She didn't read the title aloud. She studied me instead—like ensuring the listener was still worth addressing.
"The principle is simple," she said lightly.
"Separate first. Go quiet."
She blinked once.
"Then assets move."
Four lines appeared. Black on white. Cold. Administrative.
"No family status."
Pause.
"No rights."
A fractional pause—enough to constrict the chest.
"No obligations."
She added gently, correcting herself:
"No symbols."
I shifted. The chair creaked. She glanced—just long enough to make the sound feel like an error.
"Legally and publicly," she continued evenly,
"we cease to exist before anything transfers."
Only now did she glance at the screen—then back at me. Her gaze clean. Too clean.
"After that," she crossed her legs,
"you're free to choose. That's the fun part, right?"
A faint smile.
"You can give everything to the children."
A shrug—as if discussing dinner.
"Or nothing at all. Both are valid."
I inhaled. My mouth opened.
She raised one finger—not a warning, a courteous reminder.
"My focus is singular," her tone dropped half a degree.
"The children do not enter inheritance drama when you're gone."
She tilted her head.
"And they don't become targets."
I stiffened.
"Inheritance rights, position wars, global registries," she continued precisely.
"You know none of this is theory. You taught me."
Silence fell. The wall clock sounded like mockery. She leaned forward slightly—just enough to make distance feel wrong.
"And if your love is sincere," she said softly.
The word love was neutral. Too neutral.
"It will be beautiful," she finished—like concluding a prayer.
"Because there's no burden."
Her voice was gentle. But her eyes weren't praying. They were calculating.
"Relax," she added lightly.
"I won't ask Dhruv to sabotage your lovely plan."
She tapped the device once.
Tok.
"He'll just nudge the girl," she continued,
"So you marry quickly."
Pause. A near-sympathetic smile.
"If that marriage fails…"
She shrugged.
"…I can ensure it becomes inconvenient for you."
A short exhale—not sadness, more like finishing a report.
"Perhaps," she added almost jokingly,
"this is God telling me it's time for early retirement."
She looked at me straight.
"Being married to you is hard work."
The words weren't accusation. They were data. I wasn't afraid because of the threat.
I was afraid because of the calm of someone who had closed every door and still found time to smile.
OPS II — WE STAY TOGETHER
She didn't straighten. Didn't lean in. She simply repositioned the chips in her palm.
"Principle is simple," she said casually, chewing.
"As long as we're inside your system, we're protected."
She turned to me to ensure it landed.
"Not cohabiting," she continued.
Pause.
"But legally bound."
I leaned back, trying to appear composed. She continued before I could speak.
"Allowance and security via passive trust," she said clinically.
"Not your daily decision. I refuse to live at the mercy of cortisol levels."
She wiped her fingers with a tissue. Neat.
"The allowance auto-terminates," she added,
"if I remarry."
A thin smile.
"Who knows."
Something cold crawled up my spine.
"Or," she continued flatly,
"we live together—as strangers."
She tilted her head, studying my reaction like a chart.
"You don't need to fix fractures," she said.
"That's energy waste. And you're low on it."
She took another chip. Chewed. Then spoke.
"If one day," she said softly—too softly to joke,
"you decide I must disappear…"
I froze.
"…please make it clean," she finished without tonal change.
"No blood."
She looked straight at me.
"Still glowing. Fast."
A shrug, like discussing clinical protocol.
"This option is not recommended," she added politely.
"It damages everyone's mental health."
She leaned in slightly, voice lowering half a tone.
"But it still belongs in the risk register."
Silence.
The wall clock sounded obscene.
Click.
OPS III — CLEAN EXIT
She didn't adjust posture. Only shifted the chips.
"Simple structure," she said.
"Final Settlement Agreement. One signature. Irreversible."
She looked at the screen—then at me.
"One signature," she repeated.
"Before separation."
She slid the slide. No animation.
"You sign one document."
Pause.
"You transfer a sum."
Pause again.
"Into a blind trust in my name."
A small shrug.
"Then I exit."
"The children exit."
"No holdings."
"Quiet life."
She tilted her head.
"Passive blind trust."
"Sunset clause."
"Irrelevant."
She smiled—not warm, not cold. Administrative.
"I'm not taking your future, darling," she said softly.
"I'm simply ensuring…"
She paused, choosing words.
"…you rebuild it without us."
Silence.
She finished the last chip, wiped her fingers, and—without tonal shift—dropped the sentence:
"I recommend this option," she said.
"Remove me and the children from your life."
She turned slightly, as if recalling a minor detail.
"Neat."
"Clean."
"No dancing at your wedding."
She paused.
Not to apply pressure—more like realizing a variable remained. Her brow furrowed faintly. Not anger. Curiosity.
"One thing still confuses me," she said quietly.
She looked at me, not demanding an answer.
"Why couldn't you wait?"
No blame. No bitterness. Only exhaustion—honest and deep.
"Our time here is short," she continued.
"You know that. You know the statistics better than anyone."
A small smile—asking nothing.
"But it's fine," she added lightly. Too lightly.
"With your action, I actually benefit."
I tensed.
She exhaled gently, like closing an old file.
"I won't have to stand as a wife in the afterlife," she said calmly,
"waiting for my husband…
only to swallow the fact he arrived with another woman at the final palace."
A small shrug. Almost friendly.
"This way," she continued,
"I can enjoy my life there."
She met my eyes.
"Without waiting."
"Without surprises."
Something severed inside my chest.
Not exploded. Severed—like a main cable yanked from a still-running system.
I stood abruptly. The heavy teak chair toppled, slamming into marble with a nauseating crash—a sound that did not belong in my house.
I stepped forward, my shadow swallowing her presentation screen.
"Enough!"
My voice was no longer CEO. It was primal.
"You speak of blind trusts? Settlements? In front of your husband?!"
I gripped her arm until my knuckles whitened. I bent down, staring into her eyes—seeking fear, finding only my own fractured reflection.
"Have you forgotten who gave you a name that makes this city part when you walk?
Which Khandan protects you?!"
My voice rose, hoarse with bleeding pride.
"I built this empire from nothing!
I ensured no filth ever touched your feet!
And now you sit here, chewing trash chips,
counting my assets like I'm a vendor you can terminate?!"
I swept crystal bottles off the table with the back of my hand.
Crash.
Shards scattered like my ego.
"You have no Auqat to leave me!
You are nothing without me!
You are just a statistic I made real!"
The words slithered out—ugly, brutal, dishonorable. I had violated my own Maryada.
I stood there, panting—looking like a high-caste monster losing his ground. I waited for her to collapse. To beg forgiveness for daring to diminish a man like me.
She didn't.
She only looked at the crystal shards—then back at me with the coldest gaze I had ever known:
Pity.
The soft crack of a chip between her teeth echoed absurdly—like bone snapping in a funeral silence.
Too domestic. Too casual. That sound humiliated my rage. She wiped her fingers with a tissue. One by one. Neat. Slow. As if she had just cleaned a minor mess—not faced a raging patriarch. Only then did she look at me.
Her eyes didn't mirror my fire.
They extinguished it.
"Precisely, darling," she said finally.
Her voice is flat. No anger. No need to win.
"Only because you exist—because you are 'A.' with all your power…
these three options make sense."
One second. Time froze. A wave of nausea hit me.
I wasn't intimidating anyone. I was an actor screaming before a director already bored of the script.
I was naked—without armor of wealth or lineage—before the one human who saw past every illusion of my Khandan.
She stood. Graceful. Unburdened. Her perfume followed—now antiseptic, like an operating room. Her arms wrapped around my neck. Warm. Intimate.
But I felt it. The pressure at my carotid. Precise. A silk straitjacket. She leaned to my ear. Her whisper is softer—and more lethal than a slap.
"Never think of erasing that girl," she whispered.
Cold.
"I will not let the role model of our children fail as a man—just because he couldn't face the consequences of his own desire."
She paused. Let it seep into bone.
"Do not stain your hands with the blood of a woman who once shared sweat with you.
It would corrupt the moral curriculum we built for Dhruv and Tara."
I swallowed.
My tongue tasted metallic—heavy, bitter.
My body stiffened. Instinct screamed retreat. But her grip locked every joint.
Not physical fear.
Knowledge. This wasn't a threat. This was SOP.
My strategic mind—normally a supercomputer—ran its final simulation.
A path surfaced:
I keep the children. I leverage power. I trap her.
Then I saw the ending.
If I anchor my children to detain a woman who no longer wants me, I lose caste in their eyes.
I am no longer a protector.
I am a kidnapper of their future.
She wouldn't see me as a failed husband. She would see a predator.
That realization froze my spine.
"What do you want?"
My voice cracked like scattered paper.
"Name the number. Name the condition. Anything—just forgive me."
She pulled my head down, kissed my forehead—brief, merciful. Like a priest blessing the condemned.
"I want nothing, darling," she said gently.
"If I could still want something from you…"
She inhaled lightly, eyes empty of desire.
"…it would mean I could still be bargained with.
And I am not selling today."
In this house, rules are sharper than emotion.
And today, I learned that even the most feared ruler has no leverage against someone already prepared to lose everything.
***
I jolted awake.
My breathing collided with the quiet room, filled only by the ceiling fan's hum. In the dream, the air was ice—rigid, dead.
Here, lavender aromatherapy and lingering sunlight warmth crept from behind the curtains. I touched the other side of the bed.
Empty—but still warm. Reality felt too fragile to trust. The clock read late afternoon.
I'd slept far too long. Last night's work broke me deeper than I admitted. I exhaled slowly—lowering my own heart rate like throttling the system load. Then faintly—from the living room—laughter.
Tara giggling.
I sat for a few seconds before standing. Washed my face. Fixed my hair—old reflex of a man used to standing under lights.
Tara appeared first—standing on the carpet, hugging a sofa pillow like a trophy. Dhruv sat at the edge, shoulders slightly tense, smile restrained. My wife lounged on the sofa, hair loosely tied, face bright.
"So," she said cheerfully,
"what do you like about her, Honey?"
I stood at the doorway. Just hearing that loosened my chest.
She looked up.
"Oh," she said gently.
"My lovely husband, finally awake."
She came over, clung to me playfully.
"You're a mess," she said, fixing my hair.
"Nightmare?"
"Maybe."
"Want me to make you something warm?"
I leaned down, whispered near her ear—close enough to make her eyebrow lift.
"Later," I said.
"Right now I want you."
She laughed softly.
"You're impossible. The kids are here."
"They can wait."
She chuckled, made the drink, returned to the sofa, patting the seat beside Dhruv. I held her wrist as she handed the cup. A little too tight.
She stopped. Looked at me—as if reading residual slides in my mind. She didn't ask. She just placed her hand over mine.
Warm.
Not the cold skin from the dream.
"Okay. Continue," she said, as if uninterrupted.
Dhruv exhaled, speaking more calmly.
"I just… want Ma's opinion."
She nodded.
"My opinion is simple."
She leaned forward—serious, not heavy.
"Whoever the girl is, I support you.
Your eyes trained to see system bugs don't mischoose hearts."
She looked at Dhruv—proud, testing.
"But remember, Honey, in relationships you're not seeking a passive user.
You're seeking a co-founder for your life."
She glanced at me, then back to Dhruv.
"Final execution, of course—Pa."
I lifted my cup, sipped slowly.
"Because Pa reads people better," she said lightly.
"And because Pa knows when to continue… and when to stop."
She looked straight at Dhruv.
"Once you target, don't play. Even if failure is possible."
Tara raised her hand.
"Failure crying allowed, Ma?"
"Allowed," she replied instantly.
"But crying happens at home."
Dhruv smiled. Tension left his shoulders.
"One more thing," she added.
"Not all good people meet good people. That's not your failure."
She pulled up an old article.
"Look at this," she said.
"The late Xiangmao—a young billionaire. Kind. Brilliant. Loved sincerely. Worked relentlessly. Deeply responsible to family. Within six months he gave his partner tens of billions—and at the end chose the quietest exit."
Tara leaned closer, frowning.
"Why?"
"In my view," she replied,
"not because the money ran out, but because his support system was corrupted from within."
She switched slides. Another story—another tragic love story.
"Perfect background. Beautiful. Intelligent. Supported her family alone for years while her husband's finances peaked. Years as a punching bag. Then she left—wrongly. Her ex-husband remains a fugitive."
She paused.
"She sought help. No one could protect her from her husband.
If I were a man," she said softly,
"I would pursue this woman relentlessly. For her love."
I set my cup down. I knew the case.
"For this woman," she continued, closing her phone with a firm click,
"she was smart—but fatally misjudged the risk assessment of her own partner."
She looked at our children.
"Love is a high reward. But never enter without a clear stop-loss."
She smiled at Dhruv.
"Your partner doesn't need to be extraordinary.
Just someone who makes you happier—
and better."
Dhruv nodded.
"What if I'm wrong?"
She answered instantly.
"Pa and I are still here."
Tara added,
"And I'll say 'I told you so'—then hug."
They laughed.
I looked at them—my wife, Dhruv the thinker, Tara unconditional.
This house was alive. Real. Safe.
I leaned in, kissed my wife's hair. She whispered with a teasing smile:
"You're strange today. Like someone who's seen a ghost."
I pulled her closer, breathing her real scent—not documents.
"Not a ghost," I whispered.
"I saw a world without you.
And I didn't like the design."
She laughed.
I smiled—but inside, I swore:
I would work twice as hard. Not to build assets—
But to ensure that simulation…
That post-mortem document…
Would never, ever have a reason to be written.
—To be Continued—