The following three days passed in a hollow, functional sort of silence. It wasn't the tension Maya had expected; it was just a void. Aarav was gone before the sun had fully cleared the smog over the Arabian Sea, leaving behind a bedroom that looked like no one had ever slept in it. Maya usually lingered until nine, drinking tea in a kitchen that felt more like a laboratory than a home.
Their interactions were reduced to logistics, exchanged in the foyer like hand-offs between couriers.
"The driver will be downstairs at six."
"I've authorized the transfer for the gallery's insurance."
"I won't be back for dinner."
Every time, Maya simply nodded. She didn't ask why he'd be late or who he was meeting. She didn't care. To her, every "yes" was a step toward a zero balance. Every moment of compliance was just another payment on the debt that sat like a stone in her stomach.
At the gallery, she worked with a quiet, focused intensity. She hadn't told Sarah about the marriage. She hadn't told anyone. The gallery was her only clean space, the only place where she wasn't "Mrs. Oberoi," a line item in a billionaire's life.
She arrived at 9:30 a.m. to find the front shutters halfway up and an intern fumbling with a spotlight. Maya took the pole from him without a word, adjusted the beam until the charcoal piece on the wall popped against the shadows, and retreated to her office. She spent the next hour staring at her ledger. She was already calculating how much of her profit from the upcoming exhibition could be funneled back to Aarav.
At 10:15 a.m., Sarah burst in, her face pale.
"Ma'am, you need to look at the street. There are vans. People with cameras. They're calling your name."
Maya felt a slight ripple of irritation, but her pulse didn't race. She'd known the bubble would burst. She stood up, walked to the front window, and saw the swarm. Three media vans, at least a dozen photographers, and a woman with a microphone already shouting toward the locked glass door.
"Don't open it," Maya told Sarah. Her voice was flat, almost bored. "And don't talk to them. I'll handle it."
She went back to her desk and dialed Aarav.
"There are cameras outside the gallery," she said as soon as he picked up.
Aarav didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't ask if she was scared. "How many?"
"Enough to block the sidewalk."
"Stay inside. I'm ten minutes away."
"Okay," she said, and hung up.
She didn't tell him not to come. She didn't argue that she could handle the police herself. If he wanted to play the hero for the cameras, it was just another part of the script. She sat back down and finished her coffee.
Aarav arrived in under twenty minutes. From the hallway, Maya watched the chaos swell through the glass—the sudden surge of reporters, the blinding, rhythmic strobe of flashbulbs. He moved through the crowd like he didn't even see them, his security team creating a wake behind him.
When he stepped into the gallery, he didn't look at the art. He looked at Maya. He walked over, his eyes scanning her for a reaction—tears, anger, anything.
"Come," he said.
Maya didn't ask where. She didn't ask what he was planning. She just stood up and walked toward him.
Before she could reach the door, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. It wasn't a gentle touch, but it wasn't painful either; it was the grip of a man claiming an asset. Maya didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She let her arm go limp in his hand.
As they stepped onto the sidewalk, the noise hit them—a wall of shouted questions and shutter clicks. Aarav's grip shifted. He slid his hand from her wrist to the small of her back, his fingers resting low, pressing her firmly against his side.
"Please don't push," Aarav said, his voice projecting with a practiced, cold authority. "My wife has a business to run."
My wife. Maya felt his palm through the thin fabric of her blouse. It was warm, solid, and entirely transactional. She didn't stiffen. She didn't lean in. She simply existed in the space he provided, her face a mask of neutral compliance.
"Stay close," he murmured, his breath ghosting over her ear as he used his body to shield her from a particularly aggressive cameraman.
She did exactly what he asked. She adjusted her stride to match his, allowing him to navigate her toward the SUV. When he opened the door, his hand lingered at her waist for a second longer than necessary—a bit of flair for the lenses. She waited until he released her, then climbed into the leather interior.
The door shut, and the silence of the car was sudden and heavy. Maya adjusted her seatbelt, her expression unchanged.
"You didn't have to come," she said, looking out the window as the car pulled away.
"It was necessary for perception," Aarav said. He was already loosening his tie, his eyes on the partition. He glanced at her, frowning slightly at her lack of agitation. "My mother is not pleased. The news broke before a formal reception could be arranged."
"I see."
"She's insisting on one this weekend," he continued. "Industry associates, family, the board. It needs to look intentional, not reactive. We need to look... comfortable."
"Saturday?" Maya asked.
"Yes."
"Okay. I'll be there."
Aarav paused, his hand halfway to his phone. He seemed to be waiting for the objection—the complaint about her gallery opening, the resentment over being told what to do with her weekend. But Maya just stared at the passing traffic.
"We'll need to appear as though we know each other," he added, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "If there's visible stiffness, it will feed speculation. We need proximity. Eye contact."
"Understood," she said.
"We'll start having dinner together," he said, watching her closely. "Starting tonight. We don't have to like each other, but we need to remove the awkwardness."
"Sure. What time?"
Aarav blinked. The ease of her agreement seemed to irritate him more than a fight would have. He was a man used to breaking resistance, but you can't break something that offers no pressure.
"Eight sharp," he said. "And you'll need something for Saturday. Nothing bold. My mother prefers restraint."
"Restraint. I can do that."
She didn't ask what he wanted her to wear. She didn't ask who would be there. She just accepted the terms of the new directive. To her, it was just more work—more hours logged until she could pay the final installment and disappear.
When the car stopped at the penthouse, the paparazzi were already waiting at a distance. Aarav stepped out and came around to her side. This time, he offered his arm deliberately.
Maya took it. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the hard muscle of his arm through the expensive wool.
"Relax your shoulders," he muttered as they walked toward the lobby under the glare of the flashes.
She didn't realize they were tense. She let them drop. She even allowed herself to tilt slightly toward him, playing the part of the doting bride with a clinical precision.
In the elevator, the moment the doors closed, he released her. The absence of his touch was immediate. He stood on the opposite side of the small space, his reflection in the mirror walls looking tight, almost restless.
"For what it's worth," he said, his eyes on the floor indicator, "you handled the reporters well."
"Okay."
That was it. No "thank you," no "it was nothing." Just a flat acknowledgment.
The elevator chimed. Maya stepped out first, her footsteps silent on the marble.
Aarav stood in the foyer, watching her walk toward her room. He'd expected a girl he could manage, someone whose emotions he could navigate with logic. But Maya's compliance felt different. It felt like she was simply waiting for him to finish speaking so she could get back to her own life.
It was the first time in his life he had total control over a situation, and yet felt like he was the only one in the room who was actually fighting.
"Eight o'clock, Maya," he called out.
"I heard you the first time, Aarav," she replied, not even turning around as she shut her door.
He stood there for a long time in the quiet penthouse. Everything was going according to plan. The debt was secured, the optics were managed, and his wife was perfectly obedient.