Aayat's POV

Like silence.

This is what I hated the most.

And when it's from him...

In the last one and a half months, something has changed. But I just can't name it.

What changed?

His silence is killing me.

He lies there, his back to me, still and distant, every line of his body pulled tight.

I watch him quietly, sitting cross-legged against the headboard. The lamp throws soft shadows across the room, turning his profile into sharp angles and half-hidden edges. He looks untouchable. Like always.

Except right now, he doesn't feel untouchable at all.

He feels... human. Too human.

And I hate that my chest hurts because of it.

Maybe I shouldn't have asked.

Maybe that one question, Where are your parents?...was too personal.

But it slipped out before I could stop it. I just wanted to understand him. Just a little.

But now the silence between us feels like glass. If I move wrong, it'll shatter.

My fingers twist in the sheets, restless. I can feel the weight of every second he doesn't answer pressing down on me. He's not asleep. I know that. His breathing isn't even. It's forced, deliberate.

I should stop. I should let it go.

He's not mine. I remind myself that over and over.

I'm not his.

This marriage....this strange, temporary arrangement, it ends in five and a half months.

And yet here I am, worried about what's going on inside his head.

"Mihir..." I whisper, hesitant, careful.

No response.

Not even a twitch.

His hand is fisted in the sheet, the tendons in his forearm standing out. That single, clenched hand says everything his words don't.

He's angry. But not at me.

At something older. Deeper. Something I'll probably never fully understand.

"You don't have to tell me," I said softly.

The words sound small in the room. I hate how uncertain they make me feel.

"I'm sorry," I add quickly, my voice barely above a whisper now. "I shouldn't have asked."

Silence again.

Except now, it isn't sharp. It's heavy. Dense. Like something has shifted just a little...just enough to make my throat tighten.

He doesn't turn around, but I see the faintest movement in his shoulders. A breath, a pause, a quiet exhale that almost sounds like pain.

I want to reach out..to touch his shoulder, to make him look at me, but I stop myself.

I've crossed enough lines tonight.

So I just sit there, staring at the space between us, and wonder why it suddenly feels so small.

The silence stretches so long that I start to think he'll never speak again.

Then, quietly...so quietly I almost think I imagined it he says,

"Aayat."

My name. Low. Rough.

It pulls something in me taut before I can stop it.

He still doesn't turn. His voice comes from the darkness between us, steady but heavier than usual, each word measured.

"Sleep."

Just that.

Two syllables. Nothing more.

But somehow, it lands like a command and a comfort all at once.

I stare at his back, at the faint rise and fall of his breathing. The tension is still there, sitting in his shoulders, but something has changed...softened, maybe.

He doesn't want to talk.

He doesn't want me to ask again.

He just wants this night to end.

I nod before realizing he can't see me. "Okay," I whisper, because I don't trust my voice with anything else.

Then I lie down, careful not to brush against him. The sheet feels cold at first, the air heavy with everything we didn't say.

.

I close my eyes, pretending to obey, but I don't sleep.

Not really.

Because somewhere in the dark, I can still feel the warmth of his presence beside me...silent, distant, and yet too close to ignore.

•••

The smell of coffee wakes me.

Strong. Sharp. Familiar.

It fills the room before my eyes are even open.

For a second, I lie there, still half-dreaming, before last night crashes back into m....the question I shouldn't have asked, his silence, the weight of it pressing down until he finally said just two words.

"Aayat. Sleep."

I had. Eventually. Or maybe I just stopped trying not to.

Now the other side of the bed is empty. The sheet smooth, the pillow cold. Mihir Raghuvanshi ..Chief Minister, master of control, keeper of every secret ..is gone before sunrise.

Except... he isn't.

When I step into the living room, I stop short.

The dining table is set. Two plates. Sandwiches. Fruit. Steam curling up from two mugs of coffee.

And in the kitchen, with sleeves rolled up and his hair still slightly damp from a shower, Mihir is calmly flipping something in a pan.

Like nothing happened.

"Hot", this thought came into my mind

Shut up shut up it's not the right time to think like this.

I just stand there, arms folded loosely, watching him. "You... cooked?"

He glances over his shoulder, a flicker of amusement tugging at his mouth. "Don't sound so surprised. I can manage basic survival when required."

I raise an eyebrow. "Survival. Right. Because this looks suspiciously like effort."

He doesn't answer, just turns off the stove and walks toward the table, setting the plate down with quiet precision.

And then ..silence again.

I hate it.

That hollow, unspoken space stretching between us.

So I blurt it out. "You're acting like nothing happened."

This time, he pauses.

For a moment, I think he'll deflect again ...smirk, tease, change the subject like he always does.

But he doesn't.

He looks up instead. His eyes meet mine ...calm, steady, but softer than I've ever seen them.

"Because I don't know how to talk about it," he says quietly. "And because if I did last night, I might've said something I'd regret."

The words hit harder than I expect. My throat goes dry.

He looks away then, busying himself with his coffee, voice low.

"I shouldn't have gone quiet like that," he adds. "You didn't deserve it. So... I'm sorry."

Simple. Straightforward. But the honesty in it ...it's the kind that leaves no room for pretense.

For a second, I don't know what to say.

Mihir Raghuvanshi doesn't apologize. Not to anyone.

I clear my throat, trying to sound casual. "You don't have to"

"I do."

His voice cuts in, calm but firm.

Then softer, "You asked something I wasn't ready to answer. That's on me, not you."

I blink at him, unsure what to do with this version of him ...stripped of sarcasm, stripped of armor.

He takes a sip of his coffee, acting like the conversation's already over.

But it isn't. Not for me.

I sit down slowly across from him, fingers curling around my mug. "You don't have to be sorry for not wanting to talk," I murmur.

He looks up again, and this time, there's a faint, tired smile in his eyes. "Maybe. But I am anyway."

The quiet that follows isn't heavy this time. It feels... settled.

Still. But not sharp.

I take a small sip of coffee, pretending to focus on the cup, but really, I'm watching him.

And for once, I think he knows.

He doesn't tease. Doesn't smirk.

He just lets the silence stay...this time, softer. Almost kind.

And I realize something I shouldn't.

For a man who can command an entire state, Mihir Raghuvanshi apologizing over breakfast might just be the rarest thing I'll ever witness.

For a long moment, neither of us says anything.

His words still hang in the air ...simple, quiet, too honest to ignore.

I'm sorry.

I never thought I'd hear him say that. Not Mihir Raghuvanshi. Not the man who treats emotions like distractions.

He takes another slow sip of his coffee, gaze steady, unreadable again. Then, just when I think he might say something more..he doesn't.

Instead, his tone shifts. Effortless. Controlled.

Like flipping a switch.

"By the way," he says, leaning back in his chair, "you have a meeting with the women's development board at eleven. I told Amaira to clear your morning schedule."

I blink. "What?"

He glances at me briefly, eyes calm. "You said you wanted to discuss the small business proposals from the eastern district, remember?"

I stare at him, incredulous. "You're seriously changing the topic right now?"

He doesn't flinch. "Yes."

There's not even a hint of guilt in his voice. If anything, there's a faint glimmer of amusement.

"Mihir"

"Breakfast first, Mrs. Raghuvanshi," he interrupts, tone clipped but almost teasing. "You can scold me about my emotional evasion techniques later."

I can't help it ..a small, disbelieving laugh escapes me. "Unbelievable."

He looks up from his plate, one eyebrow lifting. "That's what they all say."

I shake my head, trying not to smile. He's impossible. Absolutely impossible.

And yet... I feel the knot in my chest loosen just a little.

He's doing it on purpose, I realize.

Pulling me out of the heaviness. Redirecting the air before it can turn heavy again. Not to escape, but to make sure I don't sit in it too long.

I pick up my sandwich finally, pretending not to look at him. "You're lucky the food looks edible," I say, dryly.

He smirks, the faintest curve of satisfaction on his lips. "Of course it does. I reheated it myself."

I roll my eyes, and he chuckles under his breath that quiet, rare sound that makes the room feel just a little lighter.

The tension from last night doesn't vanish completely.

But it softens, edges blurring into something easier, something we can both live with for now.

And as he leans forward to pour more coffee into my mug, still talking about district reports and development plans, I realize something quietly unsettling.

This ..the coffee, the banter, the ordinary calm ....feels dangerously close to peace.

He finishes his coffee, stands, and smooths the front of his shirt like nothing from last night ever happened.

"I'll be heading to the office," Mihir says, calm, casual. "Don't forget your meeting with the board."

I nod, but the thought of leaving the house, walking into people, facing questions, feels heavier than it should.

He pauses at the door, glancing back at me. His tone softens just slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Have a good day."

"Mm," I murmur.

He gives a small nod, then walks out, the click of the front door echoing in the quiet apartment.

I stare at the empty space where he just stood.

For a moment, I consider going out. Attending the meeting. Playing the part of the CEO everyone expects me to be.

But the thought of leaving this quiet, of facing the world alone this morning... it doesn't feel right.

I sit back down at the table, wrapping my hands around the warm mug in front of me.

Today, I decide, I'll stay home. I informed Amaira to postponed the meeting.

Just for a little while.

And for some reason, that decision feels like the only one that makes sense.

It had been five hours since Mihir left. The apartment was quiet, almost unnervingly so.

I stood in the living room, staring at the slightly dusty corners. Normally, the house was immaculate, but in the rush of the past few days, it hadn't received the care I'd insisted on.

Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I called the staff. "Deep cleaning," I instructed. "Every corner, every shelf. Nothing overlooked."

They nodded dutifully, bustling around as I made my rounds.

And then... my eyes fell on a door I had always seen but never opened.

There was something about it. Something in me that whispered......don't open it.

And then, the next heartbeat, something else whispered....open it.

Against my better judgment, I did.

The sight inside froze me in place.

A photograph hung on the wall , a woman. She looked... divine. Ethereal, graceful, impossible to forget. Her eyes were warm, her smile gentle. The kind of smile that drew people in without effort.

Below it was a table, neatly arranged with albums, diaries, and loose photographs.

I couldn't stop myself. My fingers trembled as I opened the first album.

The pages revealed more photographs.

The same woman, smiling, with two children beside her. A small girl, around three, and a boy who looked twelve. They were all laughing, carefree, happy...a family captured in perfect moments.

A shiver ran down my spine.

Who were they?

I stared at the woman first. Could it be... Mihir's mother? Or someone else entirely? And the children... his siblings?

I felt my pulse quicken. Every thought in my head screamed questions.

Mihir?

Is this... his family?

The lady... who is she?

I closed the album slowly, my hands shaking. The weight of the discovery pressed down on me.

There were so many pieces of Mihir I had never seen, secrets hidden behind that calm, controlled exterior. And now... this.

My heart raced, my mind spinning.

I didn't know if I was afraid, or... something else entirely.

And as I stared at that photograph once more, a single thought anchored itself in my mind:

I want to know.

But

I wasn't anyone who could demand them.

Yet somehow, my gaze fell on the diary, tucked neatly beside the albums. Its leather cover was worn, edges frayed...as if it had been opened and closed a thousand times, each word written in pain.

I hesitated, then opened it.

The words inside hit me like a physical blow.

I picked up the diary, hesitant, as if holding it too tightly would make it snap.

The first page I opened had a name written in bold, careful letters:

Saanvi Raghuvanshi

I turned the page.

A small photograph was attached, slightly faded at the edges.

The same woman I had seen in the albums, smiling gently, radiant. Beside her, three children. The little girl from before, maybe three, and the boy, around twelve

But that wasn't all.

Beneath the photo, someone had written neatly:

Mihir and Naina Raghuvanshi

And next to them, a tiny baby, maybe two months old, bundled in a soft blanket.

Beneath the baby, another name: Advit Raghuvanshi

I froze.

So... Saanvi Raghuvanshi, she must be Mihir's mother.

Naina Raghuvanshi, likely his sister.

And the baby, Advit..his brother?

Questions tumbled over each other in my mind.

Then where's his father?

Why wasn't he in any of these photos? Why hadn't Mihir ever mentioned him?

I flipped through the next few pages, my hands shaking slightly. Pictures of birthdays, festivals, vacations. Always Saanvi at the center, always the children surrounding her, laughing, alive.

But never a man.

Never a father.

A pit formed in my stomach. The house, the albums, the diary....suddenly, everything felt like fragments of a story Mihir had never shared. A life carefully hidden behind calm politeness and that controlled, untouchable mask.

And yet... the more I stared at Saanvi's face, warm, proud, and unbroken in the photographs, the more I understood something.

She had built this family on her own.

She had carried everything without anyone noticing.

And Mihir... maybe he had inherited her silence.

I closed the diary slowly, pressing my palms to my eyes.

Saanvi Raghuvanshi. Naina. Advit.

Pieces of Mihir's life I'd never known.

And the question that refused to leave me:

Where's his father?

I saw a diary.

I couldn't stop myself.

Even though my mind screamed to close it, to walk away, to pretend I had never seen anything, my fingers found the diary again. I opened it slowly, almost reluctantly.

The next page was worse.

"Today... today also he didn't let me eat. I begged him. Just a few bites. My stomach was twisting, but he just looked at me like I was nothing .... like a stray dog asking for scraps. And when I sneezed, just sneezed, he grabbed my hand and burnt it on the stove. Like it was my fault. Like everything is always my fault."

My hands trembled. I couldn't breathe. The words were raw, desperate, and alive...they burned into me as if I could feel each wound, each humiliation.

I forced myself to turn the page.

"Then... then he dragged me. Right there, in front of my son. My baby. My sweet boy. He saw everything. I saw the fear in his eyes. The way he cried, screamed, 'Papa, stop!' But that man... there was no pause in him. No shame. No softness. Just rage. He hit me. Over and over."

I froze, the diary slipping slightly in my hands.

The woman in the photographs...the radiant, smiling Saanvi Raghuvanshi ....had written this.

She had suffered this.

And the children...the little boy, the girl, maybe even Advit had witnessed it.

My chest felt tight, constricted, as though the air itself had thickened.

I pressed the diary against me, unable to look away, unable to stop reading.

Tears blurred my vision, and for the first time since seeing Mihir, a cold, terrifying thought clawed at me:

Has this shaped him?

I couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

All I could do was sit there, shaking, the weight of her words crushing me.

Her pain. Her helplessness. The innocence of the children turned to fear in front of rage.

And I cried.

Not for myself, not for him...but for her.

For Saanvi Raghuvanshi.

For the life she had lived behind closed doors, her agony documented in painstaking detail.

I didn't know how long I stayed there, lost in the pages, my tears falling silently onto the diary.

I only knew that the world I thought I understood...the life Mihir carried with him, the man I was slowly noticing ... was darker than I could have ever imagined.

And yet, buried in that darkness, I couldn't stop thinking of the children. Of Advit. Of Naina.

Of Mihir himself.

The diary trembled in my hands as I whispered, almost to myself, "How... how could anyone survive this?"

stayed there for what felt like hours, clutching the diary to my chest. My tears had dried into damp streaks on my cheeks, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't put it down.

I opened the next page.

The entries were relentless. Daily accounts of abuse, humiliation, and fear. Words filled with pain, with desperation, with the weight of living under a man who had no softness in him, no restraint.

"He yelled at me again today. For what? I don't know. I didn't speak, didn't move. But it wasn't enough. Every look, every word, every silence was an accusation. And the children... they watched it all, innocent and helpless. I want to protect them. I can't. I can't."

My chest tightened. My hands shook. I felt my stomach turn, and a bitter rage began to bloom in me, sharp and uncontrollable.

I turned page after page.

Each word, each line, each memory etched in ink was a wound I could feel. Saanvi Raghuvanshi...the woman in the photos, the mother, the sister, the wife...had lived every day under a shadow I couldn't have imagined.

And then the pattern became clear.

It wasn't just anger, or cruelty, or discipline.

It was something deeper. A twisted, relentless abuse. A life controlled, broken, and silenced.

I found myself gripping the diary tighter, my knuckles white.

I could feel my chest burning ...a fire I hadn't known I carried.

His father.

I had never known much about him. Mihir had never mentioned him. And now, as I read the diary, I understood why.

Every cruel word. Every blow. Every mark of fear and helplessness, it was him.

I hated him.

I hated him with every fiber of me.

For the woman he had tortured.

For the children who had witnessed him.

For the life he had stolen from all of them.

"He doesn't see us as people. Just objects. Just weaknesses to punish."

The sentence burned into my mind.

I could see Saanvi, her hands shaking, her voice breaking, trying to survive.

I could see the children, terrified, looking to a father who didn't care.

I could see Mihir ...a child in the shadow of this man ...learning, absorbing, becoming strong in silence because survival demanded it.

And I hated Mihir's father all the more for it.

I sat back on the floor, the diary open on my lap, my chest heaving.

Tears blurred my vision again, but this time they were not only for her.

They were for the injustice.

For the cruelty.

For the man who had created this legacy of pain and left it to shape the next generation.

I didn't need to ask who had hurt Saanvi.

I didn't need to question the silence around Mihir's past.

I hated the man who had done this.

And somehow, in the quiet, I understood Mihir a little more...the mask he wore, the control he demanded, the walls he built.

Not as an excuse, never as forgiveness, but as the trace of a child who had survived something unimaginable.

I closed the diary softly, my fingers lingering on the cover.

I didn't know how to feel about him yet.

But I knew one thing clearly:

I would never forgive his father.

I barely had the strength to breathe as I opened the next page.

And immediately, my chest tightened, my stomach turned, and my hands shook.

The words burned into me like fire.

"Today... he went further. I can't even write it without trembling. He forced me... in front of the children. My baby boy, my daughter, all of them watching, and I... I felt smaller than air. I screamed, I begged, I tried to fight, but it was useless. Every cry, every plea was met with his rage."

"I don't understand how he can look at us and do this. My hands are bruised, my body is trembling, my heart is broken. I feel dead inside. I am nothing to him. Nothing. And the children... they cry, they hide, they ask me why Papa is so cruel. And I... I have no answer."

I pressed my palms to my face, hot tears spilling through my fingers.

I had read horror before, seen cruelty in the world, but this... this was intimate, personal, alive in a way that left me frozen.

I couldn't stop. I couldn't put the diary down.

"I wish I could disappear. I wish I could take them and run, but there is no escape. Every door is locked, every window barred. And he watches. Always watches. My baby boy... my little girl... they will remember this forever. How could anyone do this to a family? How could anyone?"

I sank to the floor, my back against the wall. The diary fell open on my lap, pages trembling as my own hands shook.

I couldn't stop the sob that escaped.

I couldn't stop imagining her pain, her helplessness, her terror, her children's cries.

I hated him.

Hated him with a fire that scorched everything in its path.

Mihir's father ...the man who had left a legacy of pain, who had shaped this boy into the man I was slowly trying to understand ....I hated him utterly, completely.

And yet, in the quiet, amidst the tears and the rage, a new, terrifying thought took root:

This is Mihir's history. This is what made him who he is.

I pressed the diary to my chest, shaking, unable to read any further.

The room felt suffocating.

The air thick with grief, rage, and disbelief.

And for the first time, I realized how heavy the past could be....how it could reach across years, across silence, across a lifetime.

My hands were shaking as I turned the next page.

And then... I froze.

Nothing.

The page was blank....except for the dark, crimson streaks that marred the paper. Blood.

I blinked, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me.

I turned another page. Blank. Blood. Blank. Blood.

My heart pounded in my chest.

What happened to her?

Saanvi Raghuvanshi. The woman whose pain had been etched into every line, whose life I had just witnessed in ink and photograph... where was she?

Why were there no more words? No more confessions, no more records of her suffering?

I pressed a trembling hand to my lips, staring at the diary as if it would suddenly speak.

Had she... stopped writing because she couldn't? Had she... died? Or worse?

The thought clawed at me, sharp and relentless. My chest felt hollow, as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

I sank to the floor, holding the diary close, staring at those blank, blood-stained pages.

The silence in the room was deafening.

And for the first time, I realized something terrifying: I might never know the full story.

I might never know what became of her.

All I knew... was that the darkness surrounding Mihir's past was deeper than I could have imagined.

And I was still here, in this house, holding pieces of a life filled with unimaginable pain.

The diary slid from my lap and landed on the carpet with a dull thud.

For a long time I just sat there, staring at it ...at those pages that stopped in blood and silence.

My thoughts tangled and pulled in a dozen directions at once.

If Saanvi Raghuvanshi was Mihir's mother, and Naina and Advit were his siblings... then where were they now?

Why had I never heard their names in any article, in any interview?

Mihir's life had been examined by the world ...reporters, business partners, politicians ...yet never once had anyone asked about his family. It was as if they had been erased.

Had he hidden them?

Or had something happened that no one dared to mention?

I looked around the room again...the quiet photographs, the locked drawers, the dust that seemed to settle heavier here than anywhere else in the house.

Nothing made sense.

A man so controlled, so precise in every word and movement, but with a past stitched together by pain and mystery.

My throat ached. "Where are they?" I whispered into the empty room.

No answer. Only the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant ticking of a clock.

I picked the diary up again and ran my fingers over the cover. It was cold now.

Cold and heavy, like the truth hiding behind it.

Something inside me shifted, I couldn't name it.

But I knew one thing: this family, these names, this silence... they were the key to the man I lived with and could never fully understand.

And for the first time, I wondered if Mihir's carefully built world was nothing more than a wall to keep the past buried.

The rest of the day passed in fragments.

I moved through the house like a ghost....half there, half lost inside those pages.

Every time I tried to focus on something else, my mind went back to the diary, to the photos, to the blood.

By evening, I found myself sitting in front of my laptop, the glow of the screen painting the room in cold light.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

I typed "Naina Raghuvanshi", then stopped.

It felt wrong...like trespassing into someone's buried pain.

But the questions wouldn't stop echoing.

So I pressed enter.

Nothing.

Just common names ...strangers, social media profiles that meant nothing. No photos, no traces that matched the little girl from the album.

I tried "Advit Raghuvanshi" next.

Again, nothing. No mentions. No records. No existence.

Finally, I typed "Saanvi Raghuvanshi" ...expecting, hoping, that someone so radiant, so alive in those pictures would have left at least a whisper in the world.

But there was only silence.

A few mentions of a woman by the same name, years ago ..unrelated. No obituary. No reports. No trace.

It was as if the entire family had been erased.

I sat back in the chair, the hum of the laptop fan the only sound. My chest felt heavy, my throat tight.

Part of me wanted to stop, to shut it all down and never think of it again.

Another part .... quieter, but stronger...needed to know.

What had happened to them?

What had Mihir seen, survived, buried?

My hand hovered over the trackpad one last time, and then I closed the laptop slowly.

Maybe I wasn't ready for the answers yet.

Maybe... some stories were buried for a reason.

But as I sat there in the dim light, I couldn't shake the feeling that the ghosts in this house weren't done speaking to me.

It was late when I finally heard the sound of the main door.

A soft click, the faint rustle of shoes being taken off, then silence.

Mihir was home.

I froze where I sat, still at the dining table, the closed laptop in front of me.

The diary was hidden beneath a stack of papers, but I could still feel it there ... its presence heavy, almost accusing.

He walked in, his steps steady, deliberate.

Same calm expression, same quiet authority that filled the space before he even spoke.

"Still awake?" he asked, loosening his tie.

I nodded, my throat too dry to answer.

He looked at me for a moment ...his gaze sharp, unreadable ...then turned away, heading toward the kitchen.

"Did you eat?"

I managed a quiet "yes."

The words stuck somewhere between truth and fear.

He poured himself a glass of water, drank, and leaned against the counter. "You look tired."

I forced a smile. "Just... didn't sleep much."

He gave a short nod, as if that was all the explanation he needed.

No more questions. No curiosity.

The kind of silence that used to feel comforting now pressed down on me, thick and suffocating.

I wanted to ask him ... about Saanvi, about Naina, about Advit ... the names that wouldn't leave my mind.

But my lips refused to move.

Something in his calm made it impossible.

Like crossing an invisible line I wasn't ready to face.

He walked past me toward his room, pausing only for a second. "Get some rest, Aayat."

I watched him disappear down the hallway, the sound of his door closing echoing faintly through the house.

And then the silence returned, heavier than before.

I turned my gaze toward the locked room down the corridor. The same one I had opened earlier.

Even from here, I could feel it calling...like the air itself remembered.

Maybe tomorrow, I thought.

Maybe tomorrow I'll ask.

But deep down, I already knew:

He'd never tell me.

Not willingly.

Sleep didn't come that night.

Not even for a second.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her.

That woman in the photo, Saanvi Raghuvanshi.

Her smile, soft and tired, with three children pressed close to her.

And those names written carefully in the diary...Mihir, Naina, Advit.

I couldn't stop thinking about the blood-stained page, about how the writing just... ended.

No closure. No explanation.

Just silence...like Mihir's silence last night.

By morning, I was done trying to convince myself that it didn't matter.

I needed answers.

And if Mihir wouldn't give them, someone else would.

Zyran.

I picked up my phone before I could second-guess myself and dialed his number.

It rang twice before he answered, his usual calm voice breaking through the static.

"Aayat," he said lightly, "to what do I owe this early-morning call?"

I hesitated, gripping the edge of the table. "Zyran... I need to ask you something. It's about Mihir."

There was a pause. I could almost hear the shift in his tone ..the easy warmth replaced by a hint of wariness.

"Alright," he said slowly. "What's wrong?"

I exhaled, trying to sound casual. I failed.

"Yesterday, I found a room in the house. One I'd never seen before."

Silence.

I continued, my words tumbling too fast. "There were pictures. A woman...Saanvi Raghuvanshi. And three kids. One of them looked like Mihir. There was a diary, too. It..."

My voice faltered. "It wasn't just normal writing, Zyran. It was... dark. Painful. Like she'd been hurt. Badly."

The line went quiet.

Too quiet.

I waited, heart pounding. "Zyran? Are you there?"

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, controlled ... but I could hear the weight in it.

"You shouldn't have gone into that room, Aayat."

I froze. "What does that mean?"

"It means exactly what I said." He sighed, the sound heavy. "That part of Mihir's life... it's not something he talks about. Not to anyone. Not even me."

"But I saw"

"I know what you saw," he cut in softly. "And I know what you're thinking. But whatever story that diary told you... it's not complete. You don't know the rest."

His words made my stomach twist. "So it's true, then? That woman...she was his mother?"

Another long pause.

Then, quietly: "Yes. Saanvi Raghuvanshi was Mihir's mother."

I gripped the phone tighter. "And Naina? Advit?"

"His siblings," Zyran said. "But Aayat..." His voice faltered slightly.

he said softly, "Don't ask him, Aayat. Not yet. You won't like what it brings out in him."

The line clicked.

Silence again.

Only this time, it wasn't Mihir's silence that haunted me.

It was Zyran's.

Because behind his calm, careful words...I'd heard fear.

The whole day went by like a blur.

Every ticking second of the clock echoed too loud in the empty house.

I tried to work. Tried to distract myself. Tried not to think about that room, that diary, those names.

But it was impossible.

Every time I looked toward the hallway, I could feel it ...the weight of that door, the ghosts it guarded.

And Zyran's words kept looping in my head.

Don't ask him, Aayat.

By the time Mihir's car pulled into the driveway, my heartbeat was a mess of panic and curiosity.

The door clicked open. His footsteps were the same ...calm, composed, unhurried.

Like nothing in the world could shake him.

"Long day?" I asked, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

He gave a short nod, setting his coat aside. "Parliament never ends on time. You'd think they were being paid by the minute."

A faint smile ghosted over his face....that same dry humor he always used when he wanted to shift the mood.

Normally, I'd smile back. Tonight, I couldn't.

He noticed.

Of course he did. Mihir always noticed.

His gaze lingered on me, searching. "You look... distracted. Everything okay?"

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

I didn't trust my voice.

Instead, I nodded quickly. "Just tired."

He studied me for another moment before walking toward the kitchen. "I'll change and come down for dinner."

I watched him disappear down the hall ...that hall...and my chest tightened.

The room was there.

The secret he had buried was right there.

And suddenly, I couldn't sit still.

When he came back, sleeves rolled up, casually asking about the new state proposal, I barely heard him.

He poured himself water, sat across from me, talking like everything was normal. Like there weren't ghosts in his walls.

I blurted before I could stop myself. "Mihir."

He looked up, mid-sentence. "Hmm?"

My throat went dry. The question trembled at the edge of my tongue....Who was Saanvi Raghuvanshi? Where are Naina and Advit?

But Zyran's voice echoed in my head. You won't like what it brings out in him.

So instead, I forced a smile. "You forgot your tie in the living room this morning."

He blinked, slightly surprised, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Tragic. The CM without his tie."

I managed a weak smile back.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on me

Then, softly: "You sure you're okay?"

I swallowed hard. "Yes. Just... thinking."

"About?"

You.

Your mother.

The blood in that diary.

I shook my head. "Nothing important."

He didn't push.

He just nodded, calm and unreadable, and went back to his meal.

And I realized...he knew I was lying.

But he wasn't asking why.

He was letting me.

That scared me more than anything else.

He didn't look up from his plate for a while, just kept cutting neatly, mechanically....as if everything in the world was perfectly under control.

But then, out of nowhere, he spoke...voice quiet, almost too soft to be Mihir.

"Are you really okay, my witch?"

My chest tightened.

The words hit harder than they should have...because he hadn't called me that all week. Not since everything with Tej Kapoor, not since the silence that had started sitting between us like a wall.

I forced a faint smirk, trying to hide the sudden rush of warmth in my throat. "Witches are always more than okay, Mr. Terrible Human."

He looked up at that...really looked.

For a heartbeat, the faintest smile tugged at his mouth. The kind that barely showed but somehow softened everything else about him.

"Mr. Terrible Human again?" he repeated, leaning back slightly in his chair.

I nodded solemnly, picking up my glass. "That's you. Terrible, bossy, impossible, and occasionally tolerable."

"Occasionally?"

"On very rare planetary alignments."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Good to know my reputation precedes me."

I rolled my eyes, pretending to focus on my food, but the tension that had gripped the room all evening had eased ...just a little.

The silence that followed wasn't sharp anymore. It was softer, careful.

And when I looked up again, his eyes were still on me ...steady, unreadable, but with something else beneath them.

Something that said he knew I was breaking rules I didn't understand, peeking into corners of his life that were off-limits.

But he wasn't angry.

Not yet.

He just murmured, almost under his breath, "My witch always has a smart mouth."

I smirked, trying to ignore the way my pulse jumped. "And you like it."

His eyes glinted .... just a flicker of amusement before he looked down again. "You're impossible."

"So are you," I said softly.

And for the first time that day, we both smiled ... the kind of small, fleeting smile that carried a hundred unsaid things.

Morning sunlight spilled across the floor, cutting through the heavy curtains and painting the room in gold.

For a moment, I just lay there... listening to the faint sounds of Mihir moving around the house, calm, efficient, collected as ever.

It was almost easy to forget what I'd found.

Almost.

But the memory of that diary...those words written in pain, in blood...refused to leave me.

It lingered behind my eyelids, waiting.

I got up, wrapped the shawl around myself, and stepped out quietly. The house smelled faintly of coffee. Mihir's voice drifted from the living room.....low, composed, on a call.

I stood near the kitchen doorway, watching him.

He looked... normal. Unbothered. Like he hadn't spent years carrying ghosts.

He noticed me then, his voice lowering slightly on the phone. "Yes, I'll be there in twenty minutes," he said before ending the call.

When his eyes met mine, he smiled faintly. "Morning, my witch."

"Morning, Terrible Human," I replied automatically, and that earned me the softest curve of his lips before he reached for his coat.

"You're not coming to the Secretariat today?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No. I have some work to finish here."

"Alright." He adjusted his cufflinks, the picture of calm authority. "Don't burn the house down."

I folded my arms. "No promises."

That earned a quiet laugh ..low, brief ...before he left.

The door clicked shut, and silence settled again.

And just like that, my restraint broke.

Five hours later, the coffee had gone cold beside me, my mind still spinning with questions I couldn't shake.

Zyran's warning replayed in my head...don't ask him, you won't like what it brings out in him....but curiosity has always been my curse.

I found myself walking down the hallway again, to that same door.

It wasn't locked. Mihir hadn't locked it.

That thought sent a chill down my spine.

Maybe he trusted me not to open it.

Maybe he didn't care.

Or maybe... part of him wanted me to.

My hand hovered over the knob for a second...just one ... before I pushed it open.

Dust particles floated in the slant of sunlight, soft and ghostly. The room was the same as before: the photo of Saanvi Raghuvanshi smiling, the table with the albums and diaries, the untouched stillness that felt like time itself had stopped here.

But something was different.

The diary....the one with the blood-stained page...wasn't where I had left it.

It had been moved.

My breath caught.

Someone had been here.

And before my mind could even form the next thought, I heard it ... the sound of the main door opening.

I froze.

Footsteps.

Measured. Heavy. Familiar.

Mihir.

He was home.

Too early.

My breath caught. I looked around... there was no time to hide, no excuse that would make sense.

The walls felt like they were closing in.

The footsteps grew louder, closer. Down the hallway.

And then they stopped.

Right behind me.

I didn't need to turn around to know he was there.

His words hung in the air ... calm but sharp, each one landing like a weight I couldn't breathe under.

He took another step closer, his eyes fixed on me, no softness left in them now.

"Why were you here, Aayat?" he asked, voice low, steady. "Why did you open this room?"

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering. "I just"

"Why," he repeated, quieter this time...but the silence after it was worse than a shout.

I clenched my fists, forcing my voice not to shake. "Because I had to know, Mihir."

His jaw tightened. "To know what? Something that wasn't yours to touch?"

"I'm your wife, Mihir!" The words burst out of me before I could stop them, raw and desperate. "I have every right to know what's buried in this house...what's haunting you"

He laughed.

Not out of amusement, but disbelief ...cold and bitter.

"Wife?" he repeated softly, as if tasting the word. Then his eyes lifted to mine, and they weren't gentle anymore.

"Contract wife, Aayat. Don't forget that part."

The words sliced through me.

"Just for five and half months more," he continued, his tone calm but cruelly deliberate. "That's what you agreed to, remember?"

I felt something inside me crack...something small

I opened my mouth, tried to argue, tried to say something...anything.

But no words came.

The weight of seven months pressed down on me like a physical force.

Mihir's eyes didn't soften. They held me in place, steady, unreadable, controlled.

"You're shuddering, Aayat," he said quietly, his tone calm, measured.

"Why don't you leave before this becomes... harder than it has to be?"

I wanted to protest. I wanted to tell him he couldn't just push me away.

I wanted to scream that I had every right...no, claim...to know him.

But the words felt hollow. Small. Ineffective.

I realized, with a sharp pang in my chest, that he was right.

I had no claim. Not beyond the contract.

Not beyond seven months.

"I..." I whispered, voice barely audible, my fists unclenching slowly.

"I'll go."

He didn't say anything else. He just watched me, calm, unwavering, until I turned and left the room.

The door clicked shut behind me, and the silence that followed felt heavier than any argument, any secret.

For the first time, I truly understood.

I was married to him.

But only on paper.

And the real Mihir..the one behind the walls, the pain, the past...didn't owe me anything.

And yet... it hurt like hell.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

AND YES TELL ME HOW WAS THE CHAPTER??????

To be continued

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