The soft hum of the engines fills the car. City lights blur beneath the clouds as Karan stares blankly out of the window. His eyes are red — not from sleep, but from the storm raging inside him.
His reflection on the glass looks like a stranger.

"She's my wife... my Mrs. Mehra."
The words replay in his head again and again, cutting deeper every time.

He tightens his fists. A silent tear slips down, tracing the outline of his jaw. He wipes it away quickly — as if erasing the proof of his weakness.

The memory of Aanya's frozen expression, her tear-filled eyes when Ishaan said those words, burns in his mind.

He shuts his eyes tight, whispering to himself:
"Why didn't you tell me, Aanya...? Was I really that easy to replace?"

The car comes to stop out side his apartment. He doesn't move. The world feels distant.
His heart aches not just with heartbreak — but betrayal, confusion, emptiness.

The door clicks open. The apartment is silent. Cold.
Karan drops his suitcase, walks to the kitchen, and pours himself a glass of water — his hands shaking slightly. He doesn't drink it.

He sets the glass down, and it shatters against the counter.
A shard cuts his finger, but he doesn't flinch.
He just stares at the blood bead forming — small, but raw.

He sits on the floor, head in his hands. The city lights flicker through the window.

"I lost her..." he whispers.
"To my own family." My own brother."

And for the first time, Karan Mehra — always the calm, confident one — breaks.
His sobs echo softly against the sterile walls.

The screen fades to black — the sound of rain faintly starting outside.

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Night-Mehra Mansion

It's night in the grand Mehra Mansion. The corridors are quiet, the lights dimmed, but inside one room — Aanya's room — restlessness hangs in the air.

Aanya paces back and forth anxiously, her bare feet brushing against the cold marble floor. This is the same room she came to when she first arrived at the Mehra mansion — small, plain, nothing like the luxury she once knew.

In just a few hours, she'll be leaving this room forever.

No — she isn't sad about leaving it. Why would she be? Back in the Verma mansion, her own room was like something out of a royal dream — elegant, bright, beautiful. Compared to that, this tiny space in the Mehra house feels like a servant's quarter, not a room for a daughter-in-law. So no, she won't miss this place.

Then why is her heart racing so fast? Why does her chest feel so tight?

Because she's not just leaving this room — she's moving into lion's den-- i mean  Ishaan's room.

The thought alone makes her legs weak.

The lion's den... she whispers in her mind. I'm going to live in the lion's den.

That's exactly what Mrs. Sikha had told her just a few minutes ago, when Aanya was in the kitchen helping Nita prepare dinner.

Aanya remembers every word vividly — how Sikha had come in, her bangles clinking, eyes widening in surprise.

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"Oh my God, Aanya! What are you doing?" she had exclaimed.

"Making dinner, aunty... Did I do something wrong?" Aanya had asked softly.

"Of course you did! Why are you working when there are plenty of people to do that?" Sikha had said, hands flying dramatically. "Look, Aanya — you don't have to do housework anymore."

Confusion snagged Aanya. "But why, aunty?"

"Why?" Sikha had laughed lightly. "Tell me, have you ever seen me working in the kitchen?"

Aanya shook her head shyly. "No, aunty."

"Exactly!" Sikha had smiled proudly. "I'm the second daughter-in-law of this house. When I don't work, why should you? You're the youngest one here. And if Bhabhi finds out that I made her new bahu cook dinner, she'll send me back to America holding my ears!" she said with mock fear, making Aanya smile faintly.

Sikha had taken the spoon from her hand, set it on the counter, and gently pulled her by the wrist. "Come on, leave everything." Turning to Nita, she'd said, "Nita, I hope you'll handle the rest?"

"Of course, ma'am," Nita had replied politely.

"Good," Sikha said cheerfully. Then she'd turned back to Aanya. "Aanya, listen to me — you don't have to do this anymore. You're the youngest daughter-in-law  of this house. And the dauhter-in-law of the Mehra family only cook for their husbands — not for the whole house. And that too, only when they ask for it."

Aanya had looked at her quietly, wanting to say that her husband — Ishaan — was the one who told her to do all this work, that he had called her a maid. But the words stayed trapped inside. She didn't want Sikha to start questioning why Ishaan had said that— her throat closed. She swallowed the words. No. If I tell her, everything will explode. . So she stayed silent, simply nodding.

"Have you packed your things?" Sikha asked suddenly.

Aanya had stared, heart pounding. Packed?  You're sending me... from here?" she thought. 

Sikha laughed softly, as if the idea should be obvious. "Silly girl. Of course you haven't packed. Come on — let's get you moved. I'll ask the maid to clear Ishaan's room for you. It's late to change now, but tomorrow — you should start sleeping there."

Relief washed through Aanya so sharply she nearly sobbed — and then her stomach dropped. His room. The lion's den. Her mind raced with images of a cold bed, empty spaces, the guarded study where he prowled like a king. He'll push me out the moment he sees me sleep in his room. He'll throw me back into that small room and laugh at me. He'll— her thought got cut of by sikha's voice

Sikha took her hand and squeezed it. Her voice softened. "Listen, sweetheart. I know there's something between you and Ishaan. But living apart won't fix it. If you want any chance of resolving this, you must be close. Stay together. Speak. Don't hide."

Aanya twisted her dupatta around her fingers and nodded. The words should have been comforting — closeness, communication — but to her they sounded like a dare. Still, she found herself obeying. A flicker of courage rose inside her: If staying near him might give me a chance to see the truth, maybe I should try.

Sikha hurried her to the wardrobe. "Pack your things ok. I'll tell someone to help you move your things to Ishaan's room tomorrow. Come on, now — we don't want to disturb him tonight."

Aanya hesitated at the threshold, heart pounding, then forced a small, dry laugh she didn't feel. "No way I'm going to sleep in a monster's den," she thought to herself, trying to be brave. But she moved — folding a few clothes, tucking a small mirror and the single photograph she kept of home into her bag.

As Sikha left the room, she looked back and said gently, "I'll be downstairs. Call me if you need anything." Her voice carried a promise of protection.

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That's how Aanya ended up here now — pacing restlessly in her room, heart pounding against her ribs like it's trying to escape. Her mind refuses to stop spinning.

What's going to happen now? she thinks, chewing her lower lip nervously. Will he even allow me to stay in his room?

Every possible scenario flashes through her mind — Ishaan's cold glare, his sharp words, the way he looks at her like she doesn't belong here.

She wraps her arms around herself, feeling a strange chill run down her spine despite the warm night air. The thought of entering his space makes her stomach twist.

She remembers how he used to ignore her presence, how his voice would turn ice-cold whenever he spoke to her. And now... I'm supposed to share the same room with him? The same bed?

Her heartbeat races faster. She shakes her head, muttering to herself.
"No, no... he's not going to let me stay there. He'll definitely throw me out the moment he sees me."

She lets out a long sigh, rubbing her hands together nervously. The ticking of the wall clock grows louder in the silence of the room — tick... tick... tick... — as if counting down the seconds until her doom.

Her suitcase sits open on the bed, half-packed, clothes folded neatly inside, but her hands won't move anymore. She just stands there, staring blankly at it.

Maybe I should tell aunty that I can't do this, she thinks desperately. I can sleep anywhere — even in the hallway — but not there... not with him.

But then she remembers Sikha's warm, proud smile, the way she called her "the Mehra family's youngest daughter-in-law."

A small part of her — the part that still believes in hope — whispers, Maybe this is a chance... maybe things could change between us.

But another, louder voice inside her says, Or maybe this is the beginning of another nightmare.

She looks at the clock again. It's almost 8 0:00 PM. The night is growing darker, and with each passing second, her fear grows heavier.

Her hands tremble slightly as she sits on the edge of the bed. What will Ishaan do when he sees me in his room?

Her throat tightens.
Will he be angry? Silent? Will he tell me to get out?

She lets out a small, nervous laugh. "Of course he will," she whispers bitterly to herself. "That's what the lion does when someone walks into his den."

She stares at the wall in silence, lost in thought, her eyes distant and uncertain. The mansion outside is quiet — too quiet — like it's holding its breath, waiting to see what will happen next.

Tomorrow, I leave my little safe room, she thought. Tomorrow, I go to his room. Tomorrow, I step into the lion's den — but maybe, just maybe, I'll find the truth there.

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The private bar is a shadowed alcove — low lights, leather booths, and the quiet hum of murmured conversations. Ishaan sits in a dark booth, alone save for the soft glow of his phone. He cradles a tall glass of sparkling water with a slice of lime — something to sip that isn't alcohol — and scrolls through his emails with a practiced, distracted air. waiting for someone.

The sound of footsteps approaches. A few moments later, a familiar presence fills the booth.

"Ahh here you are. Arav's cheerfull voice come.

"You finally made it," Ishaan says, forcing a small smile in Arav's direction.

Arav settles into the seat opposite him, all easy charm and casual confidence — Ishaan's oldest friend, the place Ishaan trusts most. He brushes a hand through his hair, still carrying the energy of the office.

"Sorry I took a while," Arav says. "New project spilled over. I came straight from the meeting after your text."

"You should have skipped if you were busy," Ishaan replies.

"I'd always come," Arav answers, grinning. "Busy or not — you know I'm there when my best friend needs me." He glances at Ishaan's drink. "What are you sipping? No hard stuff tonight?"

"No," Ishaan says, setting the glass down. "Not when sikhu Mom and Auncle at home. I don't want to give them another reason to be disappointed."

Arav's expression softens. "They're here from America? I'll drop by soon." and what do you mean by reason to be disappointed."

Ishaan's jaw tightens. "I told them."

"Told them what?" Arav asks, curious.

"That Aanya is my wife."

Arav nearly chokes on his drink.  "You told them? You actually told them that?"

"Yes. I told them she's my wife—nothing more," Ishaan says flatly.

Arav blinks, then presses, "Nothing more? You didn't explain why, or who she really is? You didn't tell them the revenge part — or that she's a Verma?"

"No," Ishaan answers. "I didn't tell them any of that. I only said she's my wife."

Arav leans back, studying Ishaan. "So what now? Are you going to accept her? Really accept her?"

Ishaan's voice loosens; the exhaustion cuts through. "I don't know anymore, Arav. I don't even know what I'm doing."

Ishaan's voice was raw with guilt.
"I married her to get revenge," he admitted, eyes fixed on the table. "But every time I look at her, it doesn't feel right to hurt someone who's done nothing. I feel like a sinner for punishing the innocent."

He closed his eyes, the memory surfacing like a wound. "And then I think of Nisha... and Aransh. Those images take hold of me, and I lose myself. I end up hurting her anyway." His hands tightened into fists.

Arav watched him, patient but firm. "Maybe you should stop, Ishaan," he said quietly. "Don't take your revenge out on Aanya. Accept her instead."

Ishaan's eyes snapped open, hurt and accusation flashing. "What are you saying, Arav? You were the one who gave me this idea — to marry Aanya so we could hurt Aransh for Nisha's death."

Arav didn't flinch. "Yes, I suggested it. We were both furious, and we wanted to hit him where it would hurt most. At the time, it seemed like the only way. But seeing you now — broken and hurt— I don't think you should keep doing this."

He leaned forward, earnest. "We'll get our justice from Aransh himself. We won't abandon that. But let Aanya go. Don't use her as the weapon."

Ishaan let out a long, defeated breath. He sank back into the leather sofa and dropped his head against the cushion, the fight in him spent for the moment. The private bar hummed around them, but for both men the noise felt distant — hollow compared to the weight of what they'd done and what still had to be fixed.

The storm isn't over, it's only changing its direction.

Thank you so much for reading SVSL.