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"Who is she?"

The living room instantly fell silent.

Everyone—Sikha, Dinesh, Jay, Jiya—turned toward Ishaan.

Even Aanya lifted her eyes, anxious, wondering:

Is he going to introduce me as his wife?
He accepted me in front of other family member... so surely he will tell his mother the truth?
Why would he hide it from her?

But deep inside, Aanya knew this house had its own rules.
Her hope trembled.

Ishaan swallowed, throat tight.
He looked at Aanya—she was watching him, waiting.

"Mom... she—"

Before he could finish, Mrs. Mehra spoke again, her tone warm but curious.

"She looks like a very nice girl... but who is she exactly?"
Her eyes slid back to Aanya.
"Beta, do you work here?"

Aanya opened her mouth to answer, but Ishaan cut in quickly.

"No, Mom... she's here for you."
His voice held panic—like he was trying to grab the only excuse he could find.

"She's going to help you while you recover."

Aanya's face fell.

The words pierced deeply.

Of course. I'm back to being just a helper.
He reminded me of my place again.
She scoffed silently at herself.

Jay, Jiya, Sikha, and Dinesh all looked at Ishaan—surprised, confused.
None of them expected this answer.

Mrs. Mehra turned from Aanya back to Ishaan.

"Help me?" She frowned slightly.
"Is she a nurse?"

"No, Mom, she isn't a nurse or helper" Ishaan said quickly.
"She will simply take care of you. You need constant support... so she'll stay with you during your recovery."

Mrs. Mehra nodded in understanding.

"That's good then."

Ishaan exhaled—but guilt twisted inside him.
He hadn't wanted to say it.
But what was he supposed to tell his mother?

'Mom, this is my wife... whom I forced to marry me'?
No.
Not when she had just woken up after four months.
Not when one more shock could break her again.

Later, he promised himself.
When she is strong enough. I'll tell her everything.
___

"The day continues" Mrs. Mehra met the house staff, talked with her family, and tried to settle back into normal life.
After hours of laughter, memories, and relief, the dining table was finally set for lunch.

Everyone sat down except Aanya.

She stood near the kitchen doorway, hands folded, quietly watching.
She didn't dare sit.

Helpers don't sit with the family, she reminded herself.
That's the place I belong again.

But her thoughts scattered when she heard a soft but firm voice.

" Beta... why are you standing there?
Come, sit beside me. Have lunch."

Aanya froze.

She hadn't expected kindness—especially from Mrs. Mehra.

Everyone turned to look at her.

Sikha gave a gentle encouraging smile.

Aanya glanced at Ishaan instinctively.

He nodded once.

Her heart steadied a little.
She walked forward and sat beside Mrs. Mehra—carefully, respectfully.

Mrs. Mehra smiled at her.

"What is your name, beta?"

"A-Aanya," she replied softly.

"Aanya..." Mrs. Mehra repeated, her smile widening.
"Such a sweet name.
It feels familiar... like I've heard it before somewhere."

Aanya and Ishaan stiffened instantly.

Both gulped at the same time.

Because they knew exactly why.

Of course Mrs. Mehra recognized the name—
Aanya Verma... daughter of her best friend.

Ishaan prayed silently:

Please don't remember her face.
Not right now.

He knew his mother had last seen Aanya when she was just thirteen—before she left for America.
 mrs verma and mrs mehra had spoken about her a few times, but she had never met the grown-up Aanya.

He could only hope she wouldn't recognize her yet.

Aanya kept her eyes down, afraid to breathe.

Mrs. Mehra kept trying to recall.

Something tugged at her memory...

...but didn't quite connect.

Not yet.

After lunch, everyone slowly went to their rooms. Since Ishaan had introduced Aanya as the one who would "take care" of Mrs. Mehra, she naturally took up her duty and helped the older woman walk to her room.

But once that was done, she quietly returned upstairs— to her own room, oh no not her but to Ishaan's.
Silently, she started packing her belongings again.
Not her clothes—those she had never shifted into the closet anyway. Only her books, notebooks, and little personal things.

If I'm a helper again, I shouldn't stay in his room, she thought, swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth.

Just then, Ishaan stepped in.

He had been already drowning in anger, guilt, and a storm of thoughts. When he had told Aanya earlier that he would find the truth about Aaransh, he had made another decision too—one he had not shared with her.

He had decided that from now on, he would not hurt her.
Forced marriage or not—she was his wife.
If she was willing to give their marriage a chance, then he would give her her rightful place.
Once the truth came out—if Aaransh was guilty, Ishaan would punish him. But if Aaransh was innocent, then Ishaan would accept his own mistake and do whatever Aanya decided.

This was the agreement between them.

But at this moment, when Ishaan saw her silently packing... something inside him panicked.
Really panicked.

He hurried toward her.

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply.

Aanya looked at him with a calm, almost empty expression.
"Packing my bag. Since I'm a helper again, I should go back to the helper's room."

Ishaan shut his eyes for a second, regret filling him.

"Look, Aanya... I'm sorry. I didn't want to say that to Mom. Please believe me."

" Then what did you want to say?" she asked quietly.
"Were you planning to tell her that I'm your wife? Hmm?" She aske mockingly.

Ishaan took a deep breath.
"Yes. I wanted to tell her that you're my wife."

Aanya's hand froze. She let out a dry laugh, not out of joy, but disbelief.

"Then why didn't you, Ishaan? Why did you make me a helper again?"

"I wanted to tell her... but I couldn't, Aanya."
He sounded helpless now. "She isn't fully stable yet."

Aanya looked at him, calmer than before. "What do you mean?"

"She's physically fine. But she just came out of a coma. She still hasn't recovered from Nisha Di's death."
His voice softened painfully.
"When she woke up and realised Di was gone, she panicked... fainted. Doctor said she is in a very sensitive condition. Any stress, any shock could trigger another attack. Until she recovers fully—until she herself is emotionally strong—I can't risk it."

He looked at her with guilt.

"So tell me, Aanya... knowing her condition... how could I tell her that you're my wife? That I forced this marriage? That you're Aaransh's..."
He hesitated for a heartbeat.
"...that you're Mom's best friend's daughter."

This was the first time Ishaan had said aloud—he knew who Aanya was.
And that his mother is  Aanya's mother dearly freind.

Aanya's eyes filled.
She inhaled shakily.
"You did the right thing, Ishaan."

He exhaled deeply, relieved. He didn't know why, but he wanted her to understand everything—wanted no misunderstandings.

He continued, gently, "We decided we'll find the truth. Until then, I won't do anything that hurts you."
Then in a lower voice, "But Aanya... once the truth comes out, if Aaransh is guilty... I won't spare him. And that will hurt you the most. But this is what we decided, right?"

Aanya nodded. "Yes. Right now, we should focus on aunty's recovery and the truth."

She placed another book into her bag.

Ishaan frowned. "Where are you taking that?"

"To my old room," she replied simply.

"Why?"

Aanya blinked at him.
"Seriously, Ishaan? Your mother doesn't know about us. She shouldn't know. So obviously, I can't stay in your room."

Ishaan ran a hand through his hair. "You don't need to leave. You can stay here. Mom won't find out. She lives downstairs, and she's too weak to come upstairs. You'll be with her all day. At night, after giving her medicines, you can come back here. She won't know."

"Hm..." she said thoughtfully. "That makes sense.
But why do you want me to stay? You should be the happiest if I leave your room. You hate me, right?"

"Aanya..." he sighed.
"When did I say I hate you? I don't hate you. I just... I'm angry. At what happened. At what Aaransh did. But like you said hurting you won't change anything." so yehh i am trying to make things right.

Aanya scoffed softly.
Liar... you said you hate me when you were drunk.

She thought she said it only in her head.
But Ishaan heard it.

"What did you say?" he asked.

She ignored him deliberately. "Whatever."
She rolled her eyes and unpacked the books again, placing them back on the table.

Ishaan watched her with a faint, amused smirk.

Did she help me that night when I was drunk?
He tried recalling but couldn't.
God, I hope I didn't do anything embarrassing...

His thoughts broke when he heard the wheels of her bag rolling. Aanya dragged it near the table.

"That bag has your clothes?" Ishaan asked.

"Yeah."

"Then why don't you  put them in the closet? Why keep them in a bag?"

"Closet?
You mean your closet?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes." he replied casually, as if it was obvious.

Aanya stared at him.
What is wrong with him today? Is he hurt? Is he overly happy because aunty came home? Why is he suddenly being... nice? Sweet? This isn't normal. god cold ishaan is better then sweet. 

"You won't mind if I keep my clothes in your closet?" she asked cautiously.

"Why would I mind?"
He smirked lightly.
"My closet is huge — ten bags like yours can fit in it. And we're married, Aanya. And aren't Married couples share closets, Right?" he said teasingly and smirk.

Aanya just stared at him, cringing internally.

God... why is he acting sweet again? This hot-and-cold behavior is confusing. Cold Ishaan was easier to handle.

Still confused, she picked up her bag, walked to his closet... and pulled the door open.

And then her eyes widened.

Because everything Ishaan just claimed...
His "big empty closet"...
His "ten bags can fit here"...

All of it was a lie.

The closet was PACKED.
Stuffed.
Organized within an inch of its life — so neatly arranged that even one T-shirt from her bag wouldn't fit.

Not one inch of free space.

She let out a shocked laugh.

Ishaan walked over and stood beside her.
He looked at her face... then at his overflowing closet... and gave a sheepish, guilty smile.

"Hehe... don't worry," he said quickly. "I'll make space."

He immediately started shifting his clothes aside.

Aanya, still stunned, pointed slowly.
"All these... are your regular clothes?"

"Yes."
He continued adjusting hangers.
"I keep everything organized. Each row has a different type of clothing."

Aanya blinked.
"But why separate them so perfectly? Like a showroom?"

"Because I like organization," he said proudly.
He pointed to the rows.

"These four rows are seasonal clothes — summer, winter, monsoon, travel.
This row is for office suits.
This one is for nightwear.
And this last row is casual clothes."

He paused.
"Wait... I can move my casual wear with my nightwear. Then this whole row will be empty for your things."

He started rearranging everything again.

Aanya just stared at him like he was an alien.

Oh God... he's so organized. Like, freakishly organized. My closet is chaos — I can't find one piece of clothing without searching for fifteen minutes. And this man has categories by season, by occasion... Wow. We are not compatible at all. What a strange man...

Her thoughts broke when he spoke again.

"Done."

"Huh?" she asked, still lost in her observations.

"This row is empty now."
He stepped aside.
"You can keep your clothes here."

"Um... okay," she whispered, still unsure.

She slowly took out one folded suit from her bag and placed it on the empty shelf.

Ishaan watched her quietly.

Too quietly.

It made her glance at him.

"What?" she asked, defensive.

"Nothing," he said, still staring.

She narrowed her eyes. "Then stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like..." she swallowed, "like you're studying me."

He didn't deny it.

Because he was.

He watched the way her hands trembled slightly. Watched how she placed each piece of clothing gently, almost respectfully, as if afraid of disturbing the perfect order of his closet. Watched how she swallowed hard, how her eyelashes flickered every time she felt his gaze.

He stepped a little closer.
Not too close — just close enough that she felt his presence behind her.

Aanya froze for a second.

Her fingers, resting on a folded kurti, stopped moving.

"Relax," he murmured softly. "I'm not going to eat you."

She rolled her eyes, but her voice came out softer than she intended.
"You're standing too close."

"I'm literally two steps away," he said with a small, teasing huff.

"It's still too close," she muttered.

Ishaan's lips twitched.
She was scared... but not of him.
She was scared of her own reactions.

She placed another dress on the shelf — crookedly.
Totally not aligned with the others.

Ishaan noticed.

He leaned forward slightly, reaching his hand over her shoulder, fixing the cloth gently. His fingers brushed against hers by accident.

Just a tiny touch.

Barely one second.

But both of them felt it.

Aanya's breath caught.
Her eyes darted to his hand, then to his face.

He quickly cleared his throat and stepped back a little.

"Sorry. Habit," he murmured.

"What habit?" she asked, trying to hide her nervousness.

"Fixing everything. Keeping things straight," he said, not meeting her eyes.

Aanya's heart gave a stupid, unwanted flutter.

She turned away, pretending to rearrange a stack of clothes that were already perfect.

Silence stretched between them — soft, warm, not uncomfortable.

Then Aanya whispered, almost against her will:

"I'm not used to this."

"Used to what?" he asked gently.

"You..."
She paused, searching for the right words.
"...being nice."

That hit him harder than she intended.

His voice dropped lower, calmer.

"Aanya... I'm trying." to be nice with you.

She finally looked at him.

Really looked.

And for the first time since their marriage, she saw vulnerability in him.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Not coldness.

Just a man trying — awkwardly, imperfectly — to do something right.

Her chest tightened.

She looked down and whispered, "oh-okey."

Ishaan let out a small sigh of relief.

And without thinking, he said quietly, honestly:

"I don't want to hurt you."

Aanya's fingers stopped arranging the clothes.
Her throat tightened.

She didn't turn around — she couldn't — but her voice was soft, fragile:

"...Then don't."

Something shifted in the air.

A softness neither of them expected.
A gentleness neither of them planned.
A first step—tiny but real—toward something that wasn't war.

They both knew it.

But neither said it.

Aanya continued placing the last piece of clothing in the shelf, and Ishaan quietly moved aside, giving her space... yet staying close enough that she knew she wasn't alone.

--

In broad daylight, deep in a backyard, two figures stood facing each other. Their shadows stretched long across the uneven ground.

"It's done," the first man said calmly. "And about that car you told me to check— it doesn't belong to any ordinary person."

"What do you mean not ordinary?" the second figure asked, his voice tense.

"That car is registered under  Divalo man's  name," the first man replied. "And Divalo is not just a name... it's a mafia organization. Dangerous, underground. The man driving that car—he's one of their members."

"A mafia group?" the second figure repeated, shocked. "What was a mafia member doing near that building? Did you get his phone?"

"Yes," the first man answered. He reached into his jacket and handed the stolen phone over.

"No one saw you... right?" the second figure asked again, there tone sharp and cautious.

"Relax," the first man smirked. "I'm not new to this. I'm here to help you, remember? I only followed the car's owner, confirmed his identity, and then shadowed him on a quiet road. I caused a small 'accident' and took his phone while he was distracted."

The second figure exhaled slowly, the news settling like ice in there veins.
"Good," the figure said quietly.

Without another word, second figure turned and walked away, leaving the backyard heavy with secrets—and a new, dangerous truth.

----

The mansion felt unusually calm that evening. A gentle silence wrapped the halls—soft, peaceful—because just a while ago the entire Mehra family had been gathered in Mrs. Mehra's room. They had spent precious time together after month's of fear and uncertainty. There were tears, laughter, long hugs, and whispered prayers of relief.

Now, after that emotional reunion, everyone had drifted back to their own routines. The house was quiet again, holding the afterglow of warmth and gratitude.

Ishaan was in his study, the faint golden light of a table lamp spreading across stacks of documents and his laptop. He hadn't gone to the office today; he preferred to work from home so he could stay close to his mother.

He tried focusing on his work, typing quietly, the soft sound of keys echoing in the silent room. His shoulders were a little relaxed now, the earlier tension finally easing.

Then—
Ping.

His phone vibrated against the wooden desk.
Ishaan glanced at the screen, expecting some work update.
Instead, his brows tightened.

"Another unknown number?" he muttered, confusion mixing with irritation. The notification was from an unknown number—again.

A strange heaviness settled in his chest as he opened the message.
There was a folder attached.
The same empty sender ID.
The same eerie silence.

Ishaan's frown deepened. His heartbeat slowed, then quickened.

He clicked on the folder.

And the warm, peaceful evening shattered into cold suspense.

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