Ayanshi looked breathtaking in her bridal attire. The soft silk of her lehenga shimmered under the golden lights, highlighting her fair complexion, deep black eyes, and the faint blush on her cheeks. She looked like a dream—yet a dream that carried no joy. Today was her wedding day, but the sparkle that should have lit her eyes was missing.
Her groom, Lavish Vardhan, stood tall beside her. A man in his late thirties, he was the epitome of charm and success—handsome, perfectly dressed, admired by all. People whispered compliments about him, but Lavish remained composed, almost detached.
For Lavish, this was not a union of hearts. For Ayanshi, it was not a fairy tale. Their marriage was a contract, bound not by love but by mutual agreement between families.
On their very first night together, Lavish had spoken without hesitation:
"Don’t expect love, romance, or a husband-wife relationship from me," his voice was firm, leaving no room for hope. "We are married for only three years. After that, we part ways. I won’t interfere in your life, and you won’t interfere in mine. Understand?"
Ayanshi, calm but heavy-hearted, had simply replied,
"I don’t have a boyfriend, and I don’t expect anything from you. I’ll follow the contract."
That was all. No promises of forever, no warmth of companionship—just a deal signed by fate.
When they reached his mansion, there was no grand welcome. No relatives, no rituals. Just silence. Lavish showed her to a room prepared for her. Neatly arranged clothes, nightwear, and essentials awaited. He pointed to the room on the left. “That’s mine,” he said before leaving her alone.
Ayanshi wandered into the balcony. To her surprise, it had her favorite touch—potted plants swaying gently in the night breeze. She changed her clothes, sat on the swing, and let her thoughts drown in the moonlight. Memories of her past, regrets of choices, and the strange uncertainty of her future—all poured out in silent tears.
The next morning, Lavish followed his disciplined routine—workout, jogging, breakfast—while Ayanshi still lay curled under her blanket. When she finally emerged, she busied herself in the kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast. She even stepped outside to feed the stray dogs with leftover omelette, her heart softening at the wagging tails.
Lavish noticed, irritation flashing across his face. But instead of praising her effort, he dismissed it coldly:
"Don’t eat what she made. I’ll arrange something for you. You only eat what I give you, understood?" he told his assistant, Riddhi, loud enough for Ayanshi to hear.
Ayanshi froze. Her first attempt to share a small gesture of normalcy had been rejected. Without a word, she retreated to her room. She refused to touch the food his staff prepared, her pride standing taller than her hunger.
Later that day, a message pinged on her phone. Her bank balance reflected a sudden transfer—fifteen lakh rupees. Lavish had credited her account, a monthly expense allowance.
For a moment, Ayanshi stared at the digits glowing on the screen. Money was never her weakness, but the gesture was clear: in this marriage, she was free to live as she pleased, provided she remembered—it was only a contract.
