The ride from the wedding hall was quiet—too quiet.
Zehn sat stiffly in the backseat of the black luxury car, her hands resting on her lap, clutching the red bangles that still jingled softly with every bump on the road. The sindoor in her hairline itched, but she didn’t raise a hand to touch it. She kept her eyes on the road, not daring to glance at the man beside her.
Vivaan sat calmly, one hand on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead. Not a flicker of tension on his face. Not a sign that he had just married a stranger in front of a hundred people.
After what felt like forever, he finally spoke.
“You can breathe, you know.”
She turned to look at him, startled.
“You’ve been sitting like someone’s watching your every move,” he added, eyes still on the road. “But no one is. Not anymore.”
She didn’t respond.
He continued, casually, “The house isn’t very crowded. No big family drama. No mother-in-law from TV serials waiting to test you. I live alone.”
That made her blink. “Alone?”
“Yes. I don’t believe in people living like cattle under one roof. It's peaceful.”
Silence stretched again.
Then he said, in a much quieter voice, “Also… you don’t have to act like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a statue. Silent, obedient, fragile.”
His tone sharpened slightly. “You’re a human being. Start acting like one. You don’t need permission to blink. Or breathe. Or be.”
Zehn glanced at him. For the first time, there wasn’t fear in her eyes—but confusion.
“You don’t know me,” she said, her voice small.
“I don’t need to. You’re not the first girl I’ve seen being crushed under other people’s expectations.”
He didn’t look at her. But she saw his hand tighten on the wheel just slightly.
“I’m not asking you to like me,” he said, finally. “But I am telling you this—if you’re planning to continue being that scared little girl everyone made you into, then this house will feel like a grave.”
It wasn’t a mansion, not a palace like she’d expected from a man like him.
It was a modern, sleek house. Quiet. Private. Cold in appearance, but clean and sharp—like him.
He stepped out and opened the door for her.
She hesitated, then stepped out slowly. Her lehenga swept the marble tiles as she followed him in.
“Welcome home” Vivaan said dryly.
Zehn looked at him.
And for the first time since the wedding… she smiled. Just a little.
Her heels had started digging into her feet long ago, and the endless fabric dragged across the floor with every small shift she made. But she said nothing. She had grown used to discomfort.
As she stepped into the hallway, she turned to him, unable to hold it in anymore.
“Why did you do it?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm. “Did my father beg you? Or was it pity?”
Vivaan didn’t even flinch. He simply locked the door behind them and replied, calm and cool, “No one begged. I needed a wife.”
Zehn blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he said, shrugging off his coat and tossing it on the side. “No big story. No emotional drama.”
She was stunned. Everything about him seemed too simple for someone who had just married a stranger. Like he didn’t care.
But then…
Without a word, he walked behind her. Before she could even process, he crouched slightly, lifted the edge of her lehenga gently, and freed it from where it had tangled with her heels.
Not once did she complain. Not once did she even show pain.
But he noticed.
He noticed.
And that—hit her harder than anything else that day.
Her throat went dry. The world, for a second, felt slower. No one had ever noticed the little things. No one had ever seen her discomfort without her speaking it out loud.
“You… you didn’t have to do that,” she said, quietly.
“I know,” Vivaan replied, standing back up, completely unaffected. “But it was hurting you.”
She stared at him, confused.
“Why are you being this nice?” she asked finally. “We just met. You don’t know me. We’re two strangers married by accident. You could’ve ignored me like the rest.”
Vivaan turned to her, his eyes unreadable. “Just because we’re strangers doesn’t mean I have to be cruel. I believe in decency.”
“And after this decency ends?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
He looked at her for a long second.
Then, “Then you’ll know what kind of man I really am.”
Vivaan walked ahead without a word, seemingly unaffected by the strange new dynamic that had just formed between them. Zehn stood there for a moment, watching him, before the thoughts in her head spilled out in a rush.
“You don’t have to do that for me,” she said quietly, her voice strained. “Really, there’s no need. We’re not a couple. This is just a last-minute marriage. It means nothing.”
Her words hung in the air, cutting through the silence between them. She couldn’t stop herself. She had to say it, to make it clear.
She continued, her voice faltering as she said his name. “This marriage—it’s nothing more than a nightmare, Vivaan. And you’re just a replacement.”
Vivaan paused, the tension between them thickening, but instead of saying something harsh—like she expected—he turned slowly and faced her.
“Mrs. Zehn Vivaan Sehgal,” he said, his tone soft, simple. The words didn’t carry the weight she feared, no cruelty, no bitterness—just his voice, steady and almost kind.
For a second, Zehn froze. Mrs. Zehn Vivaan Sehgal
The cold, harsh truth.
He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t cold.
And that—his softness—was what hit her hardest.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, she just looked at him, her heart in turmoil, because in those three words, something shifted inside her.
She didn’t know how to respond to that. She wanted to tell him that it was all wrong. That this wasn’t what she wanted. But his soft words lingered in her mind, haunting her with their simplicity.
The sound of her name on his lips, followed by the quiet simplicity of the words, made something inside her tremble. For a moment, it felt like his voice was too deep, too steady, too confident for a man who barely knew her.
“I don’t want to be your replacement,” Vivaan said, his voice low, not accusing, but merely stating the truth. “But you’re going to have to give this marriage a chance, Zehn. For both our sakes.”he said.
He paused .
“You might think this marriage means nothing, but from this moment on—you are my responsibility. And I don’t walk away from what’s mine.”
The way he said it—firm, quiet, without a hint of arrogance—sent chills down her spine. There was no romance in his tone, just truth. Simple, grounded truth.
And for Zehn, those words meant more than she could admit.
But what struck her was how much those words meant to her. The finality. The ownership. The reality.
She swallowed the knot in her throat but didn’t say anything.
Breaking the tension, Vivaan’s voice was firm but not unkind. “The master bedroom is yours. Just when you reach the end of stairs , turn left.”
Zehn blinked, confused. She turned toward the stairs, her lehenga brushing the floor, her steps hesitant.
“Yours?” she asked, looking back at him, her voice almost too quiet.
“The room next to yours,” he said without looking at her.
She nodded, though she didn’t quite understand what kind of man he was yet. She had no idea what kind of marriage she was now in, what role she was supposed to play.
Vivaan didn’t stop there. “You’ll find clothes in the dressing room. For now, you can wear whatever fits from there. Tomorrow, I’ll buy you new clothes.”
Zehn blinked at him. “It’s okay, I can call my dad to bring my stuff.”
Vivaan’s gaze turned sharp, though his voice remained calm, controlled. “No. From now on, nothing from your past, nothing tied to your trauma, your pain, will enter this house. Not even your things.”
She froze, her heart skipping a beat at the finality in his words. Her past—her father, her broken engagement—none of it had a place here, not even her belongings.
Her throat tightened, the reality sinking in.
Vivaan turned, not waiting for her response. “The past stays where it belongs. In the past.”
Zehn’s chest tightened. Her thoughts raced.
But she didn’t argue.
For
the first time in years, she felt like someone had shut the door on her pain, even if it was a stranger doing it.
A stranger who now held the key to her future.
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