The room was quiet.
Zehn stood in the middle of the master bedroom, stripped from the weight of the bridal lehenga that now lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. The bruises on her ankles throbbed. Her spine ached. But there was no mirror in the room large enough to reflect what truly hurt.
The silence was thick, almost sacred. She walked to the dresser where Vivaan had told her she’d find something to wear.
She opened it slowly. Clean shirts. Folded perfectly. The scent of fabric softener and something more—something just him—rose up like a wave.
She picked one. A plain white shirt.
The fabric was soft. Warm from the room. She held it against her frame, pressing it close, letting it fall over her skin like a second layer of safety.
And then… she closed her eyes.
He smells like peace.
That rare, unfamiliar scent. That warmth.
For just a moment, her pain wasn’t louder than her breath.
For just a second, it felt like the world had paused for her to feel okay.
She brought the collar close to her nose, breathing him in. A shaky smile touched her lips.
Then—
Knock.
Her heart jumped.
“Smells good?”
The deep voice was unmistakable.
Vivaan.
She flinched, eyes wide, turning sharply toward the door—
Which was slightly open.
He stood there, leaning on the frame, not stepping in, not looking away.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he added, a calmness in his tone, as if he hadn’t just caught her in the middle of something so intimate.
Zehn pulled the shirt over her quickly, the sleeves still long, the fabric drowning her.
“I was just—”
“I know,” he said before she could fumble an excuse.
The silence stretched again. But this time it wasn’t awkward. Just… thick with words neither of them knew how to say.
Vivaan gave a small smile, a rare curve of his lips.
“I came to give you this.” He held out a soft blanket and a mug of warm water. “You haven’t eaten. But I figured… this might help a little.”
She took it without meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”
As he turned to leave, she stopped him. “Vivaan?”
He paused.
“Do you… always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Treat strangers like they matter?”
He looked over his shoulder. “No.” "And come for dinner downstairs".
And left.
Leaving behind the scent of something she couldn’t name.
-------
Zehn sat at the dining table, wearing his oversized shirt, her damp hair falling past her shoulders, her skin finally breathing. The table was neatly set—two plates, two glasses, and silence sitting right between them.
Vivaan walked in, dressed in black, sleeves rolled up, looking like he belonged to some untouched world. He pulled out the chair across from her and sat, not saying much. He didn’t need to.
She was grateful for the space he gave—neither acting like a stranger nor trying to play the part of a husband. They ate like… polite roommates. Like people who knew they were stuck in the same story but weren’t sure which roles to play yet.
Zehn quietly picked at her food, until something pulled her attention. A sharp scent. Familiar. Unpleasant.
She looked up slowly, nose wrinkling.
“You drank?” she asked softly, not accusing. Just curious.
Vivaan looked up mid-bite. “Hmm,” he responded with a half nod, casual.
There was another pause. She hesitated—should she even say it?
“I... I actually hate its smell,” she finally said, barely above a whisper.
He froze for a second.
She looked down, instantly regretting it. That was out of line. She shouldn’t be saying personal preferences to a stranger. Not to someone who didn’t owe her anything.
But then—
“I didn’t know,” he said gently, setting his spoon down. “Sorry.”
Zehn blinked, looking up.
“Next time, I won’t drink. Or I’ll make sure you don’t have to smell it,” he added simply. Not defensively. Not dismissively. Like her words mattered.
He didn’t justify his action. He didn’t joke about it. He just... promised, like it was the most natural thing.
Zehn stared at him, her chest tight with a feeling she didn’t know how to name.
He cared.
And that terrified her more than being unloved ever had.
She looked away quickly, afraid he’d see the way her eyes were starting to burn.
Vivaan didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions. He just poured her water and said,
“Eat before it gets cold, Mrs. Sehgal”
She hated how that name made her heart pause. But she obeyed.
Because this stranger…
was the first person who heard her silence.
“You’ll need to get ready tomorrow,” Vivaan said, his voice calm but clear.
“We’re going to get your stuff.”
Zehn blinked. “At what time?”
He looked up from his phone, eyes briefly meeting hers.
“Whenever you wake up… that’ll be the time for us to go.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that.
No alarm? No pressure? No rule?
She nodded silently.
---
The Next Morning
Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, painting golden lines across the bed. Zehn stirred, eyes fluttering open.
She turned to the bedside clock.
11:02 AM.
Her heart skipped.
I never wake up this late!
She scrambled out of bed, rushed to the bathroom, quickly freshened up and changed into a loose kurta and jeans from the stack Vivaan had quietly kept on a chair.
She fixed her hair into a bun as she walked quickly downstairs, expecting to see him waiting on the couch or working at the dining table.
But—
The house was dark.
No lights.
No footsteps.
No murmurs of movement.
“Vivaan?” she called gently. “Vivaan Sehgal?”
No response.
She stepped further into the silence, her footsteps echoing faintly. Just as anxiety began to wrap around her chest, she noticed light spilling from the kitchen door.
A woman—probably in her late forties—stood there, slicing vegetables.
“Excuse me,” Zehn said, carefully. “Do you know where Vivaan is?”
The woman looked up and gave a warm nod. “Sir has gone for horse riding.”
Zehn frowned. “Horse riding?”
“Yes,” the lady said. “He goes every morning. He left about an hour ago.”
“Oh. I see… I’ll just wait then,” Zehn muttered, embarrassed. “I slept too long. Please don’t tell him I just woke up.”
But the woman smiled apologetically and said, “I’ll inform sir that you’re awake. It’s his instruction.”
Zehn blinked. “It’s okay, really, you don’t have to—”
“I have to,” the woman said kindly. “It’s sir’s order.”
Zehn stood there, confused… not at the instruction,
but the fact that Vivaan Sehgal had quietly built a world where her mornings mattered—even if she didn’t believe they should.
Zehn sat on the edge of the bed,
Why is he… being like a real husband?
He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t questioned her. But he’d given her a room, space, silence—and now clothes, comfort, care.
It felt dangerous.
Because she didn’t want it.
Didn’t ask for it.
Didn’t deserve it.
She didn’t want another man playing husband.
Especially not when her heart still whispered Dev in every quiet moment.
---
Later That Day
The car ride was silent, but not awkward. He drove calmly, one hand on the wheel, his eyes flicking to her just once to ask, “Cold?”
She shook her head, keeping her arms crossed.
They arrived at a designer store—modern, wide, and overwhelming. Zehn stepped in hesitantly.
“You can take your time,” he said. “Look around. Try things.”
She nodded, walking deeper into the maze of colors and fabrics.
She reached out for a pale yellow lehenga but stopped before her fingers touched it.
No. Don’t.
Her heart remembered the slap she got years ago just for looking at something this beautiful.
She turned away quickly, pretending to fix her hair.
But Vivaan had seen her.
He said nothing—just picked the lehenga silently.
Again, when she passed a sea-blue sharara and lingered more than three seconds…
he picked that too.
Even the soft floral frock she looked at for a heartbeat too long.
He quietly added it to the growing stack.
She didn’t realize it until he came back, holding five outfits she never asked for.
“I didn’t say I want those,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “But your eyes did.”
“The price—”
“Is not your problem,” he said, already moving to the billing counter.
Zehn followed, flustered. “You don’t have to pay—”
“I’m not paying,” he said, signing the card receipt. “I’m investing in my wife’s wardrobe. That’s called survival tax.”
Her brows pulled in. “What?”
He leaned slightly, whispering, “Because if you wear your old clothes and keep looking that sad… people might think I’m a terrible husband.”
Her lips almost curved into a smile. Almost.
---
Outside the Store
He walked ahead, but when she tried to take the shopping bags from him, he pulled them back.
“Give them,” she insisted. “I can carry—”
He glanced at her wrist. “They’ll break. I don’t want to be accused of domestic violence.”
She scoffed. “Funny.”
He gave a half-sh
rug. “I'm just protecting national property.”
She stared at him.
He didn’t flirt. He didn’t try. He just noticed.
And in noticing, he unraveled her.
Stop being kind, Vivaan Sehgal.
She didn’t know how to survive kindness. Cruelty she understood.
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