I truly hope you all will leave some inline comments (comments beside specific paragraphs or dialogues).

⭐I ask a question at the end of every chapter. If you want try to answer it.

Praveer

“So, from now on Divya stays here,” Mr. Chatterjee says, his voice clipped, bitter. “All responsibility is on you.”

He doesn’t look at me when he continues, like he’s talking to the floor.

“She doesn’t want to stay with me—then this is what she chose. I asked her if she wanted to marry you. Her answer came too fast.”

There’s something in his tone. Not anger. Not sadness.
Disappointment?
Regret?

I don’t respond. Just nod once.

Inside, I’m already tired.
Tired of stepping deeper into someone else’s war.
Tired of the blood on my hands that never seems to dry.
And now ,I’ve signed up for two more years of it. Maybe more.

He looks at me, eyes hard.
“I hope you’ll take good care of my daughter.”

I nod again, silent.

Divya stands nearby, confusion written all over her face. She doesn't even glance at me.

Then, without a word, they all leave.

The door shuts.
Quiet. Too quiet.

A beat passes. Then—

“So, sir, I’m going too,” she says, breezy like we didn’t just sign a legally binding marriage contract ten minutes ago.

She’s already near the door.

“Stop.”

She halts. Turns slowly. Eyes wide, uncertain.

“Divya Chatterjee,” I say, stepping closer, “you’re not a Chatterjee anymore. You’re Malhotra now.”

She blinks. Forces an awkward smile.
“I mean… yeah. Isn’t that obvious? Haha… yeah…”

Her laugh is brittle. Nervous.

“You’re going to stay here from now on,” I say, firm.

She gapes at me. “What the hell?! Don’t pretend like you’re my real husband. You don’t get to tell me where to stay or not.... I’m going back to my rented flat.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Definitely and legally, I am your husband.”

She opens her mouth—ready to argue—but I cut in.

“And I heard you clearly. You told your father yes. No hesitation. You said… you love me.”

Her eyes flare wide.

“Excuse me? Really? You had to say ‘love me’? What is wrong with you?!”

"The craziness runs in both your families.”

“I mean…” she starts, her voice low, uncertain, “I thought you didn’t tell Baba about the financial thing. I thought you pretended… like, faked loving me or something…”

I don’t respond. Just stare at her. She’s rambling now clearly overwhelmed.

She throws up her hands. “Like how the hell was I supposed to know what you two talked about for thirty minutes behind in that stupid car?! He just came in and asked me if I really wanted to get married and then bam—the next question was if I loved you!”

Her voice cracks slightly on the word love. She’s not even looking at me anymore.

“I didn’t know what to say. I was confused as hell! I mean, I need the money and…” her voice trails off.

She swallows. “And I needed to get away from him, too.”

There it is.

Raw honesty, slipping past her defenses.

She’s not just talking about money. She’s talking about survival. About escape.

I watch her, still silent. She’s shaking a little not visibly, but I can feel it in the air between us.

Divya’s not used to being vulnerable. She masks it with sarcasm, with that dry humor, that attitude. But right now… it’s all stripped away.

I exhale slowly. “So you said yes.”

She finally meets my eyes. “Yeah. I said yes.”

Silence hangs between us, thick and heavy.

Neither of us knows what comes next.

We’re married.

But not in the way either of us imagined.

Not with vows.

Not with love.

With desperation. And a bargain.

She doesn’t even know.

If I can’t finish what her father asked… her fate won’t just be dark—it’ll be brutal. Ruthless. A kind of suffering where death would be a blessing.

I sigh, the weight of it all sitting heavy on my chest.

“Okay… good then,” I mutter, trying to keep my tone neutral. “You wanted to get married for money, right? Now you are. But here’s the thing…”

I pause, looking at her. She's still by the door, like she wants to run away.

“There’s a clause in the contract. I’m responsible for you. And to the government, we need to look like a real couple. They’re not handing over funds if they think we’ll get divorced three months in. They’ll be watching—there’ll be inspections.”

Her eyes narrow, voice rising in disbelief. “What do you mean... I’ll stay here? With you? Alone?”

I cross my arms, leaning back slightly. “You really don’t have a choice, Divya. Your father definitely believes you love me If you go back to your rented place and the inspectors find out? It’ll raise questions. The kind that could ruin everything.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then scoffs.

“This is insane,” she mutters. “I just wanted to get away. Not land myself in a damn prison with you playing pretend husband.”

I don’t respond to that. Not right away.

“Sit down,” I say, pointing to the chair at the kitchen table.

She hesitates for a second, her brows furrowed, like she’s trying to decide whether to argue or obey.

“You’re hungry. I know,” I add softly. “So… let’s eat.”

Her eyes flick to mine, then away.

“I’ll skip college today,” I say, already reaching for the cupboard. “You need rest. And you need to take your medicine too.”

She glances down at her stomach just a small, instinctive movement. But I catch it.

She nods. “Okay.”

The word is quiet, almost defeated. Like she’s finally given up fighting for now.

She moves slowly to the chair and sits, her fingers tracing the edge of the table. I can feel her confusion still hanging in the air between us. But there’s something else too… maybe trust. Maybe fear. Maybe both.

I turn to start preparing the food.

This isn’t how I imagined married life. Not even close.

But then again nothing about this is ordinary.

“Can I ask questions?” she says, resting her left cheek on the table, her eyes following my back as I stir the light chicken soup on the stove.

I don’t turn around.

“Yes,” I reply, then add, “Just don’t ask me what we talked about in the car.”

She pouts a little. “Hmm. Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Okay,” she mutters, then pauses a beat before continuing, “Then… why are you helping me so much?”

I freeze, the ladle hovering mid-air.

“I mean, you’re definitely suspicious sometimes like, mysterious and all that. And sure, you seem like a nice guy, but…” she trails off, watching me. “You helped me in so many ways after I came here. Why?”

I inhale slowly, gathering my words while staring into the steam like it might answer for me.

“I don’t know,” I finally say, quietly.

But that’s not entirely true. I do know.

She shifts in her seat, her voice gentler now. “You can tell me. I think I can relate more than you think. And… after recognising you, I don’t know, it just felt like maybe I should let you help. As much as I can. Even if getting married wasn’t exactly on my checklist.” She lets out a short laugh.

“But well… it happened.”

Her honesty stirs something in me. Not guilt. Something heavier. Sharper.

If only she knew what this marriage was actually wrapped around blackmail, blood debts, and the barrel of her father’s gun.

I place the ladle down with care and turn slightly, enough to meet her gaze. Her cheek still rests against the table, eyes soft but searching.

“I’m helping you,” I say, voice low, “because someone should’ve helped me back then. But no one did.”

She blinks, surprised. But she doesn’t speak.

I return to the stove. “That’s all for now.”

“Last question,” she murmurs, cheek still pressed to the table, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why would you agree to get married? I mean… a little clarity might help me understand whatever that mysterious conversation was between you two.”

I pause, the ladle hovering over her bowl, soup still steaming.

She’s looking for an anchor. Something solid to cling to in all this madness. And part of me wants to give it to her. But another part knows the truth is heavier than she can carry right now.

“Just listen carefully,” I say, setting the bowl down in front of her. “Your father gave me a job. A dangerous one. And today… you saw me with a gun.”

She nods slowly, her eyes locked on mine.

“You may see worse,” I continue.

“Worse than you want to imagine. Because to finish that job… I may have to become someone I buried a long time ago.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“If I succeed… maybe I get someone back. Someone precious. And you—” I pause, watching her fingers curl around the spoon, “you’ll get your freedom. A life away from all this.”

The silence lingers between us like smoke.

“I hope you won’t ask again,” I say gently. “If the right time comes… maybe I’ll tell you everything.”

She nods, quietly, and begins to sip the soup. I watch her for a moment—too tired to hope she understands, too aware she probably won’t.

But this much is clear we’re both trapped in a deal we didn’t expect, hoping we can survive the consequences.

★★★

“All done then,” I say, brushing off my hands.

She nods.

“So… do I take some rest now, or we head out?”

“You tell me,” I say, glancing at her. “Want to go now or later?”

“Yes! I need to go back soon. Let’s go,” she says, standing with urgency.

“Now? Are you sure?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes,” she repeats, already grabbing her things.

“Alright then. Stay here. I’ll just go change.”

My shirt feels like it’s clinging to my skin—too heavy for this weather. I swap it for something lighter, more breathable. No need to look like I’ve been through war—even if I have.

“Get in the car,” I say, tossing the keys in my hand.

She does without a word. The silence lasts until we reach her rented apartment complex.

And then—

“Aaaahhhh! Why are all my things outside?!” she screams, leaping out of the car.

I casually step out, stretching. “Why are you screaming like a duck? They’re loading your things into the truck—headed to my place.”

“What??? Noooooo!” she groans, spinning around, hands in her hair.

“Screaming’s not going to stop the inevitable,” I say, half-amused.

An old lady from the building peeks out, clearly enjoying the drama.

“Oh dear, she’s angry, isn’t she? Because you were late and she’s been unwell—ahh, young love!” Miss Decosta chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron.

I nod to her. “Hey, Miss Decosta. How are you?”

“I’m good, son.” she beams.

“I’m not going!” Divya shouts again, glaring at the movers.

“Then go back to your father, Mrs. Malhotra,” I say calmly.

She freezes. “Ehh? Ehhh!!! Nooooooo!” she wails, almost tripping over a suitcase.

I sigh, walking past her to help the movers. “Drama queen,” I mutter.

She follows behind, still protesting, but the look in her eyes says it all.

She’s terrified.

And yet—she's walking forward.

Even if it’s toward chaos.

“Get in the car. You’re disturbing the whole street,” I say flatly, watching the amused smiles of the loaders.

“You—you!!! You’re a dumbass!” she snaps, face flushed.

“Watch your mouth,” I snap back, my patience wearing thin.

“Young love... hehe,” Miss Decosta chuckles from her balcony, clearly enjoying the drama.

Divya storms over to her with a full-on pout, arms crossed. “I’m young! Not him!” she exclaims, then turns sharply and stomps toward the car.

Ouch.
Somehow, that stung more than it should have.

She throws herself into the seat with an angry thud and slams the door shut.

“Oh dear,” Miss Decosta murmurs, trying to suppress her laugh.

This wasn’t the plan. Not in any way. Not the angry glares, not the loud protests, not even this awkward silence that’s beginning to follow us like a second shadow.

But she’s here—storming into my world with fire in her blood and fear in her eyes.

“All done, sir,” one of the loaders says, stepping toward me.

“Okay. Good,” I reply, handing him the envelope with their payment.

Maybe it’s her youth… or maybe it’s the way she doesn’t understand the danger circling her life like vultures.

She thinks screaming is her weapon. She has no idea what kind of battlefield she’s been thrown into.
And me? I’m not her savior. I’m the knife she hasn’t realized is cutting both ways.

But now I’ve got blood on my hands... and a contract on my conscience.

I open the car door.
"You really bought an almirah this big? Like, this big-ass thing?" I scoff, watching the loaders wrestle it through the gate.
"And you don’t even have that many clothes to fill it."

She doesn’t reply. Sits there in the car, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Ah... silent mode activated.
She’s mad. Obviously. But it's not just about the almirah.
It's about being uprooted, forced into a life neither of us saw coming.

“Go upstairs and see if nothing's missing. Miss Decosta packed some of your stuff in a bag, so… check once.”

Still no words from her. She gets out slowly, stomping toward the building like it personally offended her.

She's walking like the floor owes her money.
But even so, this whole circus isn’t just her mess now. It’s mine too.

I watch her climb the stairs, refusing to look back.

This was never supposed to be real.
A favor. A deal. A signature and silence.
And yet, here we are—her, me, and a house that doesn’t know what love feels like.

She pauses at the top step. Glances over her shoulder.

No words. Just a look.

Yeah... keep pouting.
But like it or not...you’re going to stay at my place.

She pushes the door open. The room breathes emptiness—just a single bed remains, the one that belongs to the landlord.
She steps in, eyes scanning like a detective at a crime scene.

“They took everything? Everything was in it?” she says, voice flat but with a sharp undertone of disbelief.

“I mean... I told them to take every single thing they found,” I reply with a shrug, leaning against the doorway.

Just then, something shiny catches my eye near the dustbin. A glint of color, glass maybe? I step forward.

“Hm? What is that?” I mumble to myself, crouching.

Just as I reach out, boink!—a sharp knock lands on my head.

“Ouch!” I flinch, rubbing the spot.

She’s rubbing her head too. Apparently, we both lunged at the same thing.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” I mutter.

She grabs the object first, holds it up.

It’s—
My breath catches.

A kaleidoscope.

Not just any.

My kaleidoscope.

Handmade.
Worn-out colors but still whole.
My mother made it for me when I was a kid.

She’s holding a piece of my childhood in her palm.

she snaps, face flushed. “They just threw it here?! Like trash?!”

She looks furious. Her grip tightens on it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

She shoves the kaleidoscope into the pocket of her blue joggers, lifts the hem of her deep pink t-shirt slightly as she stomps past me.

Too much rage in a 5’2” frame.
God bless whoever marries her. Oh wait—
That’s me now. Hah.

She flings open the passenger door and slams into the seat like she’s punishing the leather.

I turn to the loaders and gesture, “Take her things to the house. I’ll be right behind.”

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I glance at her.

“Give that thing back to me. It’s mine.”

She doesn’t even look my way—just crosses her arms and stares out the window like I’m background noise.

“It’s mine now,” she mutters, her tone sharp. “You gave it to me. I didn’t even ask that time. So no—I’m not giving it back.”

“That’s my mom’s!” I snap.

“So what?!” she practically yells. “It’s one of my favorite things now!”

Oh, for god’s sake.
Am I arguing with my legally-wedded wife or a 10-year-old who stole my crayon in kindergarten?

“Are you a child?” I shoot her a side-eye.

“I’m not a child—but you’re not a child either, sir!” she snaps back.

I sigh. No need to argue more.
She’d probably fight the Yamraj over a blanket.

A silence settles. A heavy one. The kind that usually comes after small earthquakes and before emotional ones.

“I’ll sleep in the room I slept in last time,” she says suddenly, casually.

I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Hmm… that’s actually my room.”

She turns slowly. “??! There’s no other room then?”

“I mean… yeah, plenty of rooms,” I say, focusing on the road.

“But only one bed,” I add under my breath.

Yep. I said it.

Why do I feel like I just threw a match into a barrel of oil?

She blinks. Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“What the actual—” she begins.

─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────────

Thank you for commenting on the chapter with such beautiful and fun remarks. I really enjoyed them—thanks!

Question ⁉️: If you were in Divya's position, would you share a bed with Praveer or sleep alone in another room? Think from Divya’s perspective.

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