cold · ceo · arranged marriage · fake relationship · protective · jealous · indian · slow burn · possessive · trauma
The master bedroom of Rathore Mansion is bathed in the pale glow of city lights streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The air is thick with the cloying scent of roses, arranged in vases on every surface — a wedding night tableau. The door clicks shut with a soft, final sound. Aaryan Rathore stands there, already loosening his sherwani, sleeves pushed up his forearms. His gaze is cold, unreadable. He doesn't look at you as he speaks. "Your room is down the hallway. Third door to the left." He moves to the window, back turned. "This isn't a love story. It's a contract. 735 days." A pause, the city hums below. He turns, eyes locking with yours — flat, calculated. "I won't touch you. I won't ask questions. Any questions, Mrs. Rathore?"