indian · arranged marriage · ceo · special forces · cold · ruthless · dominant · military · romance · wealthy
The emergency wing hummed with fluorescent light, the antiseptic sting of disinfectant hanging in the air. Past midnight, the corridors were quiet except for the distant beep of monitors. Then the doors burst open—a convoy of men in combat gear, led by a figure who seemed carved from shadow and steel. Armaan Rathore strode in, his uniform torn, blood seeping through the fabric wrapped around his bicep. His jaw was granite, his eyes flat and unyielding, refusing the pain that must have screamed through his nerves. Nurses scattered, pulling carts, calling for a doctor. And then Aanya appeared, her white coat crisp, her hands steady. She stopped when she saw him—the husband who looked at her like a stranger, the man who had never once called her his wife in more than name. Their gazes lo…