The Kapoor penthouse was a fortress of glass and marble by day, a different creature from the opulent chaos of the wedding night. The morning light poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, sharp and unyielding, revealing not just grandeur but order—a palace run with the precision of an empire. Quiet corridors carried whispers like offerings, laughter regulated to acceptable decibels, footsteps muffled on expensive carpets.

Aisha stood at the threshold of the grand family dining room, a fresh lavender kurta clinging to her like an ill-fitting smile. Her body ached, a silent reminder of the night before—the mechanical consummation of vows, her first night as a wife reduced to a transaction executed in silence. She had showered twice since dawn, but the scent of Rohan's skin clung like a shadow she couldn't wash away.

At twenty-two, Aisha felt like a guest in her own life, her heart a tangle of nerves and fading dreams, tethered only by the stubborn spark of her resolve. The wedding night had been no fairy tale; Rohan's touch, calculated and cold, his insistence on loyalty over love, had built a wall she hadn't agreed to. She had hoped for tenderness, a glimpse of the man beneath the mask, but his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, held only secrets, like a vault she couldn't open. Arvind Uncle's warning echoed—"Phoenixes carry scars. Sometimes they burn what's closest to them."—and she wondered what debts Rohan carried, what shadows she'd married into.

The dining room bustled with the Kapoor joint family, a tableau of tradition and control. Chachi, a wiry woman in a green saree, stacked puris onto a silver platter, her bangles chiming in rhythm with the clatter of cutlery. Dadi sat at the head, her cane resting against her chair, her maroon saree regal, her eyes scanning everything and missing nothing. Vikram lounged at the far end, sleepy-eyed and smirking, stirring his tea with exaggerated slowness, his kurta rumpled as always.

"Ah, our new dulhan," Vikram announced when he spotted Aisha, his grin spreading like sunlight slipping through curtains. "Looking like Lakshmi on a Monday morning. Hungover from all the divine blessings, hmm?"

Aisha managed a faint smile, moving to touch Dadi's feet, her kurta rustling softly. "Good morning, Dadi," she said, her voice steady despite the weight in her chest.

Dadi's hand rested on her head a moment too long, her eyes sharp but warm. "Good girl. But you look pale, beta. Not slept?" Her voice was gentle, but it carried a weight, as if she saw the storm beneath Aisha's calm.

Aisha hesitated. "A lot on my mind. New place, new faces. It'll take time." Her fingers trembled slightly around her dupatta.

Dadi nodded. "You'll find your rhythm. The Kapoor women always do. We are not the ones who complain." The warmth in her voice was tempered by tradition, expectation—a throne lined with thorns.

Aisha sat beside Chachi, who passed her a steel tumbler of warm milk. "He likes his coffee strong," Chachi said. "Make sure you learn that. And he hates noise during the morning paper. Don't ask questions at the table. He's very particular."

Aisha blinked. "I... wasn't planning to," she said. The bruises on her thighs throbbed like silent punctuation to the sentence. The weight of Rohan's gaze from the night before returned—not lustful, not even curious. Just clinical.

Chachi's smile didn't soften. "Good. Makes life easier."

Rohan entered the room like a switchblade unsheathed—sharp, quiet, purposeful. His navy kurta was starched, every button perfect. His hair combed back with soldierly precision. He didn't glance at Aisha. Didn't offer a word. Just nodded at Dadi, took his seat, and unfolded the newspaper.

Aisha watched him, searching for even a sliver of warmth. A flicker of acknowledgment. Nothing. As if last night—his body in hers, her whimper beneath his control—had never happened.

Vikram coughed into his cup. "So, Bhai, how's married life treating you? Or should I ask Aisha for the real review?" He winked. "Blink twice if you're being held hostage, bhabhi."

Rohan didn't look up. "It's early. Too early for theatrics." His voice was smooth. Distant. Not even cold—just empty.

Dadi rapped her cane against the floor, sharp and decisive. "Let the girl breathe, Vikram. She's still settling."

Settling. The word scraped down her spine.

Later, Chachi guided Aisha through the long polished corridors, past antique vases and locked doors. At the end of the hall, a room tucked behind the courtyard: her space. Or so they said.

An embroidery box sat untouched. A low puja corner smelled faintly of camphor. It was serene. Decorated. Curated.

"This will be your space," Chachi said. "Just don't touch Rohan's study. Ever. He likes things... untouched."

Aisha smiled—tight. Dry. "Untouched," she echoed. "Like me?"

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut.

Chachi's expression flickered. "Mind your tongue, Aisha. You're a Kapoor now. Act like one."

Aisha turned to the window. The jasmine vines along the courtyard wall looked trapped. Twisting for light.

"I'll try," she said.

Behind her, a voice that had no softness.

"Chachi, leave us."

Rohan had entered without a sound. Silent as a knife.

Chachi exited fast, without a word. Aisha didn't turn.

His voice was quiet. Measured. "You're settling in."

She turned then. Met his gaze full-on. "Into what?"

He stepped closer. Close enough for her to smell the musk of his cologne. The heat of him. The lack of emotion in his eyes.

"Tonight is the reception. More guests. More cameras. You'll shine."

"I'm not a chandelier, Rohan."

"No. You're mine. Act like it."

His voice didn't rise. It didn't have to. The chill in it was colder than steel. His hand brushed a strand of hair behind her ear—but not with affection. With possession. Like adjusting a detail in a portrait.

"I'm your wife," she said. "Doesn't that mean something to you?"

His eyes darkened. But not with guilt.

"It means everything. It means you obey. It means you reflect me. That's what marriage is. Not fantasies. Not rescue."

Her breath hitched. "What is this really, Rohan? Why me?"

He paused. A flicker of something in his eyes—contempt? Regret? Triumph?

"You'll understand. In time. But tonight—tonight you smile."

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

Aisha stood alone.

She touched the lotus clip in her hair. The only piece of herself she hadn't shed.

The reception loomed. Another performance. Another mask.

But her fire hadn't gone out. It burned quietly.

Waiting.