The Kapoor reception was a spectacle of grandeur, a theater of gold and mirrors where masks smiled wider than mouths. Chandeliers glittered like frozen stars, and champagne cascaded like liquid opulence. Aisha moved through it with calculated grace, her sapphire-blue saree hugging her frame, the lotus clip still anchored in her hair like a weapon. Her body ached from nights of mechanical obligation, but her eyes were clear, sharp beneath kohl, burning with a question no one dared answer.

Beside her, Rohan was ice in silk. His hand hovered at her lower back—not warmth, but control. His smile charmed the elite like a trained blade, his gaze distant even when it touched her. Every introduction, every toast, every congratulation passed through her like a needle: empty, cold, necessary.

"You must be so happy, Aisha. He's every girl's dream," cooed one of the socialites, her voice syrupy, her diamonds blinding under the lights.

"Yes," Aisha replied with honeyed venom, "like a dream I haven't woken from yet."

Rohan's lips didn't twitch, didn't so much as flicker.

But later—when the crowd was gone, and the elevator sealed them in silence—he turned.

His voice was silk. No warmth. Just edge. "What was that line downstairs?"

"Which one?" Her voice matched his—sweet, soft, fatal.

"Don't play coy."

She stepped closer, her scent jasmine and defiance. "Should I lie better, Rohan? Say I'm adored? Should I pretend you know what side I sleep on, what scent I wear? Or are we just perfect on paper?"

He didn't blink. Didn't falter.

"You're a Kapoor now. You reflect me. That's what matters."

"Then polish me properly, husband. Because I refuse to be a dull ornament."

The elevator dinged.

He stepped out. She followed, her smile intact.

The cracks began as whispers.

Aisha's laughter rang a little louder when Vikram teased Rohan at breakfast. She leaned in a little too close to Dadi, earned her approval with quiet wit and perfect chai. She wore vermillion lipstick without permission. Red—like warning. Red—like rebellion.

She placed a pressed jasmine flower inside Rohan's leather-bound planner. Between the pages of dates and debts. He said nothing. But the next morning, the planner was locked in a drawer. That night, the lock clicked louder than any slam.

She tried harder.

She made his favorite aloo parathas herself and served them hot with mint chutney, hoping for a word, a look. "I remember Dadi said you liked these," she murmured, her voice soft, eyes scanning his face.

Rohan took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "They're fine."

No smile. No warmth.

Later, she tried again—set down a cup of coffee just the way he liked it: black, no sugar. Her dupatta brushed his arm as she leaned over. He didn't move, didn't look up.

"You're hovering," he said coldly, eyes still fixed on the laptop.

"Just trying to help," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Then don't."

Still, she didn't stop.

That night, she lit sandalwood incense in their bedroom, slipped into a silk nightgown with delicate lace tracing the neckline. She waited, perched on the edge of the bed, her body humming with tension, heart loud in her chest.

He entered, paused.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Just... a night for us," she offered, standing slowly, the silk clinging to her hips.

Rohan stepped closer, eyes dragging down her figure. He reached out and grazed his knuckles along her collarbone, down to her waist. "You think this will make me want you?" he murmured.

She swallowed. "I thought... I thought maybe you'd see me."

He took her by the waist, pulled her to him. His hands were sure, his touch commanding. He kissed her like it was a transaction—slow but devoid of tenderness. His lips trailed to her jaw, her neck, but his eyes remained open, distant.

She melted into it, willing herself to believe. Her body responded, aching for something real, for validation. But he didn't kiss her mouth again. Just undressed her, piece by piece, until she stood bare under his gaze.

"Turn around," he said, voice low, hoarse.

She obeyed.

His hands explored her as if memorizing geography—not out of passion, but out of ownership. When he finally entered her, it was with brutal control, his breath steady, his grip tight. She whimpered—part pain, part surrender.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to moan. Instead, she bit her lip and moved with him, hoping that if she pleased him enough, he might see her.

After, he rolled away, already reaching for his phone.

"Was I good enough tonight?" she asked quietly.

No answer.

The next day, she dressed in a sheer cream saree, gold embroidery catching the morning light. She cooked again. Placed jasmine in a vase beside his reading chair. Tried again.

That evening, he walked past the flowers, didn't glance once.

She sat in the balcony alone, her tea cold in her hand, the breeze catching the edge of her dupatta.

"Do you even see me, Rohan?" she whispered to no one.

Inside, Rohan stood in the hallway, just out of sight. His fists clenched.

He saw.

He always saw.

But seeing her meant acknowledging what was real.

And real was dangerous.

Later that night, Rohan returned to their bedroom, his movements deliberate and controlled. Aisha was already in bed, the silk sheets hugging her curves. He undressed slowly, his eyes never leaving her. She lay still, her breath shallow, her heart pounding in her chest. He slid into bed beside her, his body warm against hers. His hand traced the line of her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, before cupping her breast. She gasped, her body arching into his touch. He leaned down, his lips capturing hers in a fierce, demanding kiss. His tongue explored her mouth, tasting, claiming. She moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. His lips trailed down her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin. She gasped, her body trembling with anticipation. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve, every dip. He cupped her between her legs, his fingers finding her wet and ready. She moaned, her hips bucking against his hand. He slid a finger inside her, then another, his thumb circling her clit. She cried out, her body clenching around him. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth, tasting her. His eyes never left hers as he did, his gaze intense and hungry.

He positioned himself between her legs, his cock hard and ready. He entered her in one slow, deep stroke. She gasped, her body stretching to accommodate him. He began to move, his hips thrusting against hers, his pace slow and deliberate. She wrapped her legs around him, her heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper. He obliged, his movements becoming faster, harder. She met him thrust for thrust, her body clenching around him, her breath coming in short gasps. He leaned down, his lips capturing hers in a fierce, passionate kiss. His tongue explored her mouth, his teeth nipping at her lip. She moaned, her body trembling with pleasure. He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles. She cried out, her body convulsing as she came, her inner muscles clenching around him. He groaned, his body tensing as he followed her over the edge, spilling himself inside her.

He collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. He rolled off her, pulling her into his arms. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He stroked her hair, his touch gentle and soothing. She closed her eyes, a contented sigh escaping her lips. For the first time since their wedding night, she felt seen, felt desired. But as sleep claimed her, she wondered if it was enough, if this was the beginning of something real or just another night of mechanical obligation. "Is this enough?" she wondered silently, her mind drifting into a restless sleep.