Ann sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers gripping the delicate embroidery of her bridal dupatta. The silence in the dimly lit room pressed against her, heavy and suffocating. She had spent years perfecting the art of silence—of feeling nothing. And yet, tonight, with the weight of a stranger’s name tied to hers, everything felt different.
The door clicked shut behind her. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.
"Ann Rathore."
Her spine went rigid.
The name slithered through the air, rich with something she couldn’t quite place. Ann turned sharply, her eyes locking onto Prithab Rathore as he leaned against the dresser, unbuttoning the collar of his sherwani with lazy precision. His voice had been smooth, casual—yet it struck her like lightning.
He smirked, clearly noting her reaction. "What? Did you think I’d hesitate to say it?"
Ann swallowed, masking the storm within her. "It’s just a name."
"Is it?" He stepped closer, his gaze sharp, unreadable. "Because the way you just flinched tells me otherwise."
She forced herself to meet his eyes, her voice cold. "We don’t have to pretend, Prithab. This is a marriage in name, nothing else."
"Nothing else," he echoed, his smirk fading slightly. "Then let’s make this easy."
Ann exhaled slowly, expecting his terms.
"We stay strangers." His voice was calm, calculated. "You live your life, I live mine. No expectations, no questions, no past, no future. Just two people trapped in the same house, waiting for time to pass."
She should agree. It was logical, practical.
And yet…
"Strangers?" she repeated, tilting her head. "Then why do you keep looking at me like you want to figure me out?"
Prithab’s jaw tightened for just a fraction of a second before his smirk returned. "And why do you look at me like you already have?"
Ann inhaled sharply, but he had already turned away, unbothered, unaffected—just as he had promised.
But then—
"You know, Ann Rathore…" His voice was softer this time, dangerously smooth. "For strangers, we already know too much."
Her brows furrowed. "Like what?"
He took a slow step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "Like the fact that you don’t like silence as much as you pretend to." Another step. "Or that your fingers tremble when you’re trying not to react."
Ann clenched her fists, refusing to back down. "And what about you, Prithab Rathore?" she challenged. "What do I know about you?"
He smirked, his gaze dropping to her lips for the briefest second before returning to her eyes. "That you want to find out."
Her breath hitched, and he chuckled, shaking his head.
"Careful, Mrs. Rathore," he murmured, brushing past her just enough for his shoulder to graze hers. "If you keep looking at me like that, we might not stay strangers for long."
And with that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Ann alone with a name that suddenly felt heavier than it should have.
Because no matter what they said—
Strangers weren’t supposed to feel this much.
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