Page 7 of Protect my Heart
“You were going to marry a stranger, but you have issues marrying me?” he snaps, jaw clenched.
Because you were never a stranger! I want to scream. But I don’t. Instead, I just glare at him.
“Just do it for six months,” he says again, his voice full of nonchalance. “For your mother’s sake.” He pauses. Voice drops lower. “For your safety.”
And that’s the thing. I know he’s right. My mother’s hanging by a thread. Vikram is dangerous.
And I’m so tired. So tired of fighting this alone. A tear slips down my cheek, but I quickly lower my gaze. I don’t want him to see me cry. Not anymore. Not again.
“Fine,” I whisper, swallowing everything inside me.
“Just six months.”
He nods once. “Just six months.”
CHAPTER 4
ANIKA
The silence in the room feels louder than any chaos outside. My heart thuds aloud in my chest.
Someone’s fixing the pleats of my lehenga again. Another brush of powder near my cheek brings me back to reality. A shuddering sigh escapes me, and I raise my eyes toward the mirror. There's a woman behind me muttering under her breath, something about kismat and how girls like me don’t deserve this. I catch a few words—shame, badnami, poor thing. I don’t respond. I don’t even look at her. I just stare at my reflection in the mirror, unsure who I’m even looking at anymore.
Despite all the gold jewelry, bridal makeup, and attire, I don’t feel like a bride. Not Vikram’s. Not Aarav’s.
Just… a girl who got dragged into something way bigger than herself.
The makeup brush stops. I think she notices how absent I am because her voice lowers into a whisper. “You should’ve run away, beti… men like him—”
The door opens, and she shuts up instantly and practically jumps back. I don’t have to look to know who it is. His presence always announces itself like a shift in gravity. I quicklydraw my eyes to the ground. I don’t even want to look at him. Disgust fills me at his arrival. He wasn't like this.
Aarav walks in, calm, collected, unreadable—same as always. Except now, he’s holding a folded piece of paper in one hand and something tight in his jaw.
“All of you. Out.” His voice cuts through the air, sharp and cold. The stylists and staff scurry out without a word, heads down. The door clicks shut, and then it's just him. And me. The silence is unbearable.
He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Doesn’t look at me with anything close to softness. He just walks over and places the paper on the table in front of me.
“Sign it.”
I blink at the paper, then at him—“What is it?”
“A contract.” His eyes finally meet mine. “Six months. That’s all this marriage will last.”
I haven't touched it yet. My eyes scan the heading. It’s all legal, typed, and impersonal. Like I’m agreeing to rent an apartment, not get married to the man I once thought I’d grow old with.
“No expectations,” he adds.
“You’ll stay where I tell you to. You won’t ask questions. You won’t interfere in anything. After six months, we’ll sign the divorce papers, and you’ll go your way and I'll go my way. Done.”
I stare at him for a second longer than I should. His face gives nothing away. No regret. No guilt. Not even anger. Just… blank.
“Wow,” I say quietly. “Romantic.” He says nothing.
A silent ache engulfs my heart as I pick up the pen and flip through the pages. My hands are shaking, but I keep going. I don’t need to read every line. The message is clear—this marriage is a formality. A compromise. A deal. Just another transaction in his world of power and threats. Angry tears line my vision as I scan the last page.
Still, I hesitate before signing. Tension lingers in my shoulders as I turn to him.
“I’m not the one who begged for this,” I say. “Remember that.”
