The house stood like a mausoleum at the edge of the city, cloaked in silence and a chill that felt older than time. Aradhana stepped out of the car, her embroidered saree whispering against her ankles as a cold wind teased the veil draped over her head. She tilted her chin up, forcing herself to look at the towering mansion. Pale grey stone, black iron gates, and an unnerving symmetry that looked beautiful in a way that didn’t feel welcoming.

Vihaan had walked ahead without waiting for her.

Aradhana followed, her suitcase wheels thudding softly against the cobblestones. She felt the driver’s eyes flicker toward her in the rear-view mirror, pity maybe. Or was it something else? Her fingers tightened around the suitcase handle.

The front doors creaked open. An old servant bowed his head. "Welcome, ma’am."

She offered a small smile, her lips trembling more from anxiety than the cold. The entrance swallowed her in silence as she stepped inside. The grandeur of the interior could have stunned her—polished mahogany floors, looming chandeliers, and portraits with eyes that seemed to watch—but she was already numb. Numb from the rituals, the endless faces, and the weight of her mother’s whispered instructions still ringing in her head: *“You are a Raizada now. Grace. Obedience. Strength.”*

Vihaan was nowhere to be seen.

---

The room assigned to her was spacious but sterile. Ivory walls, neatly made bed, antique furniture—all expensive, all impersonal. A maid stood waiting to unpack, her expression unreadable.

“Thank you. I’ll do it myself,” Aradhana murmured.

She needed something to do with her hands. Something that made her feel like she still belonged to herself. As she unpacked, carefully folding her blouses and laying out her modest jewelry, her eyes kept drifting to the mirror. The girl who looked back was a stranger in red silk.

Vihaan had barely spoken to her since the wedding. The few words exchanged were functional, curt. No trace of curiosity. No attempt at connection. During the wedding night, he'd offered her the bed, taken a blanket, and slept on the couch. Not out of respect—at least, it hadn't felt like that. More like duty. Cold. Disconnected.

She had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that something would shift after marriage. That maybe, once the noise faded, they would find a rhythm. But now, as she stood in this silent palace, the only rhythm was her heartbeat echoing in her own ears.

__

That night, dinner was quiet.

She sat beside Vihaan at the long dining table, the distance between them exaggerated by the length of the table. Across from her sat Vikram Raizada—Vihaan’s father.

His eyes lingered too long.

Aradhana felt it, a slow crawl up her neck like invisible fingers. She looked down at her plate.

"You eat very little," Vikram said, voice smooth like aged liquor.

“I’m not very hungry, sir,” she replied softly.

He smiled. "You’ll learn to be. The house has a way of stimulating appetite."

Vihaan didn’t react. He didn’t even look up.

---

Later, in the privacy of the bedroom, Vihaan entered after midnight. Aradhana was awake, but pretended to be asleep. She heard the soft rustle of clothes being removed, the bathroom door clicking shut. Water ran. She stared at the ceiling.

When he finally lay down on the couch, he said, “You don’t have to be afraid here.”

She turned her head, surprised.

His eyes were open, staring into the dark.

“But if I am?” she whispered.

A pause. Then, “Then pretend you're not. That’s what everyone does.”

She didn't know if that was advice or a confession.

---

A week passed.

Each day followed a pattern: quiet mornings, hollow meals, long hours in the garden where the wind seemed to carry secrets. Vikram’s presence haunted the halls—always there, watching. His questions were always wrapped in politeness but stained with something else. Something too close.

Once, she found herself alone with him in the corridor.

“You remind me of someone,” he said, stepping a little too close.

Aradhana stiffened. “Oh?”

“My wife. She had your eyes. Same fire. It didn’t last, of course. Fire tends to die out in this house.”

He touched a strand of her hair. Aradhana recoiled instantly, masking it as if adjusting her pallu.

Vikram chuckled. “Relax. I’m just an old man, reminiscing.”

She didn’t reply. Her breath was uneven until she reached her room.

That night, she locked the door.

---

Vihaan noticed.

“Why do you keep locking it?” he asked, voice unreadable.

“I sleep better that way,” she said, not looking up from her book.

“You’re not safe here?”

Aradhana closed the book. “Do you think I am?”

He didn't respond. But something flickered across his face—briefly. Doubt, maybe. Or guilt.

---

A few nights later, she heard footsteps stop outside her door. Slow. Lingering.

She sat up, clutching the blanket.

A shadow under the crack of the door. Then—silence.

When she told Vihaan the next morning, he didn’t believe her.

“Maybe a servant,” he said, brushing his cufflinks.

“Vihaan… it wasn’t a servant.”

He looked at her then. Finally looked.

“I’ll ask around,” he said quietly.

She wanted to scream. To shake him. To ask why he wouldn’t just say it—why he wouldn’t name what was beginning to fester beneath this house’s surface.

Instead, she nodded. “Okay.”

And went back to pretending.

---

But something had shifted in Vihaan. That evening, he came home early. He watched her more closely. Said less. And once, when Vikram entered the room, Aradhana saw Vihaan’s jaw clench.

A small thing. But it made her chest tighten.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

He was starting to see it too.