It was a little past one in the morning when Harshavardhan finally pushed open the heavy oak doors of their bedroom. 

His last meeting with his German clients had just ended—two relentless hours of strategy, negotiations, and carefully controlled temper. 

His voice had been sharp, his eyes cold, but beneath that controlled exterior was a man whose veins still pulsed with the residue of anger from the day. 

He had been tested in ways no boardroom could ever prepare him for.

The room inside was dimly lit, the bedside lamp still glowing faintly, but what caught his attention first wasn't the light—it was her.

Aaradhya lay on the bed wrapped tightly in the blanket, curled into herself like a frightened child. Even in her sleep, she looked delicate, fragile. 

Her breathing was slow and even, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of slumber, but her face betrayed her. 

Her nose and cheeks were still tinged pink, and the faint puffiness beneath her closed eyes told a story that words did not need to.

 Anyone who glanced at her could have read it instantly: she had cried herself to exhaustion.

He stood there for a moment, silent, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor. 

The world outside was still, yet the moon was unusually bright tonight. 

Positioned high in the velvet sky, it poured directly through the sheer curtains, bathing her face in its silver glow. 

The scene looked ethereal—almost unreal. Her small face glowed faintly under the moonlight, like a fragile porcelain doll that might shatter if touched too roughly.

Without a word, Harshavardhan reached over and switched off the bedside lamp. 

The room fell into deeper quiet, though not into darkness—the moon was enough to illuminate every curve, every detail of her sleeping form.

 He slipped his phone onto the side table and lowered himself onto the mattress with a quiet sigh, the day's fatigue finally pressing down on his shoulders.

The bed dipped under his weight, and he slid under the blanket beside her. 

For a moment, he simply stared at her, his eyes tracing every detail—the faint frown etched across her forehead even in sleep, the small pout of her lips, slightly swollen and bruised from her constant biting, the faint imprints of his fingers still visible against her delicate skin. 

Marks that told the story of his temper—angry red against her softness.

He inhaled sharply, running his tongue across his teeth, his jaw tightening. He had never tolerated disobedience before. 

Never once, in all his years of power, had anyone dared to humiliate him the way she had—intentionally or not. 

And yet here she was, lying beside him, so unguarded, so unaware of the storm that lived within him.

Almost reluctantly, his hand moved. Strong fingers brushed against her cheek, tracing the faint outline of the marks he had left earlier. 

Her skin was soft, warm under his touch, though the redness was still visible in the pale moonlight. 

His gaze lingered on her lips—those bitten, bruised lips that trembled when she was frightened. 

Slowly, almost against his own will, he leaned forward and pressed the pad of his thumb against them, feeling their softness, their fragility.

A sigh escaped his lips. He exhaled slowly and reached toward the drawer of the bedside table.

 Pulling it open, he retrieved a small tube of ointment. With hands surprisingly gentle for a man known for his ruthlessness, he applied a thin layer across the bruises on her lips, then to the faint redness on her cheeks. 

She stirred slightly, her body shifting closer to his warmth, but did not wake.

He capped the ointment and slid it back into the drawer before switching off the lamp completely. 

Now only the moonlight remained, silvery and cold, contrasting the warmth that was slowly building under the blanket.

Her face, so small compared to his, seemed to disappear against the breadth of his chest. Her body was dwarfed by his larger, muscular frame. 

And yet, despite the imbalance, she seemed to instinctively seek him out, unconsciously pressing closer to him as though his body provided the very comfort she craved in her sleep.

With one hand, he reached up to the crown of his head and pulled loose the tie holding his hair back. 

His long, dark strands tumbled over his shoulders, damp with the remnants of his evening shower. He let them fall freely, then lowered himself fully onto the pillow.

Carefully, he slid his arm beneath her head, replacing the pillow with the solid warmth of his bicep. 

He adjusted her gently until her cheek rested there, her body curled toward his chest. His other hand, heavy and large, rested across her waist, holding her firmly as though daring her to slip away.

Aaradhya stirred in her sleep again, her small hands shifting until one clutched lightly at his shirt. A faint whimper escaped her lips, but almost instantly, her body settled. 

She pressed her face against his nape, her nose brushing against his beard, her lips brushing the rough skin of his throat. 

Instinctively, she snuggled closer, seeking heat, seeking comfort, perhaps seeking protection even from the very man she feared most.

The room was cold—its air conditioning still humming at a low, steady rhythm. 

But under the blanket, pressed against the hard planes of his chest, she found warmth. Whether it was conscious or unconscious, she melted into his embrace as though she belonged there.

Harshavardhan lowered his chin, his beard brushing against the crown of her head. 

For a moment, he simply held her like that, his eyes staring at the moonlit ceiling.

 His mind replayed the chaos of the day—those slaps, the humiliation, the viral footage, the furious calls. But here, in this dimly lit room, all he could hear was her breathing, soft and steady against his chest.

And despite himself, despite the storm that brewed inside him, his own body began to relax. His eyes closed, heavy with fatigue, and the world finally faded away.

Within moments, the ruthless CEO who had ruled his world with iron precision was asleep, with his fragile, trembling wife held tightly in his arms.

----------------

The next morning arrived cloaked in a curtain of relentless rain. 

Since the early hours of dawn, heavy sheets of water had poured from the heavens, drumming against the vast glass windows of the Acharya mansion and flooding the city below. 

By six o'clock, the streets were rivers, the gardens outside a sea of rippling puddles, and the sound of the storm was a steady, unending chorus of thunder and water. I

t was the sort of rain that silenced everything else—the sort that made the world outside feel impossibly far away.

Inside the master bedroom, the air was thick with the mingling of warmth and silence, disturbed only by the low hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic sound of rain lashing against the windowpanes. 

Beneath the soft weight of the blanket, Aaradhya remained curled into Harshavardhan's broad chest, her petite frame almost swallowed by his sheer size. 

One of her small hands had unconsciously clutched at his shirt through the night, as though anchoring herself to him while she slept, while his heavy arm rested securely around her waist in the exact position it had fallen into the night before.

It was an intimacy that belonged to lovers—an intimacy they did not share. And yet, in the quiet of the storm, they had unknowingly mirrored it.

Aaradhya stirred first.

 Her lashes fluttered weakly, and she let out the smallest of groans, her temples aching from the faint remnants of the hangover that still lingered in her blood. 

The room was dim but not dark, the silver-grey light of the storm filtering through the curtains and casting its somber glow across the space.

At first, she did not move, her mind still fogged with sleep. 

It was the unfamiliar heaviness around her that pulled her slowly toward awareness—the firm wall of a chest beneath her cheek, the rise and fall of his breathing echoing in her ear, the rough warmth of a beard that had brushed against her forehead sometime in the night.

Her fingers flexed lightly, and she realized with sudden horror that she was still gripping his shirt in her sleep.

 That realization jolted her awake more effectively than any alarm could. 

Her hand flew back as though the fabric burned her, her body pulling away instinctively, only to freeze when she understood where she was.

Her heart raced, beating furiously against her ribs, the way it always did when fear consumed her. 

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes tracing the position they had fallen asleep in—his arm draped with effortless dominance across her waist, his chest pressed firmly against hers, her face tucked so close to the warm hollow of his throat that she could still feel his faint morning breath against her hair.

For a moment, she dared not even breathe. 

Memories of last night's cruelty rushed back all at once—the harsh grip of his fingers against her jaw, his voice cutting like a blade, his warning that had pierced her bones more deeply than any physical wound. 

She remembered the humiliation, the exhaustion, the way she had collapsed in the bathroom and sobbed silently, asking God why fate had placed her here. 

And now, after all that, she had the audacity—or perhaps misfortune—to wake in his arms as though she belonged there.

Her throat tightened painfully. 

The sting of tears pricked at her eyes, threatening to spill, but she swallowed them down with desperate effort. 

Not here. Not now. If he opened his eyes and found her crying again, she knew his temper would ignite. She could not survive another storm—not after yesterday.

Biting down on her lip, she slowly, cautiously, tried to push at the iron weight of his arm. 

But Harshavardhan Singh Acharya was no ordinary man; his strength was carved into every line of his body, hardened by years of discipline and unyielding control. 

His arm felt immovable, as if carved from stone, and her fragile hands might as well have been pushing against a mountain.

Her breath quickened with panic. She tried again, more urgently, tugging at his wrist in a futile attempt to free herself, when suddenly—his eyes opened.

Cold, piercing, and sharp enough to still her blood.

His gaze fell on her instantly, unblinking, irritated, as though her very attempt to slip away was a personal offense. 

Those steel-grey eyes burned into hers, and for one chilling heartbeat, she could not move, could not think—she could only drown beneath the weight of them.

"Let me sleep," he muttered.

His morning voice was rough, deeper than usual, gravelly with the huskiness of just-woken breath. 

But there was no softness in it. No trace of warmth.

 His tone was edged with the authority that commanded boardrooms and broke men twice his size, laced with irritation at being disturbed—as though she had committed a sin by daring to move from his hold.

The words alone were enough to silence her. Her lips pressed together tightly, her shoulders trembling. 

But something inside her—perhaps desperation, perhaps foolishness—urged her to try her luck.

Because she could not remain trapped here. Not when every second pressed her closer to the man whose very presence left her trembling.

She drew in a shaky breath, gathering the courage that was more fragile than glass, and whispered, "P-please... let me go."

Her voice was so soft, so uncertain, that it was almost drowned by the sound of the storm raging outside.

"P-please... l-let me go, I have to—" Aaradhya's trembling voice cracked mid-sentence as her small hands desperately tried to pry his heavy arm from her waist. 

Her fragile fingers pushed against the steel-like hold, tugging at him with all the strength her delicate body could summon.

 But before she could even attempt to sit upright, his movements cut her short.

In one effortless motion, Harshavardhan shifted his body, throwing his right leg over hers and pinning her firmly beneath him.

 His thigh pressed against her bare waist where the edge of her kurta had ridden up slightly in the night, and the sudden contact made her breath hitch violently in her throat. 

It was as though her lungs had forgotten how to work, every nerve in her body screaming under the nearness of him.

His hand, which had been beneath her head, slipped away only to support the weight of his upper body as he leaned on one elbow. 

Now he loomed above her, his shadow falling across her terrified face, his eyes—those dark, unrelenting eyes—boring into her with a sharpness that stole away what little courage she had gathered.

She looked like a timid mouse cornered by a predator. 

Fragile, trembling, defenseless. And he, towering over her with his powerful frame and unblinking gaze, looked every bit the predator that would savor the fear he inspired.

For Aaradhya, the situation was more dangerous than anything she could have imagined. 

His closeness alone suffocated her, but what terrified her most was the memory of his fury from the night before—the cold cruelty in his voice, the merciless grip of his hand on her jaw, the threat that had cut through her very soul. 

The thought that he might unleash that same wrath again made her stomach twist painfully.

And then... he smirked.

It was faint, but unmistakable—the corner of his lips twitching upward, not with warmth, not with kindness, but with mockery. 

A cruel amusement sparked in his eyes, as though he were a child who had finally been given his favorite toy to play with—a toy that quivered and shook exactly the way he wanted it to.

Aaradhya's chest rose and fell quickly, panic flooding her veins. 

She swallowed the lump in her throat and gathered what remained of her scattered courage. 

If she did not speak now, if she did not apologize, she feared he would lash out again—and this time, she might not survive it.

"I-I... a-am s-sorry," she stammered, her voice quaking, her words tumbling out in broken pieces. 

"F-for that day... I—I promise, I -I didn't k-know w-what I was d-doing. I-I p-promise I-I'll n-never do it a-again. P-Please... please f-forgive me."

The sentence cost her more courage than she thought she possessed, her tongue heavy with fear, her chest aching with the effort of forcing the words past her lips. 

Inside, however, she felt a flicker of pride—small, fragile, but real. She had managed to say the words aloud, even while facing the storm in his eyes.

Harshavardhan raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening into something sharper, something mocking.

"Oh? So the little princess is sorry, huh?" His tone was laced with derision, each word deliberately twisted to make her apology sound childish, worthless.

Aaradhya's eyes immediately dropped to the bed, unable to withstand the weight of his contempt. 

She knew that tone—had heard it before. It was not the tone of a man willing to forgive. It was the tone of a man preparing to humiliate her further.

"How," he drawled, his voice like the strike of a whip, "can I believe you are sorry... after you embarrassed me in front of the whole damn country?"

Her throat constricted painfully, and her eyes burned as tears welled again. 

She pressed her lips tightly together, biting down until she nearly bruised them, forcing herself not to cry. If she cried again, she feared it would only amuse him further.

"I... I am sorry, I didn't—" she began, her voice breaking.

But he cut her off with a sharp, cruel edge. 

"Your damn sorry won't fix the problem you caused."

The words hit her harder than a slap. 

She flinched visibly, her body shrinking into itself as though trying to disappear beneath his gaze.

Abruptly, he moved. 

With the kind of effortless strength that reminded her of just how powerless she was, Harshavardhan removed his leg from hers and swung himself out of the bed. 

His tall frame cut an imposing silhouette as he walked across the room, the sound of his bare footsteps echoing faintly against the polished marble floor.

He stopped at the balcony doors, pulling the curtains aside with a swift tug.

 A gust of damp, stormy air swept into the room as he opened the glass doors, and he stepped out into the threshold, staring at the world beyond.

The rain was merciless. 

Sheets of water cascaded from the sky, hammering against the balcony railing, the courtyard, the trees beyond. 

The horizon was swallowed by black clouds, the sky so heavy it seemed ready to collapse under the weight of the storm.

 From where Aaradhya sat frozen on the bed, she could barely see the garden below—only a blur of waterlogged ground and torrents of rain.

He stood there for a long moment, his broad shoulders straight, his posture unreadable.

 She knew he was calculating something—his sharp, strategic mind always worked in silence before he spoke. 

And when he finally turned his head slightly to the side, his voice cut through the storm, deep and commanding.

"Prove yourself."

Aaradhya blinked, startled, confused. Her lips parted, but no words came. 

She sat rigid on the bed, wiping quickly at her tears with the back of her hand as if erasing them could make her less vulnerable.

"H-huh?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of the rain.

His head turned fully then, and his eyes locked onto hers, cold and merciless.

 "Prove yourself that you're sorry."

The confusion in her widened eyes only deepened. 

Her brows furrowed faintly, her lips trembling as she tried to understand what he meant. 

Her chest tightened with a new kind of fear—one born not only of his anger but of the unknown.

"H-how?" she managed to ask, her voice cracking under the weight of dread.

A smirk ghosted across his lips—sharp, invisible to her from where she sat, but alive in his expression nonetheless. 

The kind of smirk that promised something dark, something cruel.

"Go upstairs. To the terrace." His voice was calm, but beneath it ran a current of danger. "And stand there. Right in the center. Now."

Aaradhya's breath caught in her throat, her heart lurching violently.

The storm outside was deafening, the sky blackened with thick clouds, the city below drowned in floodwater. 

The thought of stepping onto the terrace in such weather made her stomach churn. 

Every instinct screamed that what he was asking was dangerous—that she would be soaked, shivering, humiliated.

 And yet... she knew his tone. That voice was not a suggestion. It was a command.

Her hands gripped the blanket tightly, knuckles pale. Her heart hammered in her chest as though trying to break free.

He had set the trap. And now, trembling and terrified, she realized she had no way out.

Before Aaradhya's mind could even attempt to weave together an excuse, a justification, or some desperate escape, his voice slashed through the silence like a sharp blade.

"Or else," Harshavardhan said, his tone maddeningly casual, as though discussing something as insignificant as the weather, "I'll tell Maa what really happened that night. And then, naturally, she'll tell your mother. And once your mother gets involved, she'll scold you until your ears bleed. I don't need to imagine what happens after that—you'll handle the rest yourself."

The words were spoken with such terrifying simplicity, so disarmingly ordinary, that they hit Aaradhya harder than if he had shouted them.

 Her eyes welled instantly, the threat sinking into her bones. 

He had spoken of it so lightly, so effortlessly, as though destroying her peace of mind was no more than a passing remark. Yet the effect on her was devastating.

The thought of her mother-in-law's sharp, merciless tongue—the cold gaze that stripped her of her dignity piece by piece—was enough to weaken her knees. 

Add to that her own mother's lectures, hours-long and relentless, each word a hammer striking down on her already fragile heart. 

She had endured both yesterday. Her body and mind still carried the weight of it. To repeat that cycle today, to invite more of that humiliation upon herself, was unbearable. 

No—she would rather endure anything else.

Especially after yesterday.

She closed her eyes for a moment, her lashes heavy with unshed tears, trying to summon the courage to endure what he was demanding. 

Aaradhya was not a woman who ever wished to cause trouble. She was not someone who rebelled or disobeyed, not someone who dared to say no. 

She had always carried this one trait deeply in her heart: she could not bear to be the reason for someone else's anger, someone else's suffering. 

It was a part of her nature, quiet and deeply considerate, even if it came at her own expense.

Right now, that very nature was her downfall.

She wanted to make things right. She wanted him to forgive her—not because she believed she deserved forgiveness, but because she longed, with every fiber of her being, for this suffocating environment to change. 

If he forgave her, perhaps this room—this one space in the sprawling mansion—would at least become a refuge from her mother-in-law's barbs and her mother's constant criticisms.

Her breath came shaky, her chest tightening painfully. 

She wanted to reject it, to stand her ground, to whisper even the smallest word of defiance. 

But her lips stayed sealed, sealed by fear, by habit, by the quiet obedience that had been trained into her since childhood.

"Quick. Or else I—" Harshavardhan began again, his deep voice laced with finality as he turned toward the door.

But before he could finish, before his threat could even fully leave his mouth, Aaradhya's trembling legs moved of their own accord. 

She rushed past him, her dupatta fluttering behind her in haste, her bare feet padding against the cold marble floor of the hallway. 

Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, louder than the storm outside, louder than his footsteps that echoed faintly behind her.

She did not wait for him to command again. 

She did not give herself the chance to think, because if she thought, she would stop, and if she stopped, she knew she would never find the courage to move again.

Up the long, spiraling staircase she went, her hand clutching the banister as her knees nearly buckled beneath her. 

Each step felt heavier than the last, but she forced herself upward, upward toward the terrace.

And then—finally—she reached it.

She stood at the threshold of the terrace door, her chest heaving, her heart hammering. 

The sound of the rain was deafening here, a thunderous roar as sheets of water battered the rooftop with merciless force. 

It had been raining since the early hours of dawn, and now the sky was a black, seething mass of clouds, the occasional lightning strike flashing through the darkness with a terrifying brilliance.

 The wind howled, carrying with it the icy sting of water.

The sight alone made her shiver violently.

The coldness seeped into her skin before she even stepped outside. 

But still, she knew—between the storm outside and the storm of her mother-in-law's wrath—she would rather choose the rain.

With a trembling breath, Aaradhya pushed the terrace door open.

The first drop of rain that hit her face was like ice, shocking, almost painful. She gasped softly but did not stop. 

One step, then another, and another. The rain consumed her instantly, soaking her to the bone in mere seconds. 

The fabric of her suit clung to her body like a second skin, heavy, suffocating, revealing far too much of her fragile form.

Her breath faltered, fogging in the cold air, her body trembling uncontrollably. 

But she kept moving, forcing herself toward the very spot where she knew their bedroom window overlooked the terrace. 

If this was his punishment, she wanted to complete it exactly as he wished, without hesitation, without argument.

She reached the brick railing near the edge of the terrace and stopped, her hands hugging her own shoulders tightly, clutching at herself as though she could create warmth from within. But the rain was merciless. 

It beat down on her head, streamed down her face, mingled with the tears she had stopped trying to hold back.

Her fists clenched at her sides, her knuckles pale and trembling. Her skin grew cold, her lips began to tremble, and the tips of her fingers turned pale, almost blue.

 Every inch of her screamed in protest, her body demanding she retreat into warmth, into safety.

 But her heart whispered otherwise—stay, endure, suffer silently. Because if she endured this, perhaps he would forgive her.

She thought of yesterday again, of the humiliation she had caused him, of the shameful video broadcasted across every channel. In her heart, this punishment felt more than just about the news. 

It felt personal. 

It felt like he was punishing her not only for her drunken mistake but also for daring to raise her hand against him, for disrupting his carefully curated world.

So, she accepted it. She accepted it without a second word, without a single protest.

The water cascaded down her body, her dupatta plastered against her chest, her hair heavy and clinging to her back. 

She looked fragile, like a doll abandoned in the storm, yet she did not move. 

She stood there, her face pale, her lips trembling, tears slipping down her cheeks even as the rain tried to hide them.

Because Aaradhya knew she could say no.

 She knew, deep inside, that she had the right to speak, to resist, to push back against his cruelty. 

But her timid heart, her fearful nature, and his cold, merciless authority locked her tongue in silence.

And so, she suffered. Quietly. Alone.