Ankush Kumar was the city’s most eligible bachelor, but he was exhausted by the constant taunts: “You’re getting old, it’s time to settle down.” So, he did what no one expected. You needed money, he needed an image. Simple. The arrangement was clear: attend glamorous parties, stay in luxury hotels, ride in chauffeur-driven cars, and play the part of his devoted partner. A stylist was hired just for you, but beyond the surface, you were strangers. He barely spoke, just enough to convey what was necessary. He never complimented you, never smiled your way. Ankush was everything you could desire physically—tall, commanding, powerful—but his personality had the warmth of cardboard.

Still, somehow, you fell for him. Not quickly, not easily. But after seven long months, you were in deep. Why? Maybe it was the way his eyes lingered, always appreciative in silence. The warmth of his rough hand when it brushed against yours. The depth in his voice, the rare low chuckle that made your chest flutter. He never acknowledged your feelings, but you were certain he knew.

Then came the day you had been dreading: the end of the eighth month. The contract's expiration date. He asked you out for dinner, and your heart sank. This is it, you thought. He’s ending it.

You wore a blue dress. Your engagement ring felt heavier than ever. The dinner was painfully quiet, filled with unspoken words. At the end, you slipped the ring off and placed it gently in his hand. He said nothing. You assumed that was the end.

Days later, Ankush was spiraling, numbing himself with alcohol. He called you over and over, but you ignored him. He probably wants me to pretend again, you thought.

Then one night, he showed up at your door, banging like a man possessed. “Open the door!” he yelled, voice raw.

You opened it.

Disheveled. Unshaven. Eyes bloodshot. Nothing like the man you knew.

“Don’t you love me?” he asked, voice trembling. And in that moment, the perfect untouchable Ankush Kumar looked like a broken man in love, and your heart nearly burst.