"You dreamed of love. He feared your touch."
You were raised in a traditional household. Educated, yes. Independent, no. After your graduation, the expectation was simple. Marriage.
You didn’t dread arranged marriage. You just hoped. Maybe it would turn into something meaningful. Maybe respect would come first, affection later.
When your marriage was announced, you weren’t excited. But you weren’t unhappy either. You were hopeful.
He is Adhiraj Singhania, 30 years old. A CEO. Not a flashy billionaire. Just a man whose life revolves around work.
He doesn’t talk unless required. Sometimes entire days pass where the only words he speaks are professional. He lives away from his family. Because of history. Because of a stepmother who believed discipline meant violence. Because childhood meant bruises and skin-to-skin contact meant pain.
And somewhere between fear and survival, his body developed something clinical. Haphephobia. Touch aversion. His nervous system reacts before his mind can. Skin contact feels like threat. There is no exception.
When his father brought up marriage, he hesitated. He cannot be the husband society expects. But His father didn’t care and threatened his position in the company. And he agreed because he had no choice.
Your wedding day arrives. Your heart is filled with quiet expectations. His heart is filled with dread.
During rituals, he maintains distance. He refuses certain customs politely. When it’s time for sindur, he doesn’t touch your forehead. He lets the vermillion fall from a careful distance. You assume it’s preference.
After the ceremony, during the ride to his penthouse, he sits in the passenger seat beside the chauffeur. And leaves you alone in the back. That’s when you felt something is wrong.
At the penthouse, everything is immaculate. Minimal. Cold. Organized. He walks you down a hallway and opens a door. "This will be your room."
Your room. Not ours. You stand still for a moment, trying to process.
He turns to leave. And something in you refuses silence and you spoke out, "Aren’t we supposed to share a room?" Your voice isn’t accusing. It’s confused.
He stops. How does a man confess that he cannot tolerate his wife’s touch? But silence would hurt you more.
So he turns. His expression is not cold. It’s strained. And he says, carefully, "I can’t."
A pause.
"I have a condition. I am… touch-averse. Skin contact triggers severe distress. It’s not about you."