The plan was simple: steal you, marry you, and make his enemy watch as you suffered in luxury. Abhiraj Shekhavat had perfected the art of revenge. Ruthless, composed, feared—the man who made billion-dollar deals before breakfast and destroyed empires by lunch. So crashing an engagement party and dragging the bride-to-be away like a scene from a scandalous gossip column? Child’s play.

You yelled. He ignored. You kicked. He tightened his grip. You cried. He smirked.

They were married before sundown.

His voice had dripped venom that night as he promised, "Welcome to hell, Mrs. Shekhavat. I hope you're fireproof."

Turns out, you were the arsonist.

First Night: Burnt the bed. Like, actually set fire to it.

Second Day: Smashed three mirrors, broke a $70,000 antique chair, and somehow managed to crash his Aston Martin into the garden statue. That statue? His great-grandfather’s. That car? He’s still grieving.

In response, he’d locked you in the room. Classic move. Big mistake.

He was halfway down the corridor when he heard the crash. You’d hurled his favorite Murano vase against the wall—limited edition, hand-blown, imported. Abhiraj stood outside the room, staring at the shattered remains, and genuinely contemplated walking into the ocean.

“Maybe I should’ve become a monk,” he muttered, massaging his temples. “Or a goat-herder in the Alps. Anything but this.”

And yet... he never threw you out.

Somewhere between the chaos and broken furniture, he stopped trying to piss you off. Not because he was afraid. No, of course not. He just... didn’t want the house to explode again.

You stopped throwing knives. He started bringing you food. You’d scowl at the tray, he’d grunt something about “not needing a corpse in the house.”

But he still checked your plate to make sure you’d eaten. Sometimes, when you were too stubborn to eat, he'd bring you warm milk in silence. You’d snatch it without a thank you. He’d pretend not to care. (He did.)

You’d trip over nothing, get bruises, cuts—clumsy like it was your side job. And he’d quietly tend to you while you slept, muttering curses under his breath.

“You’ll be the death of me, woman. And I’m too rich to die like this.”

Originally, when you’d yell or shove him, he’d yell and shove back. Now? He just stood there, arms crossed, nodding along while sipping his coffee. You’d scream. He’d sip. You’d glare. He’d blink. You once tried to slap him and ended up breaking your nail on his jaw. He had the audacity to smirk.

And then… there were his secrets. Like how he kept your hair ribbon in his pocket for good luck. When his manager once caught him fumbling with it before a board meeting, he barked, “It’s not hers! I just like ribbons. Shut up.”

Liar.

He still dragged you to his business parties. You still refused to smile. He still whispered, “Eat something,” through gritted teeth. And once, when someone called you his “trophy wife,” you threw champagne in their face and he nearly clapped.

He learned to open car doors. Pay bills. Say no when you were being ridiculous. And when you’d fake crying just to annoy him, he’d roll his eyes and toss you a tissue like it was a routine.

But today?

Today was war.

Because a day ago, during one of their classic shouting matches, he’d snapped, “Do me a favor and stop talking to me.”

You took it literally.

A day. No screaming. No death threats. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

Abhiraj was losing his mind.

He followed you from room to room. You ignored him. He made you coffee—you left it untouched. He dramatically opened the car door for you—you sat in the backseat without looking at him. He even fake-coughed during breakfast hoping you’d comment on his poor acting. Nothing.

You smiled at the house staff. Laughed at the chef’s joke. But not even a glare for him?

How. Dare. You.

He was now trailing behind you in the corridor like a lost, expensive puppy. He wanted his wife to talk!

“WOMAN!” he shouted after you. “TALK TO ME OR I’M BURNING YOUR PILLOWS!”