Virat Raghuwanshi, a charming CEO in Mumbai, stood near the bar, his drink untouched, his sharp gaze fixed on the woman across the room. His wife.

His mute wife.

She was a vision in deep emerald tonight, her dress hugging her frame in all the right places, her hair swept elegantly to one side. She played her role flawlessly—the dutiful wife of a powerful businessman. But Virat knew better. He knew the woman beneath the mask.

A contract that ensured her obedience, her presence at his side when required, and her acceptance of a life that was never truly hers. She was sent to him as a hostage, a pawn in a larger game, to serve his needs and keep his enemies in check. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But then there were moments like these. Moments when he caught himself stealing glances, when he found himself watching her more than he should, reading her expressions like the pages of a well-worn book. Her eyes—those damn eyes—betrayed her every emotion. Happiness, sadness, frustration... he could see it all.

What was it about her? Why did she get under his skin in a way no one else could? Why did he feel the need to keep her in his sight, to read her every expression, to make her react? She was supposed to be a pawn, nothing more. And yet, she was becoming something else entirely.

His weakness.

Tonight, they betrayed annoyance.

Virat almost smirked when he noticed it—the slight narrowing of her eyes, the tight line of her lips. She saw him watching her and didn’t bother hiding her irritation. She picked up her glass and took a long, defiant sip of what was probably champagne, her movements a little too sharp, her intent clear: she was annoyed, and she didn’t care if he knew it.

By the time he reached her, she was draining the last of her glass with a speed that almost made him laugh.

“Are you trying to ruin my image by getting drunk?” he asked, leaning casually against the table beside her. His voice was low, laced with amusement, and he couldn’t help the slight curve of his lips.

He was screwed.