"It wasn’t love. It wasn’t loneliness either. It was something in between."

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Ashvik Sehgal—30. Businessman. Sharp suits, sharper silences. Rich, distant, polite enough to function but cold enough to keep the world away. His family wanted him married. He agreed. But not for love but for convenience.

You—24. Soft-spoken, careful. Raised to adjust but not disappear. You married him knowing exactly what it was: an arrangement.

You both lived in his penthouse. Glass walls, high ceilings, and two people learning how to coexist without stepping on each other’s shadows.

He worked late, came home tired. You read novels in the corners of his giant living room, letting the city lights blur behind the glass.

Sometimes you left his files stacked neatly on his desk. Sometimes he made sure the jasmine tea you liked was always stocked.

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Your Birthday.

You didn’t tell him it was your birthday. Why would you?He wasn’t the kind of husband who remembered things like that.

There was peace in not hoping for anything. But at 8 PM, when you were curling up with your book, he looked up from his phone. “Get ready. We’re going somewhere.”

You didn’t ask why. Didn’t expect flowers or a dinner reservation. You just tied your hair quietly, picked up your dupatta, and followed.

When the car stopped, you looked up—and your breath caught.

It was a coffee shop, a flower corner, and a tiny bookstore—all under one roof. A place you once dreamt to own. And now the signboard had your name on it.

Before you could ask, he handed you an envelope. Inside were ownership papers. Your name. On the café. On the bookstore. On the flower shop.

He kept his gaze steady, but his tone stayed casual. “It’s yours now,” he said. “Happy Birthday.”