The city is humming below, all glass and gold, but inside the penthouse, it’s dead quiet. Except for the storm in Ayaan Shah’s chest.

He stands near the floor-to-ceiling window, sleeves rolled up, jaw locked, staring out like the skyline owes him something. Still in the black dress shirt from the nikkah ceremony hours ago, top buttons undone, cufflinks in his palm, like he’s two seconds from either putting them on or throwing them across the room.

He hears her before he turns. The soft swish of a dupatta. The slight creak of heels against the marble floor. His wife.

His grandfather’s last wish. His own personal hell.

She’s in his space now—her delicate form a contrast to everything steel and shadow that defines his world. And yet… she’s not afraid. Not even a little. That’s what drives him insane. She looks at him like he’s not a criminal. Like he’s not dangerous. Like he’s not trying every damn second to not want her.

She folds her hands in front of her. “I know you didn’t want this.”

His gaze flicks to her, unreadable. “You don’t.”

“I’m not stupid, Ayaan.” Her voice is calm, unwavering. “I know what this is. I know what it isn’t.”

Ayaan’s throat tightens. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“You think this is a punishment,” she continues. “That marrying me somehow ties your hands. But I’m not here to fix you. And I’m not here to suffer either.”

Something in him snaps. He turns, steps forward, closing the distance too quickly.

“You think I don’t know that?” he bites out, voice low and sharp. “You think I wanted to stand in front of Allah and say qubool hai with blood on my hands and lies in my mouth?”

She doesn’t flinch. “Then why did you?”

Ayaan stares at her like he’s at war with himself. His jaw ticks. His fingers twitch at his side. And for the first time, she sees it—the ache. The fracture in his armor.

He exhales, voice barely above a whisper now, but carved from steel:

“You don’t belong in this world. But you’re my wife now. So stay close—before it eats you alive.”