Malik Mansion didn’t feel like a home.

It felt like a museum.

Too big. Too quiet. Too perfect.

The gates alone were three stories high, black iron with gold tips that caught the Karachi sun and threw it back at you. The driveway was long enough that I could’ve practiced driving on it. On both sides, fountains shot water into the air in perfect arcs, like they’d been timed by a metronome.

Not a single leaf was out of place.

“Mrs. Malik,” the driver said, opening my door. “We’re here.”

Mrs. Malik.

The title hit me in the chest. It still sounded fake on my tongue, like I was in a play and forgot my lines.

The head maid was already waiting at the entrance. She was in her fifties, hair pulled into a neat bun, wearing a plain white shalwar kameez and a navy dupatta. Kind eyes. Tired hands.

“Welcome to Malik Mansion,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “I’m Naseem. Everyone calls me Naseem Aunty.”

She looked me up and down once, not judging, just cataloging. “Your room is on the second floor.”

I followed her inside.

The foyer had marble floors so shiny I could see my own reflection. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, big enough to be a small car. The air smelled like lemons and expensive perfume. There were paintings on the walls. Abstract things that probably cost more than my father’s hospital bills.

And it was silent. Not peaceful silent. The kind of silent that makes you lower your voice without knowing why.

“Mr. Malik isn’t home yet,” Naseem Aunty said, leading me up a wide staircase. “He’s in a meeting. He said to get you settled.”

Mr. Malik.

Zayan Malik. 32. CEO of Malik Group. Net worth in the billions. The man who’d offered me 5 million PKR to be his wife for one year.

We stopped in front of double doors, white with gold handles.

“This is you,” she said, pushing them open.

The room was huge. Bigger than my entire apartment back in Nazimabad.

A king-size bed sat in the middle, covered in a cream duvet that looked too expensive to sleep on. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the garden. A seating area with a white sofa. A dressing table with a marble top.

And a walk-in closet.

Naseem Aunty opened it.

Rows of gowns. Heels lined up by color. Jewelry boxes. Perfume bottles.

None of it had tags with my name. None of it looked like me.

“Mr. Malik bought these,” Naseem Aunty explained. “For events. He said your size is S.”

He’d checked my size.

Of course he had. This was business. You don’t invest 5 million in an asset without knowing the measurements.

There was a piece of paper on the dressing table. Folded once. My name wasn’t on it.

I picked it up.

His handwriting was sharp. Angry, even though the letters were perfectly formed. Like each word had been cut into the paper.

*MANSION RULES FOR MRS. MALIK:*

Do not enter the West Wing. Ever.

Attend all events I tell you to. Smile. Say nothing about us.

No friends. No visitors. No social media posts.

Sleep in your room. Not mine.

The contract is 1 year. Don’t make it complicated.

At the bottom: `- Zayan`

No ‘please’. No ‘thank you’. No ‘welcome’.

Just rules.

Rule 1 was underlined twice.

“Is the West Wing… haunted?” I asked, trying to joke.

Naseem Aunty’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s Mr. Malik’s private area. You don’t need to go there.”

Right. Private.

Everything in this house was private. Including me, apparently.

She showed me the bathroom next. Bigger than my kitchen. Marble bathtub. Rain shower. Towels folded into swans.

Then she left me alone with a quiet, “Dinner is at 8. I’ll call you.”

Alone.

I sat on the bed. The mattress didn’t even dip.

5 million PKR. That’s what this year was worth. Enough to clear Baba’s debt. Enough for his surgery. Enough for Ammi to stop taking night shifts.

For playing a doll.

I could do this. One year was 365 days. I’d survived worse.

I opened my phone. 3 missed calls from Ammi. One text: _“Beta, are you okay? Did they treat you well?”_

I typed back: _“Yes. The house is beautiful. Don’t worry.”_

I didn’t mention the rules. Or the museum. Or the man who’d bought me a closet full of clothes but couldn’t write ‘welcome’.

At 7 PM sharp, there was a knock.

“Mrs. Malik?” Naseem Aunty’s voice. “Mr. Malik wants you downstairs in 20 minutes. We have a dinner.”

Dinner. Test #1.

I stared at the closet. The red dress was right in front. Sleeveless. Backless. The kind of dress that gets photographed. The kind of dress that gets talked about.

Next to it was a navy blue gown. Simple. Elegant. Covered. The kind of dress a wife would wear, not a display piece.

I chose navy.

When I came downstairs, he was already there.

Zayan Malik was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, phone in one hand, whiskey in the other. He was tall. Black suit. No tie. Hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it all day.

He looked up when he heard my footsteps and froze for half a second.

His eyes scanned me. Head to toe. Clinical. Like Naseem Aunty, but colder.

“Change,” he said.

“What?”

“That gown is too plain,” he said, not looking away from my face. “You’ll look like staff. Wear the red one.”

The red one.

“I’m not here to be noticed,” I said. The words came out before I could stop them. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted. “I’m here to play a wife. Wives don’t wear bait.”

Silence.

The fountains outside were louder than his breathing.

His jaw ticked. For a second I was sure he was going to yell, or worse, send me back upstairs.

Then he took a sip of his whiskey.

“Fine,” he said. “Keep it.”

We rode to the restaurant in silence.

The car was black, leather, and cold. He sat on one side. I sat on the other. A whole world of empty space between us.

The restaurant was on the top floor of a hotel downtown. Private room. Glass walls overlooking the city.

Three men. Two women. All in designer clothes. All with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

“So Zayan,” one of the women said, leaning forward. Too much perfume. Too much curiosity. “We didn’t even know you were engaged. And now you’re married? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Zayan said. His hand came to rest on the small of my back. His touch was cold through the fabric. “Areeba and I met privately. We don’t like drama.”

Lie #1.

“Where did you meet?” one of the men asked me.

I opened my mouth.

“A charity event,” Zayan answered for me. “She was volunteering. I was impressed.”

Lie #2.

I forced a smile. “Yes. Charity.”

They ate. They talked about the Karachi port deal, about stocks, about trips to Dubai. I picked at my food.

Then Mrs. Farah, one of the wives, leaned in. She smelled like roses and malice.

“Your necklace is fake, isn’t it?” she whispered. Loud enough for everyone to hear. “Zayan doesn’t give real diamonds to… new wives.”

The table went quiet.

My face burned. I touched the necklace. It did feel light. Cheap.

Zayan didn’t look at her. He looked at me.

Then he reached over, unclasped the necklace, and put it in his suit pocket.

“You’re right,” he said calmly. “It’s a replica. For events.”

Gasps.

He turned to me. Voice low. Only for me, but everyone could hear.

“Because the real ones are in my safe. For my real wife. The one who stays.”

The message was clear: She’s temporary. Don’t insult her.

Mrs. Farah’s face went red.

“Shall we talk about the port deal now?” Zayan said, changing the subject like nothing happened.

On the ride home, I couldn’t stay quiet.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make me look… less, to make them look worse.”

He shrugged, staring out the window. “You’re my asset. I don’t let people damage my assets in public.”

Asset. Right.

“Thank you… anyway,” I said softly.

He didn’t answer.

Back at the mansion, it was colder.

Not the AC. The silence.

Naseem Aunty took my heels at the door. Zayan went straight upstairs.

I stood in the foyer holding my clutch, listening to his footsteps fade away from my wing.

364 days left.

I went to my room, to the museum, and lay on a bed that didn’t feel like mine.

Somewhere in the West Wing, a light turned on.

I didn’t sleep.

The bed was too big, the room was too quiet, and the house had a way of holding its breath.

At 11:47 PM my phone lit up on the nightstand.

Unknown number.

`You did well tonight. Don’t get used to it. - Z`

Another buzz two seconds later.

`And stay out of the West Wing.`

I didn’t reply.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks that weren’t there. The mansion was too perfect for cracks.

Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked. Soft. Deliberate.

Footsteps.

Not coming toward me. Going the other way. Toward the West Wing.

My heart did something stupid. It sped up.

Rule #1: *Do not enter the West Wing. Ever.*

Ever is a long time when curiosity is the only thing keeping you awake.

I told myself to roll over. To sleep. To remember the 5 million and Baba’s hospital bills.

I got up instead.

The hallway was dark. Only the emergency lights along the floor made thin lines on the marble. My bare feet made no sound.

The mansion really was a museum at night. Everything behind glass. Nothing to touch.

The West Wing was at the far end. A set of double doors, darker wood than the rest of the house, with no handle on the outside.

The light under the door was on.

I stopped three feet away.

I could hear music. Low. Piano. No words.

And voices. Too quiet to make out.

“Mrs. Malik?”

I jumped. Naseem Aunty. She stood at the top of the stairs in a housecoat, holding a tray with tea. Her face was calm but her eyes were sharp.

“I heard a noise,” I said quickly. “Thought it was the AC.”

She looked at the West Wing doors, then at me. “Mr. Malik asked me to bring him tea. You should go back to your room.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

I nodded and walked back, feeling her eyes on me until I closed my bedroom door.

The next morning the house felt different. Brighter, but colder.

Naseem Aunty set breakfast in front of me alone. Toast. Fruit. Coffee.

“Mr. Malik left early,” she said. “He has a board meeting. He said to tell you there’s an event on Saturday. Gala at the Serena.”

Another event. Another performance.

“Can I go out today?” I asked. “To see my family?”

“Rule #3,” she said gently. “No visitors. No going out without Mr. Malik’s permission.”

Right. I was an asset. Assets don’t get day passes.

The day crawled. I tried reading. I tried walking the garden. The gardener nodded at me but didn’t speak. The pool was Olympic size and untouched.

At 4 PM, a delivery arrived. Five garment bags.

“For Saturday,” Naseem Aunty said. “Mr. Malik’s assistant sent them.”

I unzipped one. Emerald green. Long sleeves. High neck. The opposite of the red dress.

The note pinned inside said: `Wear this. - Z`

No explanation. No apology for last night. Just instructions.

Saturday came fast.

The Serena Hotel was all chandeliers and camera flashes. This wasn’t a dinner. This was a gala. Karachi’s rich in one room, pretending they liked each other.

Zayan was already inside when I arrived with Naseem Aunty’s driver. Black tuxedo. He looked like he owned the air in the room.

He didn’t smile when he saw me. He just held out his arm.

“Smile,” he murmured as we walked in. “Rule #2.”

So I smiled.

We made rounds. He introduced me as “my wife, Areeba” to ministers, CEOs, and women with diamonds bigger than my future.

I nodded. I laughed when he laughed. I said nothing about us.

Halfway through, a reporter cornered us. Young. Hungry.

“Mr. Malik! Any news on the port deal? And congratulations on the wedding. It was so sudden. How did you two meet?”

Zayan’s hand tightened on my back.

“A charity event,” he said smoothly. “She was running a health camp. I donated. We kept talking.”

Lie #3.

The reporter turned to me. “And Mrs. Malik, what charity?”

My mouth went dry. I didn’t know the name. I hadn’t been to a charity event in my life.

“Edhi Foundation,” I said. The first thing that came to mind. “Health camps in Orangi.”

Zayan glanced at me. Just for a second. Surprise?

The reporter smiled and walked away.

“What was that?” Zayan asked quietly.

“What?”

“You picked a real charity.”

“I read the news,” I said. “It’s not a crime.”

He didn’t answer. We moved on.

At 10 PM, he said we were leaving.

In the car, silence again. But different this time. Less sharp.

“Why did you say Edhi?” he asked finally.

“Because it’s true,” I said. “I used to volunteer there. Before… before all this.”

He nodded once.

“Don’t lie unless I tell you to lie,” he said.

“Don’t speak for me unless I ask you to,” I shot back.

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll coordinate next time.”

That was the closest thing to a truce I’d gotten.

We got home at 11:30. The house was dark except for the hallway lights.

I was exhausted. Makeup heavy. Feet sore.

I went upstairs, took off the emerald dress, and washed my face.

At 11:47 PM, the same time as last night, my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

`Good answer tonight.`

No name. Didn’t need one.

Another message, a minute later:

`And don’t test me on the West Wing.`

I threw my phone on the bed and went to the window.

Across the courtyard, in the West Wing, a light was on.

And a shadow moved behind the curtain.

I stood there for a long time.

The next morning, I found something new on my dressing table.

Not a rule list. A small black box.

Inside was a necklace. Not diamonds. Pearls. Simple. Real, probably.

Under it, a note in that same sharp handwriting:

`For events. The replicas are getting noticed. - Z`

No “please.” No “thank you.”

But he’d noticed the humiliation. And he’d done something about it.

I put it on.

At lunch, Naseem Aunty set down my plate and hesitated.

“Mrs. Malik,” she said. “Mr. Malik said you can visit your family. One hour. With a driver. On Thursday.”

I stared at her. “He said that?”

“He did.”

My throat got tight. One hour wasn’t much. But it was something.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

That night I didn’t go near the West Wing. I told myself I was being smart.

At 11:47 PM, no text came.

The house was silent.

But the light in the West Wing was on again.

And this time, I saw it.

A small hand pressed against the window from the inside.

Then it was gone.

My blood went cold.

Rule #1 echoed in my head.

*Do not enter the West Wing. Ever.*

I didn’t.

Not that night.

But I didn’t sleep either.