Chapter 2: The Woman with Quiet Eyes

Aarav’s Point of View

He hadn’t even looked at her properly that day. Not when she entered the conference room with her small, hesitant steps. Not when she sat opposite him, eyes cast down as if already anticipating something she wouldn’t like. And yet… he had noticed everything.

She wore a plain navy blouse, one that hung just right off her shoulders, with modest jeans and worn-out flats. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, wisps falling over her temple, and she kept fidgeting with her fingers. She didn’t smile. Not even once.

But her eyes—God, her eyes—held something that hit him harder than he expected. They were not pleading, not even desperate. They were… quiet. And something about that silence spoke to the chaos in his head.

Aarav needed a solution.

His father’s will was clear: marry within three months or lose everything. Everything he had worked for, fought for, built from the ashes of his father’s cold legacy. He had no time for love, no space for emotions, and definitely no patience for drama. He didn’t want a wife. He wanted a name on a paper. A presence. A placeholder.

He had candidates. Several, actually—women who would happily play his “wife” for a price, or even for the thrill of carrying his last name. But they were all too loud. Too fake. Too eager. Too dangerous.

And then came Ira Dawson, with her quiet desperation and folded resume.

She wasn’t looking for a husband. She was looking for a lifeline.

She needed money. Not for designer bags or a lavish life—but for her father’s surgery. She didn’t know he’d checked. She didn’t know he’d seen the hospital receipts, the unpaid bills tucked into her purse. She didn’t ask for pity. She didn’t ask for anything.

That’s what sealed it.

She had nothing to gain, and everything to lose. She’d play by the rules, sign the contract, and leave when it was time.

Clean. Simple.

Except… it hadn’t been.

He didn’t expect the sound of her humming to linger in his ears at night. He didn’t expect her to leave breakfast out for him when she thought he’d be too busy to notice. He didn’t expect her to care when he had a migraine or lose sleep when he didn’t come home until midnight.

He didn’t expect that one evening—when she fell asleep on the couch waiting for him—he’d just stand there in the doorway for ten whole minutes, not knowing what the hell he was feeling in his chest.

He told himself it was convenience.

He convinced himself that she was just the right kind of ordinary.

But every time she turned away from him with that soft, uncertain hurt in her eyes—like she was preparing to be forgotten—he felt a piece of his certainty crack.

He chose her because she was temporary.

And now she was starting to feel like the only thing he couldn't let go of.

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