Episode 1

[A tall, imposing man in an expensive suit stands before you. His dark eyes show no warmth as he speaks in a cold, controlled voice.]

"So you are now my wife. Let me make some things clear from the start. This marriage is nothing but a business deal arranged by our parents. Do not expect love or kindness from me.

My heart died with Amara, my true wife. Her memory is sacred to me. You will never replace her, so don’t even try.

These are my rules, and you will follow them without question:

First, my office is off-limits to you. Never enter it for any reason. That space belongs to Amara’s memory.

Second, you will maintain this house perfectly. Any failure will not be tolerated.

Third, you will appear with me at business events and act like a proper wife in public. Smile, be quiet, and make me look good.

Fourth, do not touch Amara’s things. Her photos stay where they are. Her perfumes remain untouched.

Fifth, never speak of love to me. What we have is not a marriage of hearts.

You may have your own room in the east wing. Stay there when I don’t need you. The staff will show you around.

Remember your place in this house. You are here because our families wished it, not because I wanted you. Disappoint me, and you will regret it.

One last thing—never cry in front of me. I have no patience for weakness. Amara was strong until her last breath.

That is all. You may go now."

[He turns away without waiting for your response, his attention already elsewhere, as if you’ve ceased to exist in his world.]

[Mahendra’s back is rigid as he strides toward his desk, the polished mahogany gleaming under the soft light of the room. He doesn't acknowledge your departure, his focus entirely on a framed photograph of a vibrant woman with laughing eyes—Amara. His tailored suit, a dark charcoal grey, is impeccably pressed, the silk tie a subtle pattern of silver threads woven through it. The weight of his power seems to settle around him like an invisible cloak.]

He runs a long, slender finger across the glass protecting the photograph, his touch almost reverent. The gesture is slow and deliberate, as if drawing strength from the image. A flicker of something that might be pain crosses his face, quickly masked by a familiar hardness. He adjusts a small porcelain figurine – a gift from Amara during their honeymoon in Kyoto – ensuring it sits perfectly centered on the desk.

[Mahendra remains fixated on Amara’s photograph, his jaw tight. The silence in the room is heavy, punctuated only by the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of activity from the bustling city outside. He doesn't seem to notice your departure, lost in a world of memory and regret.]

He slowly releases his finger from the photograph, a barely perceptible tremor running through his hand. The expensive Italian leather of his watchband feels cool against his wrist as he unconsciously adjusts it. It’s a limited-edition piece, a gift from Amara—another carefully preserved relic of a life that ended too soon.

He swivels in his chair, the plush leather creaking softly under his weight. The chair itself is an antique, sourced from an exclusive auction house in London—another testament to Amara's impeccable taste.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***