EPISODE 3 — TWO STRANGERS UNDER ONE ROOF

The first morning of marriage was supposed to feel magical, at least in movies.

Sunlight, soft music, shy smiles, maybe a romantic breakfast.

Samara’s first morning felt nothing like that.

Instead—

She woke up tangled in a mountain of blankets she didn’t remember pulling over herself.

Her hair looked like a bird had built a nest in it.

A pillow was on the floor.

Her jewelry box was open for a reason she couldn’t recall.

And her husband—yes, the word still made her eyelid twitch—was sitting by the window, already dressed in a perfect black suit, typing on his laptop with frustrating grace.

Samara squinted. “Are you human?”

Shivansh didn’t look up. “I believe so."

“You’re working? It’s 6 AM.”

“It’s 7.”

She grabbed her phone.

It was actually 7:01.

“Who wakes up before the sun?” she muttered.

“People with responsibility.”

“And no joy.”

He ignored that.

Samara stretched, rubbing her eyes. “Did I… by any chance, steal all the blankets last night?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Did I kick you?”

“Twice.”

“Oh.”

“Did I snore?”

“No.”

Samara sighed with relief. “Thank God. I told you I don’t snore.”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Her eyes widened. “WHAT DID I SAY?”

He finally looked up.

“You argued with someone about… pani puri.”

Samara groaned and covered her face. “Kill me.”

“I considered it,” he said calmly.

She glared. “You’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

She threw a pillow at him. He caught it without even looking, as if he had predicted her every move.

Annoying.

Predictable.

Perfect reflexes.

She hated that he was so… composed.

How could someone be so calm after getting married to a stranger?

Samara dragged herself out of bed and looked around the enormous room that now belonged to her too.

Everything was too expensive.

Too perfect.

Too shiny.

She whispered to herself, “This house probably has more bathrooms than my school.”

Shivansh didn’t comment, though his expression suggested he agreed.

Breakfast at the Oberoi Mansion

Samara expected a grand dining room with classical music playing in the background.

She wasn’t wrong.

The dining hall was huge—bigger than her entire living room back home. A long table, polished to perfection, stretched across the room. Chandeliers hung like giant glittering ice drops.

She swallowed nervously.

Shivansh sat at one end, reading a newspaper like a textbook.

She sat five chairs away because sitting next to him felt too awkward.

The servants placed dishes on the table—pancakes, fruits, idli-sambar, toast, freshly squeezed juice.

Samara blinked. “Wow. Is this breakfast or a wedding banquet?”

“One meal,” he said.

“One meal for twenty people.”

“Eat whatever you want.”

She took one idli.

Just one.

Shivansh lowered the newspaper slightly, eyes flicking to her plate. “That’s all?”

“I’m nervous!” she whispered. “Who can eat in front of—” she gestured vaguely at him “—that face?”

His eyebrow twitched. “What is wrong with my face?”

“It’s too serious.”

“It is normal.”

“Exactly.”

He looked away, choosing not to fight first thing in the morning.

Samara sighed and attempted to eat, but the silence was suffocating.

Every clink of the spoon echoed like thunder.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“So… do you always eat breakfast like a silent statue?”

“Yes.”

“And talk like a robot?”

“Yes.”

“And stare like the world owes you money?”

“Yes.”

She slammed her spoon down softly. “Can you say something other than ‘yes’?”

“No.”

She glared. He didn’t even blink.

After breakfast, she followed him as he walked toward the entrance hallway.

He put on his watch.

She put on her slippers.

He grabbed his laptop bag.

She grabbed a chocolate bar.

He adjusted his tie.

She adjusted her messy bun.

The contrast between them was laughable.

He glanced at her. “The driver will take you wherever you want to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then stay home.”

“Okay.”

Silence again.

Samara finally blurted, “Are you always this cold?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever smile?”

“No.”

“Like ever-ever?”

“No.”

“Not even when you were a baby?”

He paused for the first time. “I don’t remember.”

“Well, maybe your mother does.”

“That question would not be appropriate.”

“Oh.” She nodded slowly. “Touchy topic?”

He didn’t respond.

Samara bit her lip. For a moment, she saw something in his eyes—a flicker of sadness. Something buried deeply.

But then it vanished, and he returned to his effortless coldness.

He looked at the time. “I have a meeting. I will return late.”

“Okay.”

“If you need anything, ask the staff.”

“Okay.”

He stared at her a second longer, like he wanted to say something…

Then he turned around and left.

Samara’s Exploration Mission

Shivansh’s house—no, their house—was huge. Even calling it a house felt disrespectful. It was practically a mini-palace.

There was a private gym.

A swimming pool.

A library big enough to lose yourself in.

A garden filled with roses that smelled like luxury soap.

Samara walked through the hallways like a lost tourist. The staff bowed every time she passed.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Oberoi.”

The last one made her trip on her own feet.

Mrs. Oberoi.

Her.

Wow.

She wished someone would pinch her so she could wake up from this ultra-rich dream-nightmare mixture.

Despite the huge space, she felt alone.

Like a guest.

Not a wife.

Not a family member.

Just a new piece of furniture in the mansion.

She wandered into the huge library and sat down, hugging her knees.

Her chest felt heavy.

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t want this life.

She didn’t want a cold husband.

She didn’t want a mansion with echoing walls.

She wanted comfort.

Warmth.

Love.

She wanted someone who smiled at her.

Someone who asked how she was.

Someone who didn’t treat her like a business arrangement.

She wiped the moisture from her eyes quickly.

“Get it together,” she whispered to herself. “You are not going to cry on day one.”

She held her head high.

If she was living here, she might as well survive like a warrior princess.

Evening — When Cold Meets Chaotic

By evening, Samara had tried everything to distract herself—movies, music, exploring the garden, even baking cookies (which she accidentally burned).

She was on her fourth attempt at chocolate cookies when the kitchen door opened.

Shivansh stepped inside.

He stopped.

She straightened. “Hi.”

He stared at the mess—flour everywhere, bowls scattered, the oven slightly smoking.

“What,” he asked slowly, “are you doing?”

“Domestic science experiment,” she said proudly.

“Is that oven… burning?”

“Yes.”

He calmly walked to it, turned it off, and opened the door. Smoke puffed out like a tiny volcano.

Samara coughed. “I was trying something new.”

He looked at her with a very unreadable expression.

Not angry.

Not annoyed.

Just… confused.

“Why?”

“I was bored,” she said honestly.

He blinked. “You could have… rested.”

“Resting is boring.”

“Reading?”

“Boring.”

“Swimming?”

“I can’t swim.”

“Gym?”

“I am too young to suffer.”

Silence.

Then something unexpected happened.

He exhaled softly through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

But definitely not nothing.

Samara tilted her head. “Did you… just smile?”

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No.”

“I saw it!”

“You imagined it.”

She pointed a finger at him. “You smiled. A tiny one. This is a historical moment.”

He picked up a towel and handed it to her. “Clean the counter.”

She shoved the towel at him. “You clean it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No.”

She huffed. “You really have no weaknesses.”

He looked straight into her eyes.

“I do,” he said quietly.

Her breath caught.

“What?”

He stepped back.

“Nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”

And he walked out of the kitchen.

Leaving Samara wondering—

What weakness could a man like Shivansh possibly have?

And why did he almost tell her?

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