CHAPTER 2: The Stranger Groom

10:55 PM | Arya Samaj Mandir\, Sector 15

The temple was tucked away in a corner of the market, its entrance flanked by two marigold vendors who were now packing up for the night. Aanya's chappals slapped against the cold pavement as she approached, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure the whole street could hear it.

The mandir was empty.

Just a single diya flickering near the idol of Lord Ram, its flame dancing in the night breeze.

And a man.

He stood with his back to her, phone pressed to his ear. Even from behind, he radiated power—broad shoulders in what was clearly an expensive suit, tailored to perfection. Designer shoes that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. The kind of man who owned boardrooms and broke competitors without breaking a sweat.

"I don't care about the loss, fix it," he was saying, his voice deep and commanding. "And tell my mother I'm handling the marriage proposal myself. No more setups, no more rishtas, no more of her well-meaning interference. I'm done."

He disconnected and turned.

Aanya's breath caught in her throat.

He was devastating. Not handsome in the soft, boyish way—but striking in a way that made you want to step back and step closer at the same time. Sharp jaw. Intense dark eyes that held absolutely zero warmth. A mouth that looked like it hadn't smiled in years.

And those eyes—they swept over her now, taking in everything. Her faded cotton kurti, two years old and washed too many times. Her broken chappals, held together by duct tape she'd tried to hide with nail polish. The dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights at the hospital. The trembling hands she tried to still by clasping them together.

Something flickered in his gaze—not pity, not kindness. Calculation. Assessment. Like she was a problem to be solved.

"You're late," he said. No greeting. No introduction. Just an accusation.

Aanya's voice came out smaller than she intended. "The bus was delayed."

"Buses." He said the word like it was a foreign concept. "Of course."

"You're the one who texted me?" She stepped closer, trying to project confidence she didn't feel. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Rudraksh Malhotra." Still no handshake. No polite namaste. Just his name, dropped like a stone into still water. "Here's the deal. I need a wife for six months. My family is relentless—my mother especially. She's been parading eligible girls in front of me for years, and I'm tired of it. You need money for your father. Twenty-five lakhs. Cash. Tonight. Transaction complete."

Aanya's head spun. The words didn't make sense. "Marriage? You want to marry me?"

"Contract marriage." He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Separate lives. You play the doting wife at family dinners. You smile, you nod, you pretend to be madly in love with me. I pay your bills, I stay out of your way. Six months, we annul. No emotions. No drama. No love—I don't believe in it."

"This is insane."

"So is watching your father die because you couldn't afford treatment." His voice was flat, clinical. "I did my research, Aanya Sharma. Your father's surgery was successful, but the hospital won't release him until the bill is paid. You have one week before they start legal proceedings. Your sister is a medical student with a bright future. Your father's pension won't cover the interest on the loans you've already taken. You're out of options."

Every word was a knife. A truth she'd been trying to outrun.

"How do you know all that?"

"I make it my business to know things." He checked his watch—a Patek Philippe, not that she recognized it. "Your father's surgery is scheduled for Monday. If you agree, the money will be in your account by midnight. You can pay the hospital tomorrow morning. Your father comes home. Your sister stays in school. You get your life back in six months."

"And you get a wife."

"I get peace from my mother." His lips curved slightly—not a smile, more like a acknowledgement of mutual benefit. "We both get what we want."

Aanya thought of her father's face. Kavya's hopeful eyes. The empty house with the mortgaged roof. The rejection letters. The café job that paid nothing. The twenty-three loans that had said no.

"One condition," she said, her voice shaking but clear. "My sister never knows. My father never knows. My family thinks I got a loan from a charitable organization. They never find out about this—about you—about any of it."

"Done."

"The mangalsutra comes off when we're alone. I'm not wearing it at work or with friends."

"Done."

"No public displays of affection beyond what's absolutely necessary for your family."

His eyes flickered with something—amusement? "You're negotiating with me. Interesting."

"Is it a deal or not?"

"It's a deal." He gestured toward the mandir interior. "The pandit is waiting. We need to finish before midnight—it's considered auspicious."

Aanya walked toward the sacred fire on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.

The pandit, an old man who looked like he'd been paid well to ask no questions, gestured for them to sit. The fire was lit. The mantras began.

Seven rounds around the sacred fire. Seven promises to a stranger.

At the final step, Rudraksh Malhotra tied the mangalsutra around her neck. His fingers brushed her skin—cold, clinical, efficient.

"It's done," he said.