The Family Verdict

The annulment papers were still warm from the printer.

Kavya signed hers first. Her hand didn't even shake. Twenty years old, twenty-four hours married, and she couldn't get the pen down fast enough.

Aditya Singh Rathore signed next. He didn't look at her while he did it. He didn't look at me either.

"Done," Mr. Mehta said, stamping both copies. "Miss Kavya Mehra is legally unmarried, effective immediately. No public record. The marriage was never consummated, both parties consent, age is clear — clean break."

Kavya exhaled like someone had been sitting on her chest for a full day. "Thank you," she whispered to no one in particular.

Aditya finally looked up. "A car will take you home to Jaipur within the hour, Kavya ji. Your parents have been informed. Discreetly."

She nodded, eyes red. Then she looked at me, guilty. "Didi?"

I forced a smile. "Go. Study. Forget last night ever happened."

She hugged me hard at the front door, her suitcase already in the trunk. The sindoor was scrubbed clean from her hairline, but a faint pink shadow remained, stubborn. "I'm sorry," she whispered into my shoulder. "I'm so sorry I left you here."

"You didn't leave me," I said. "You got out. That's different."

The car pulled away. Kavya was free. I wasn't.

Behind me, the massive doors of Rathore Haveli closed with a soft, final thud.

Dadi Sa was waiting in the living room with a second set of papers. Not annulment papers. Thicker. Uglier.

"Sit," she said to me and Veer.

We sat — on opposite ends of the couch, a careful foot of space between us. Aditya stood by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the garden like this had nothing to do with him.

Mr. Mehta cleared his throat. "Mrs. Rathore — Aaradhya ji — your situation is… different."

"How different?" I asked.

He slid a newspaper across the coffee table. Business Standard. Front page, bottom right. A grainy photo of me in my red veil, hand in hand with a man in an ivory sherwani. The headline: RATHORE-TEXTILES-MEHRA BOUTIQUE MERGER SEALED WITH A MARRIAGE — CEO Aditya Singh Rathore weds designer Aaradhya Mehra.

The man in that photo wasn't Aditya. It was Veer. You couldn't tell in the bad light, with the veil, but I could. Those were his shoes. His nervous grip.

"They ran it at 6 a.m.," Aditya said quietly, still facing the window. "Before we could stop it."

"Rathore Textiles stock opens in forty minutes," Mehta said. "If we issue a correction now — 'sorry, wrong brother, wrong bride, it was all a mistake' — we lose eighteen percent by lunch. The Mehra Boutique merger, which is signed in your name specifically, Aaradhya ji, collapses. Your father's outstanding loans — 2.4 crore rupees — get called in immediately."

My heart started pounding. "You can't be serious."

"I am," Mehta said. "I'm very sorry."

Dadi Sa pushed the thick folder toward me. "Six months."

I stared at her. "What?"

"You stay married. Here. In this house. As Veer's wife. In public, you are perfect. In private, I don't care what you do. After six months, a mutual divorce. No press. No scandal. By then the merger is stable, your father's boutique is safe, the stock has settled."

"That's insane," Veer said, standing up so fast he knocked his knee against the table. "Dadi, ask her — ask Aaradhya ji if she wants this. You can't just —"

"I am asking," Dadi Sa snapped. "Aaradhya?"

Everyone knew about my marriage now. I couldn't leave.

I looked at Veer. Really looked at him. Twenty-six, exhausted, hair a mess from running his hands through it all night, guilt written all over his face for something that wasn't his fault.

He caught me looking and immediately took a step back, hands up. "Hey — no pressure. Seriously. Say no and I will walk into that press conference myself and tell them I stole my brother's bride by accident. I'll tank my own name before I trap you."

I looked at him. Then I looked away.

"If I say yes," I said slowly, "what are the rules?"

Veer's eyebrows shot up. "Wait — you're considering —?"

"Rules," I repeated, ignoring him, looking at Dadi Sa.

Dadi Sa's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Smart girl."

"One," I said, turning to Veer. "Separate rooms."

"We only have —" Aditya started.

"Then he sleeps on the couch," I said. "Every night. For six months."

"Done," Veer said instantly. "Couch is my best friend now. We’re emotionally bonded."

"Two," I continued. "In public, we fake it. Just enough that no one asks questions. In private, you don't touch me. Ever. Not unless I ask — which I won't."

Veer swallowed. "Deal. No touching. Ever. Scout's honor. Was never a scout, but still."

"Three," I said, voice dropping. "After six months, you sign whatever my lawyer puts in front of you. No fight. No drama. Clean break. I walk away with my father's boutique intact, and you never see me again."

He didn't answer right away.

"Deal," he said quietly.

I held out my hand. "Contract?"

He looked at my hand for a moment, then shook it.

"Contract," he said. "Six months. Roommates. Fake marriage. Don't fall for me, Mrs. Rathore."

I pulled my hand back fast. "In your dreams, Mr. Rathore."

Aditya finally turned from the window. He looked at our joined hands, then at me.

"Six months," he said. I'll have Legal draw up the post-nuptial agreement today.

Dadi Sa clapped her hands once, sharp. "Bas. Done. Veer, take your wife upstairs. Show her where her clothes will go. The staff is already moving her suitcases."

"Wait — what?" I said. "My suitcases? Where?"

Veer rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh. About that."

He led me upstairs, past three perfectly good guest bedrooms, all the way to the end of the east wing. He stopped in front of a heavy teak door and wouldn't look at me.

"This is — was — my room," he said.

He pushed it open.

My three suitcases were already lined up neatly against the wall. My vanity case was on the dresser. Someone had hung my pink morning saree on the back of the bathroom door.

One bed. One couch — a narrow, very obviously not-made-for-sleeping couch under the window. One wardrobe, half empty, with a neat line drawn down the middle in what looked like masking tape.

"I told them to put you in the guest suite," Veer said quickly, mortified. "Dadi said — and I quote — 'a wife sleeps in her husband's room, even a fake one, what will the staff think?' — I tried, I swear —"

I walked in slowly, taking in the room that smelled like sandalwood and old books and him. Sketches pinned to a corkboard — buildings, bridges, hands. A half-finished cup of cold coffee on the nightstand. A very flat-looking couch pillow.

One room.

Two people.

Six months.

Veer stayed by the doorway. "Left side of the wardrobe is yours. Bathroom is yours first, always. I snore — sorry in advance. Couch is — well, it's a couch. I'll survive."

I dropped my purse on the bed.

"One rule," I said, turning to face him.

He straightened. "Anything."

"You keep sleeping on that couch, husband."

He blinked, then smiled.

"Oh, so now I'm husband?" he said softly. "Took you long enough, wife."

Before I could take it back, the bedroom door clicked shut behind him on its own, sealing us in.

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