Chapter : 1

Malik Mansion didn’t feel like a home.

It felt like a museum.

Too big. Too quiet. Too perfect.

The gates alone were three stories high, black iron with gold tips that caught the Karachi sun and threw it back at you. The driveway was long enough that I could’ve practiced driving on it. On both sides, fountains shot water into the air in perfect arcs, like they’d been timed by a metronome.

Not a single leaf was out of place.

“Mrs. Malik,” the driver said, opening my door. “We’re here.”

Mrs. Malik.

The title hit me in the chest. It still sounded fake on my tongue, like I was in a play and forgot my lines.

The head maid was already waiting at the entrance. She was in her fifties, hair pulled into a neat bun, wearing a plain white shalwar kameez and a navy dupatta. Kind eyes. Tired hands.

“Welcome to Malik Mansion,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “I’m Naseem. Everyone calls me Naseem Aunty.”

She looked me up and down once, not judging, just cataloging. “Your room is on the second floor.”

I followed her inside.

The foyer had marble floors so shiny I could see my own reflection. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, big enough to be a small car. The air smelled like lemons and expensive perfume. There were paintings on the walls. Abstract things that probably cost more than my father’s hospital bills.

And it was silent. Not peaceful silent. The kind of silent that makes you lower your voice without knowing why.

“Mr. Malik isn’t home yet,” Naseem Aunty said, leading me up a wide staircase. “He’s in a meeting. He said to get you settled.”

Mr. Malik.

Zayan Malik. 32. CEO of Malik Group. Net worth in the billions. The man who’d offered me 5 million PKR to be his wife for one year.

We stopped in front of double doors, white with gold handles.

“This is you,” she said, pushing them open.

The room was huge. Bigger than my entire apartment back in Nazimabad.

A king-size bed sat in the middle, covered in a cream duvet that looked too expensive to sleep on. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the garden. A seating area with a white sofa. A dressing table with a marble top.

And a walk-in closet.

Naseem Aunty opened it.

Rows of gowns. Heels lined up by color. Jewelry boxes. Perfume bottles.

None of it had tags with my name. None of it looked like me.

“Mr. Malik bought these,” Naseem Aunty explained. “For events. He said your size is S.”

He’d checked my size.

Of course he had. This was business. You don’t invest 5 million in an asset without knowing the measurements.

There was a piece of paper on the dressing table. Folded once. My name wasn’t on it.

I picked it up.

His handwriting was sharp. Angry, even though the letters were perfectly formed. Like each word had been cut into the paper.

*MANSION RULES FOR MRS. MALIK:*

Do not enter the West Wing. Ever.

Attend all events I tell you to. Smile. Say nothing about us.

No friends. No visitors. No social media posts.

Sleep in your room. Not mine.

The contract is 1 year. Don’t make it complicated.

At the bottom: `- Zayan`

No ‘please’. No ‘thank you’. No ‘welcome’.

Just rules.

Rule 1 was underlined twice.

“Is the West Wing… haunted?” I asked, trying to joke.

Naseem Aunty’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s Mr. Malik’s private area. You don’t need to go there.”

Right. Private.

Everything in this house was private. Including me, apparently.

She showed me the bathroom next. Bigger than my kitchen. Marble bathtub. Rain shower. Towels folded into swans.

Then she left me alone with a quiet, “Dinner is at 8. I’ll call you.”

Alone.

I sat on the bed. The mattress didn’t even dip.

5 million PKR. That’s what this year was worth. Enough to clear Baba’s debt. Enough for his surgery. Enough for Ammi to stop taking night shifts.

For playing a doll.

I could do this. One year was 365 days. I’d survived worse.

I opened my phone. 3 missed calls from Ammi. One text: _“Beta, are you okay? Did they treat you well?”_

I typed back: _“Yes. The house is beautiful. Don’t worry.”_

I didn’t mention the rules. Or the museum. Or the man who’d bought me a closet full of clothes but couldn’t write ‘welcome’.

At 7 PM sharp, there was a knock.

“Mrs. Malik?” Naseem Aunty’s voice. “Mr. Malik wants you downstairs in 20 minutes. We have a dinner.”

Dinner. Test #1.

I stared at the closet. The red dress was right in front. Sleeveless. Backless. The kind of dress that gets photographed. The kind of dress that gets talked about.

Next to it was a navy blue gown. Simple. Elegant. Covered. The kind of dress a wife would wear, not a display piece.

I chose navy.

When I came downstairs, he was already there.

Zayan Malik was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, phone in one hand, whiskey in the other. He was tall. Black suit. No tie. Hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it all day.

He looked up when he heard my footsteps and froze for half a second.

His eyes scanned me. Head to toe. Clinical. Like Naseem Aunty, but colder.

“Change,” he said.

“What?”

“That gown is too plain,” he said, not looking away from my face. “You’ll look like staff. Wear the red one.”

The red one.

“I’m not here to be noticed,” I said. The words came out before I could stop them. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted. “I’m here to play a wife. Wives don’t wear bait.”

Silence.

The fountains outside were louder than his breathing.

His jaw ticked. For a second I was sure he was going to yell, or worse, send me back upstairs.

Then he took a sip of his whiskey.

“Fine,” he said. “Keep it.”

We rode to the restaurant in silence.

The car was black, leather, and cold. He sat on one side. I sat on the other. A whole world of empty space between us.

The restaurant was on the top floor of a hotel downtown. Private room. Glass walls overlooking the city.

Three men. Two women. All in designer clothes. All with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

“So Zayan,” one of the women said, leaning forward. Too much perfume. Too much curiosity. “We didn’t even know you were engaged. And now you’re married? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Zayan said. His hand came to rest on the small of my back. His touch was cold through the fabric. “Areeba and I met privately. We don’t like drama.”

Lie #1.

“Where did you meet?” one of the men asked me.

I opened my mouth.

“A charity event,” Zayan answered for me. “She was volunteering. I was impressed.”

Lie #2.

I forced a smile. “Yes. Charity.”

They ate. They talked about the Karachi port deal, about stocks, about trips to Dubai. I picked at my food.

Then Mrs. Farah, one of the wives, leaned in. She smelled like roses and malice.

“Your necklace is fake, isn’t it?” she whispered. Loud enough for everyone to hear. “Zayan doesn’t give real diamonds to… new wives.”

The table went quiet.

My face burned. I touched the necklace. It did feel light. Cheap.

Zayan didn’t look at her. He looked at me.

Then he reached over, unclasped the necklace, and put it in his suit pocket.

“You’re right,” he said calmly. “It’s a replica. For events.”

Gasps.

He turned to me. Voice low. Only for me, but everyone could hear.

“Because the real ones are in my safe. For my real wife. The one who stays.”

The message was clear: She’s temporary. Don’t insult her.

Mrs. Farah’s face went red.

“Shall we talk about the port deal now?” Zayan said, changing the subject like nothing happened.

On the ride home, I couldn’t stay quiet.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make me look… less, to make them look worse.”

He shrugged, staring out the window. “You’re my asset. I don’t let people damage my assets in public.”

Asset. Right.

“Thank you… anyway,” I said softly.

He didn’t answer.

Back at the mansion, it was colder.

Not the AC. The silence.

Naseem Aunty took my heels at the door. Zayan went straight upstairs.

I stood in the foyer holding my clutch, listening to his footsteps fade away from my wing.

364 days left.

I went to my room, to the museum, and lay on a bed that didn’t feel like mine.

Somewhere in the West Wing, a light turned on.

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