The next morning, she prepared for the day with a familiar grace, her hands adorned with shimmering bangles that softly chimed with each movement. She draped a luxurious brown silk saree around her, the fabric flowing like a gentle river, catching the light and accentuating her elegance. The rich hue complemented her complexion perfectly, while subtle, intricate patterns woven into the silk added depth and sophistication to her ensemble.

He watched from the bed, still half asleep, as she got ready. A part of him wanted to get up, to pull her back under the sheets, to continue where they left off.

But the early morning light showed the marks he'd left on her neck last night—a stark reminder of their battle. His eyes lingered—tracing down the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulders, the way her clothes clung to her curves.

He shifted slightly, heat coursing through him as he felt himself harden again just from the sight of her. The morning light illuminated her figure, but he left the bed without a word, retreating to the bathroom to gather his thoughts.

When he returned, breath caught in his throat. She stood in a rich brown saree that draped elegantly around her curves, her hair pinned up with artful grace, a few strands softly framing her face. The scent of jasmine filled the air, and in that moment, something twisted inside him—a blend of desire and admiration that left him momentarily breathless.

The marks on her neck peeked above the fabric. His marks. A reminder of last night's fire, of his loss of control. And yet... she stood there, calm. Composed. Like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn't trembled beneath him. Like she hadn't gasped his name.

He clenched his jaw, a storm brewing inside. Without a word, he got out of bed, sheets slipping away, and walked past her to the bathroom.

No greeting, no touch—just a heavy silence filled with unspoken words.

But as he passed, his fingers just barely brushed against the edge of her sari—like a ghost of contact—before he disappeared behind the door and turned on the shower, letting the water drown out all that he couldn't say.

Siya felt an unsettling heaviness in the air. Theodore had always been attentive, so why was he silent this morning? The dining room was enveloped in an uneasy stillness. The soft clink of cutlery broke the quiet, while the gentle rustle of her sari accompanied her as she sat down. Outside, birds chirped, a stark contrast to the tension that lingered between them.

He sat across from her, posture rigid, eyes fixed on his plate. Coffee untouched. Toast barely touched.

She could feel it—the distance. Not just silence, but something heavier.

And then it hit her: he hadn't looked at her once since morning. No sharp words. No mocking tone. No possessive stare. Nothing.

It unsettled her more than any argument ever had. Because for all his arrogance, for all his coldness, he always saw her.

And today... he didn't. She tried to say something. "Your parents, when will they come back?" He didn't look up. Just paused, his fingers tightening slightly around his coffee cup.

"A week." His voice was flat—distant.

The silence stretched again, heavy and awkward.

Then, without warning, he finally lifted his gaze—sharp, unreadable—but it only lasted a second before dropping back to his plate. She shrugged and continued to eat. He stole a glance—just one—from under his lashes. Watched her shrug, the fabric of her saree shifting over her shoulder as she ate with quiet dignity.

The gesture should've annoyed him. Should've fueled the cold wall he was trying so hard to build.

But it didn't. Instead, that small, indifferent shrug dug under his skin like a splinter.

She wasn't supposed to move on so easily.

She wasn't supposed to act like last night meant nothing—like he meant nothing.

And yet here she was... calm. Unbothered.

As if she hadn't shattered something in him last night—and walked away untouched.

His jaw clenched beneath the silence.

The coffee had gone cold.

So had he pretended to be.

2 days later

Two days had passed since the morning in the dining room—two days of tense silences and averted glances. The only words exchanged had been terse and necessary—no more, no less.

He avoided her gaze when they passed in the hall. Kept his voice flat and distant whenever she spoke. Never let his eyes linger on the marks he'd left on her neck.

He told himself this was better—that this was how things should be between them. No more arguments, no more fire.

But it felt wrong.

A day later, he would be leaving for his new posting for a month in North province. Currently, they were having the last supper before his departure, and the tension hung heavy over the table. They sat at opposite ends, their plates separated by a gulf of silence.

He felt the weight of it—the unspoken words, the memories of the past days.

His gaze flickered up to her. There was something about the way the light cast shadows over her face, the way her hair gleamed. For a moment, he wanted to touch her—to say something—anything.

His hand clenched under the table. Siya felt weird these days, but relieved too that she got some space.

Over the past few days, she'd felt a strange mix of relief and loneliness. He'd ignored her—a vast improvement from their usual arguments. But now... she missed the fire, the passion, the intensity.

Theodore would leave tomorrow. A month away. She shouldn't want him to stay. She should be ecstatic.

So why did his absence feel like a loss?

Her eyes rose, almost involuntarily, to meet his.

He looked away quickly. Cold. Distant. No trace of what they'd shared before.

"I can go to my parents for a month, right? As you won't be here for a month, "

He froze—fork halfway to his mouth—as her words landed like a slap. His eyes snapped to hers, dark and sharp.

"You can," he said slowly, voice low and edged, "but you won't."

A pause. The air between them thickened.

"I didn't marry you so you could run back to your parents the moment I'm gone."

He set his fork down with deliberate calm, though his jaw was tight.

"This is your home now. Whether you like it or not."

"I understand, I know my duties as a wife, but I can go for like few days, right?"

He stared at her, a muscle in his jaw ticking. The idea of her leaving rankled. But he kept his voice neutral, almost indifferent.

"You understand your duties, hm? Then you should know that one of those 'duties' is staying here while I'm away."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes holding hers in a challenge.

"Or do you forget your promise to be my devoted wife?"

"Please, it's my brother's wedding."

He froze—just for a second—his expression flickering between stubborn control and something almost like guilt.

Her brother's wedding. He hadn't expected that.

For a moment, he looked away, jaw working silently. The thought of her leaving—even for her family, even for something important—gnawed at him in ways he refused to name.

Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Two days." His voice was clipped. "No more." He didn't look at her as he spoke again.

"And you'll return here immediately after. This house is your home now... don't forget that."

"Thank you," she said quietly.

His eyes darkened at her quick gratitude. He almost expected her to push back. To argue. To fight him. But no. Just a single "thank you" and a quiet nod. It shouldn't annoy him this much.

His gaze flicked to her face again. She looked beautiful—as always. He looked away just as quickly. Damn her.

Later that night

They lay intertwined on the bed, wrapped in a soft blanket that shielded them from the chilly night. Outside, the rain tapped a steady rhythm against the window, filling the dim room with a soothing sound. The air was cold and damp, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil, creating a cosy refuge amidst the monsoon storm.

They lay on opposite sides of the bed, wrapped in silence under heavy blankets. The space between them felt palpable.

He sensed her presence like a storm brewing beneath the surface—close, yet unreachable.

His body remembered every gasp, every tremble, every touch.

And now? Only emptiness remained.

Just distance. Cold sheets between them. "Are you feeling cold?" she asked hesitantly.

He didn't answer right away. Just lie there, eyes open, listening to the rain.

The cold wasn't what bothered him. It was her voice—soft, hesitant—breaking through the silence like she actually cared.

His jaw tightened. "I'm fine," he said flatly, still staring at the ceiling.

A beat of silence. Then, "You?"

"I'm feeling a bit colder than usual," she shivered.

His hands clenched under the blankets, his jaw tightening further. He should say no. Ignore this. Keep his distance.

But something in him ached at her words. At the thought of her shivering in the cold while he stayed on his side.

Damn it.

"Move closer then." His voice was low—almost a growl.

His body tensed as she moved closer. He could feel the heat radiating from her now—just a slender gap of air between them.

He didn't turn to look at her. Just lay there, rigid, every nerve alive.

His mind warred with itself, telling him this was a bad idea, even as his heart urged him to close that last damn inch.

"Closer." The word escaped him, rougher than he meant. He felt it—the faintest tremor of her body as she shifted just a little closer, the warmth of her seeping through the thin layer between them.

His breath hitched—just slightly—at the nearness. The scent of her hair, faint jasmine cutting through the cold air. Her back was almost touching his chest now.

He wanted to pull her in. To wrap his arms around her and bury his face in that stubborn neck and forget everything else—his duty, their marriage, this war they were fighting.

Instead...

"Turn around," he murmured—low, barely audible over the rain. "Face me."

The moment she turned, he couldn't help but inhale sharply. His eyes landed on her face, mere inches away from his, the lamplight casting shadows across her cheeks, her eyes, her lips.

God, her lips.

His fingers itched to reach up. Caress her jawline. Her throat. Her hair.

But he stayed still, forcing himself to keep his hands where they were—fisted in the sheets. "

"Why do you speak less these days? Work tension?"

She tried to break the ice. He blinked at her—surprised she'd spoken so softly, so... gently. The ice-breaker caught him off guard.

His eyes flickered to hers, then away. "Not work." His voice was low, rough—like he hadn't used it in days. "Just thinking."

A beat of silence. Rain tapping against the glass. Thunder grumbling in the distance.

"Do you really want to know why I've been quiet?" He asked—not accusing, not angry. Just raw.

"It's ok if you don't want to". She fears it has something to do with her.

He heard the quiet fear in her voice—the hesitation—and it struck something deep inside him.

His jaw tightened. Of course, she thought it was about her.

And it was. God, it was all about her. The distance. The silence. Every damn step he'd taken back had been to keep from breaking apart.

He exhaled sharply—almost pained.

"It's not you," he lied, then paused, eyes closing briefly as if fighting a losing battle with himself.

"...It's because of you." He opened his eyes suddenly, locking his gaze onto hers with a raw intensity. "...Because of you," he repeated, his voice taut and strained. "Every moment I'm near you, my thoughts spiral out of control. I can't stop replaying your words and the way everything you do gets under my skin."

"His silence was temporary. His desire was not."

Should she choose freedom ⚔️ or love ❤️?

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