The first rule of a contract marriage was simple: don't fall in love.
Aarav Malhotra read that line three times, as if repetition would change its meaning. It didn't. The words sat there—clean, cold, legal—on cream-colored paper that smelled faintly of ink and inevitability.
Across the polished mahogany table sat Siya Verma, hands folded in her lap, spine straight, expression unreadable. She wore no jewelry except a thin silver ring on her thumb, a nervous habit she twisted when she thought no one was watching. Her eyes—dark, steady—never left the lawyer explaining clauses neither of them truly cared about.
This marriage was never about love.
For Aarav, it was survival.
For Siya, it was freedom.
"Six months," the lawyer said. "Public marriage. Private boundaries. At the end of the term, the marriage will be legally dissolved unless both parties agree to extend."
Aarav finally looked at her. "Any objections?"
Siya met his gaze. "Only to bad coffee and unnecessary emotions."
Something flickered between them—amusement? Challenge?—and was gone.
They signed.
The world believed the fairy tale instantly.
Business tycoon Aarav Malhotra, the most eligible bachelor in Mumbai, married to the graceful, mysterious architect Siya Verma in a quiet yet elegant ceremony. Photos surfaced. Headlines bloomed. His family's failing conglomerate steadied overnight, investors reassured by the image of stability.
No one knew the truth.
At night, they lived like polite strangers in a glass-and-marble penthouse overlooking the city. Separate bedrooms. Shared silence. A calendar on the fridge with social obligations marked in red.
"Dinner with the board—smile more," Aarav reminded her one evening.
"Your mother's charity brunch—don't correct me in public," she replied coolly.
Rules stacked upon rules.
And yet, cracks formed where rules couldn't reach.
It started small.
Aarav noticed Siya woke up at 5 a.m. every day to sketch by the window, the city still half-asleep. He noticed the way she hummed when she concentrated, soft and unaware. He told himself it meant nothing.
Siya noticed Aarav's hands—steady in meetings, trembling slightly when he thought he was alone. She noticed how he loosened his tie the moment he walked through the door, as if the world weighed less inside these walls. She told herself it was curiosity, nothing more.
One night, the power went out.
The city vanished into darkness, rain drumming against the windows. Siya froze in the hallway, the memory of a childhood blackout tightening her chest.
"It's just temporary," Aarav said softly from behind her.
She didn't realize she was shaking until his hands were on her shoulders, warm and grounding. She didn't pull away.
"Thank you," she whispered.
For the first time, the silence between them felt… safe.
By the third month, pretending became harder than truth.
They laughed—real laughter—over burnt toast and late-night takeout. They argued about music and movies and whose turn it was to lie to the press. They learned each other's scars without meaning to.
Siya learned Aarav's father had died under the weight of failure, leaving him a legacy of debt and expectation.
Aarav learned Siya had once been engaged—to a man who loved her ambition only until it overshadowed his own.
"You don't ask permission to exist," Aarav said once, watching her present a design proposal at home.
Siya smiled. "Neither do you. You just carry the weight better."
The contract lay forgotten in a drawer.
The kiss happened by accident.
A press event. Too much champagne. Too many cameras.
They played their roles perfectly—hands intertwined, smiles effortless. When the doors closed behind them, the air shifted.
"That was convincing," Siya said, laughing.
Aarav didn't answer. He was too busy realizing how close she was. How her laughter softened into something quieter.
"This isn't part of the agreement," he said, almost pleading.
"I know," she replied.
Neither moved away.
When their lips met, it was gentle at first—hesitant, questioning. Then real. Too real. Months of unspoken longing collapsed into a single moment that rewrote every rule they'd made.
They pulled apart, breathless.
"This changes things," Siya whispered.
Aarav nodded. "It does."
Neither of them said we should stop.
Love crept in where logic failed.
They shared a bed, then mornings. Shared fears. Shared dreams that extended beyond six months.
But contracts don't disappear just because hearts get involved.
Two weeks before the end date, Siya found the original agreement while searching for her passport.
Clause 17 stared back at her:
In the event that emotional attachment develops, both parties must disclose immediately to avoid future legal or personal complications.
Her chest tightened.
Aarav hadn't said the words.
Neither had she.
That night, she asked carefully, "What happens after six months?"
Aarav didn't look up from his laptop. "We'll see."
"That's not an answer."
He closed the screen slowly. "I can't afford uncertainty, Siya. Not now."
The distance returned, sharper than before.
The truth exploded at the worst possible time.
A rival leaked the contract to the media.
Headlines turned brutal overnight:MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE? MALHOTRA HEIR EXPOSED
Investors panicked. Aarav's board demanded damage control. His mother wept. Siya stood in the center of it all, vilified as a gold-digger, a pawn.
Aarav confronted her, anger and fear colliding. "Did you tell anyone?"
"No," she said, hurt flashing in her eyes. "I trusted you."
"Then why does this feel like betrayal?"
Silence answered.
The six-month mark loomed like a guillotine.
On the final day, Siya packed her bags.
Aarav watched from the doorway, heart in pieces, pride refusing to bend.
"This was never supposed to be permanent," he said.
She turned to him, eyes shining but dry. "Neither was love. Yet here we are."
She left before he could stop her.
The apartment felt hollow.
The city felt louder.
And the contract—now public, now poison—sat like a verdict on his desk.
Three days later, Aarav received an envelope.
No return address.
Inside was a pregnancy report.
Positive.
His breath left him in a rush.
A single line was written beneath it, in Siya's handwriting:
The contract is over. The truth isn't. Decide what you're willing to sign next.
Aarav's hands shook as he read it again.
Outside, the city buzzed, unaware that everything had just changed.
He reached for his keys.
Some contracts could be torn.
Some promises demanded everything.
And some loves—once signed—could never be undone.