Aarav left at 7:30 p.m. Maya didn't need a clock to know; the heavy, mechanical thunk of the deadbolt felt like it vibrated right through the floorboards. The penthouse didn't settle into a peaceful quiet once he was gone. It just felt hollow and oversized, the kind of silence that makes you conscious of your own breathing.
Maya stood in the middle of the living room, her toes digging into the rug. She was still in that stiff wedding saree, the silk starting to chafe her underarms and neck. She felt like a trespasser. She didn't want to sit on the designer sofa because she had this irrational fear she'd leave a smudge on the light gray fabric or mess up the perfectly chopped pillows.
Eventually, she retreated to the guest room—her room, she supposed, though it smelled like furniture polish and nothingness. She stripped off the red silk, leaving it in a messy, crumpled pile on a chair. Her mother would have had a fit, but Maya just wanted it off. She dug out a pair of old gray cotton shorts with a frayed hem and a tank top with a tiny bleach stain. After twisting her hair into a lopsided knot that pulled at her scalp, she caught herself in the mirror. She looked like a different person than the woman in the registrar's office. More real, maybe. Or just messier.
She wandered back to the kitchen. It was all brushed steel and hidden lights. A guy in his thirties was standing by the stove, focused on a pan.
"Good evening, ma'am," he said, not looking up. He had a faint, clipped accent.
"Hi," Maya said. The 'ma'am' made her skin crawl. "I'm Maya. I'm—well, I'm staying here now."
The cook, Stefan, gave her a polite, blank look. He didn't ask if she needed anything; he just went back to plating some fish with a pair of tweezers. It was too much. Maya tried to ask the names of the two women moving around in the background, but the conversation died almost instantly. They were polite, but they clearly didn't want to chat. They had a rhythm, and she was just a ghost in the machinery.
She ate dinner alone at a table built for twelve. The fish was technically perfect, but it was lukewarm by the time she finished, and the room was so quiet she could hear herself chewing. She left half of it and went to bed, falling into a sleep so heavy it felt like she'd been drugged.
When she woke up, the sun was already cutting through the gaps in the blinds. She squinted at her phone. 11:02 a.m.
"Shit."
She scrambled out of bed, her head spinning. She brushed her teeth in a blur and threw on a wrinkled button-down, nearly tripping over a stray shoe as she hurried into the corridor.
Aarav was there. He was standing by the window, his back to her, looking at his phone. He was already in a full suit, looking crisp and annoying. He turned around when he heard her.
"Morning," Maya said, her voice still thick with sleep. She tried to smooth down a stray hair that was sticking straight up. "Sorry. I don't usually sleep this late. The mattress is just... it's a lot."
Aarav stared at her. He noticed a tiny white smudge of toothpaste near her chin. It was a messy, human detail that felt out of place. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to tell her to wipe it off, but he just gripped his phone tighter. "I've been up since six-thirty," he said.
"Well, good for you," Maya muttered, then immediately felt bad for being snappy. "Did you need something? Or were you just waiting to tell me the time?"
Aarav hesitated. He'd planned to give her a list of instructions, but seeing her standing there with messy hair and a wrinkled shirt threw him off. He felt a weird, sharp prick of annoyance. "My mother. She's going to call you. Probably today."
"Right. The call."
"She wasn't happy about the lack of ceremony," Aarav said, his voice dropping into that flat, boardroom tone. "We need a story. How we met, how long it's been. I told you to send me an outline by noon. I wanted to check it for mistakes."
Maya frowned. "Mistakes? It's not a legal brief, Aarav."
"It's a narrative," he countered. He checked his watch—a nervous habit he didn't realize he had. "My stylist is coming at two. You need to get something to wear for next week. I have things to do."
He left before she could even ask what 'things' were on the schedule.
By midday, Aarav was in his office, but he wasn't looking at the acquisition report. He was staring at his inbox. Nothing from Maya. He felt a strange, restless energy in his chest. He picked up a pen and started tapping it against his mahogany desk, a rhythmic, irritating sound.
He was annoyed because she hadn't followed the plan. He liked plans. But there was something else—a small, persistent thought about that toothpaste smudge. It was a stupid thing to be stuck on.
At 2:00 p.m., the stylist arrived. Her name was Mrs. Kapoor, and she had the bedside manner of a drill sergeant. She dragged Maya through boutiques, throwing clothes over the dressing room door without asking for Maya's opinion. Maya looked at the price tags and stopped trying to convert them into months of rent for her gallery. It didn't feel real.
Around four, her phone rang. An unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Maya? This is Aarav's mother."
The voice was terrifyingly calm. Maya's stomach dropped. She didn't use the story Aarav had mentioned—the one about the cafe. It felt fake.
"To be honest, Mrs. Oberoi," Maya said, leaning against a cold glass display case, "we met through the investment circles. We just... we didn't want the fuss. Aarav is so focused on work, and I didn't want the media poking around my life. We wanted it to be private."
There was a long, static-filled silence.
"Private," his mother finally said. "Well. He's always been difficult. I suppose I should be glad he found someone who can handle his moods. Just... don't let him stay in that office all night, Maya."
When she got back to the penthouse, the hallway was full of boxes. Aarav was already home. He was standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water, his jacket thrown over a chair. He looked tired.
"You're back," he said.
"Yeah. Your mother called, by the way."
Aarav's hand stopped mid-sip. "What? You didn't send me the outline."
"I didn't have time. And I didn't need it," Maya said, dropping her keys on the counter with a loud clink. "I told her we met through work. She seemed fine with it. She even told me to make sure you don't work too late."
Aarav set the glass down. He felt a surge of something—not quite anger, but a chaotic frustration. He'd spent the afternoon worrying about a script she'd just tossed in the trash.
"You shouldn't have gone off-script," he said.
"The script was boring, Aarav. She's your mother, not a journalist." Maya shrugged. "I'm going to my room. All that shopping made my head hurt."
She walked away, leaving him in the kitchen.
Aarav stood there for a long time, looking at the jacket he'd thrown haphazardly over the chair. He hated when things weren't neat. He hated when people didn't follow the rules. But mostly, he was annoyed by how much he'd been checking his phone for an email that never came. He reached out and straightened the jacket, obsessive-compulsively lining up the sleeves.
Maya was in her room, staring at the boxes of clothes. She wondered if the guest room door had a lock. She realized she hadn't checked.
The apartment hummed in the background. It was just a Tuesday.