Page 1 of One Hellish Wedlock
PROLOGUE
Seven Star Hotel – Presidential Suite - Delhi
This wasn’t howReyansh Choprahad imagined their wedding night to be—a passed-out bride, lying alone in a dark suite with the scent of half-burnt candles and alcohol lingering in the air.
Not that he had expected anything remotelynormalfrom this arrangement. This wasn’t just a marriage after all. It was a marriage of convenience. And he didn’t know if he wanted to keep it that way. Deep down, there was still a sliver of him that wondered…what if it became something more?
Yet, never in his life had he imagined that he….one of the hottest billionaires in India, with a global fashion empire spanning 18 countries, would end up in a marriage like this.
“Nani, I’ll explain everything tomorrow,” Reyansh said into the phone as he strode through the grand lobby of the hotel where their impromptu wedding had just taken place. “Yes, I informed Di. She understands my reasons. Don’t worry. Good night.”
He ended the call and pulled the keycard from his pocket. No press. No public vows. No rituals. Just a quiet legal signing followed by a discreet dinner in the hotel’s private lounge. That was all it had taken to become husband and wife.
He unlocked the presidential suite. A heady mix of scented candles greeted him the moment he stepped in. The room wascloaked in semi-darkness, the soft glow of candlelight offering just enough illumination to guide his steps.
“Aanya?” he called out softly.
He barely knew his wife except that she came off as a spoiled brat, sharp-tongued, arrogant, and far too sassy for his tolerance. She was brilliant academically, no doubt. At just 23, she had never intended to marry, especially not so young. He knew she’d been pushed into this arrangement, pressured by a manipulative stepmother and emotionally cornered by a father who knew exactly how to bend her will.
They had met only twice recently—once at a tense, formal meeting where she had barely spared him a glance, and then today, at the brief but binding ceremony that had made them husband and wife. A paper marriage before the lawyers, nothing more.
He could have easily ordered his men to dig into her past, to uncover every secret, every skeleton in her closet. But he hadn’t bothered. He didn’t want to learn about her through reports or surveillance. He wanted her to tell him, when she was ready, if she ever was.
They would be sharing a home, living under the same roof. That much was inevitable. And somewhere inside, he hoped that with time, they might come to terms with this arrangement, maybe even learn to exist without bitterness or resentment. But intimacy? That was off the table. Not unless one of them… or maybe bothtrulywanted it. He believed relationships that began in bed often burned out just as quickly, leaving only ashes and regret. Besides, she had barely stepped out of her teenage years. Emotionally immature, impulsive, and far too naïve to understand the desires of a man seven years older than her.
As he walked further into the suite, his foot hit something. He looked down only to find an empty champagne bottle.
Complimentary, perhaps. But it was completely empty.
Had she consumed the entire thing alone?
He kept walking, his eyes catching more clues along the way—her sandals discarded carelessly, one near the coffee table, the other by the edge of the rug. Her red gown, the one she had worn for the brief ceremony, lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Then came the final layer of clothing…her lacy red two-piece lingerie…lying tangled near the bedpost, shamelessly discarded like the rest of her inhibitions, as if she didn’t care who saw it.
He reached for the light switch and flicked it on.
And there she was.
His wife Aanya Malhotra, now Mrs. Aanya Reyansh Chopra was lying on her stomach on the bed, draped in nothing but a pristine white duvet, her bare shoulders visible, her long, dark hair fanned across the pillows. She was in deep sleep, breathing evenly, like the world didn’t matter tonight.
For a moment, Reyansh simply stared. She was undeniably beautiful. And she belonged to him, at least on paper.
A dangerous thought flickered across his mind.
He almost imagined walking over, brushing that dark silk of hair away from her bare shoulder, pressing his lips against the soft skin she had left exposed without meaning to. He imagined what it would feel like to trace every curve beneath that duvet, to claim what the world now calledhis.
There was beauty even in her chaos. Reckless, infuriating beauty. And for a heartbeat, he wanted to forget the kind of marriage they had and the reasons they were here. Just a man. And the woman fate had tossed into his bed.
But the fantasy burned out just as fast as it sparked and was replaced by a hard, cold fury.
She wasn’t his to touch. Not like this. And if this was how she wanted to start their so-called marriage…drunk, exposed, and being indifferent, then so be it.
He walked over, picked up her discarded clothes from the floor, and tossed them onto the bed next to her, not caring whether she woke or not.
He would deal with her tomorrow when she was sober. When she could actually answer for this absurdity.
Without another glance, Reyansh turned and walked out of the suite, his fury bottled just beneath the surface.
