The days after Vikram's capture felt like walking through a dream.
Aarohi woke each morning in her suite. She dressed in clothes the Raichand stylists had chosen. She ate breakfast at the long dining table with Kabir. They exchanged words about the weather, the hospital, the upcoming charity events. They did not exchange the truth.
Kabir had moved out of her wing. He slept in his own quarters now, at the opposite end of the mansion. The staff noticed. They whispered behind their hands. Riya fielded calls from reporters who sensed something wrong with the perfect couple.
Aarohi did not care about the whispers. She cared about the distance in Kabir's eyes when he looked at her. The way his gaze slid past her like she was furniture. The way his hand no longer found the small of her back when they walked into rooms together.
On the fourth day, she found him in his study at midnight. The door was open. He sat behind his desk with a glass of whiskey and a file folder thick with papers.
"You should be sleeping," he said without looking up.
"So should you."
She walked into the room and sat in the chair across from his desk. The same chair. The same room. A different world.
"I have been going through Vikram's files," he said. "He kept records of everything. Every operation. Every payment. Every murder." He looked up. "Your father's name appears in these files."
Aarohi's heart stopped. "What does it say?"
"Vijay Mehra was an accountant. He worked for the Syndicate for twelve years. He handled their money. Their investments. Their offshore accounts." Kabir's voice was flat. "He was good at his job. Too good. He started asking questions about where the money came from. That is when Vikram decided to terminate him."
"Terminate."
"That is the word Vikram used. He sent two men to your father's office. They made it look like an accident." Kabir closed the file. "Your father has been dead for sixteen years, Aarohi. He was not hiding. He was not protecting you. He was murdered by the same man who killed my mother."
The words landed like stones in her chest. She had known. Part of her had always known. But hearing it from Kabir's lips made it real in a way she could not escape.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know the truth." He leaned back in his chair. "Because we are bound by a contract, and contracts require transparency."
She flinched. "Is that all we are now? A contract?"
"What else would we be?" His voice was cold. "You lied to me for three months. You hid your identity. You let me fall in love with a woman who does not exist."
"She does exist." Aarohi stood up. Her hands were shaking. "I exist. The woman who kissed you on the terrace. The woman who held your hand in the car after the bombing. The woman who sits across from you every night at dinner. That woman is real."
"Then why did she not trust me?"
"Because I have spent my whole life trusting people, and every single one of them has let me down." Her voice cracked. "My father left. My mother got sick. The world took everything from me. I built walls to survive. I built The Architect to protect myself. And then you walked into my life, and you wanted me to tear those walls down overnight."
Kabir stood up. He walked around the desk and stopped in front of her.
"I am not asking you to tear down your walls. I am asking you to let me inside them."
She looked at his face. The exhaustion. The hurt. The hope he was trying to hide.
"I am trying," she said. "I am trying to let you in. But I have been alone for so long that I have forgotten how to let anyone close."
He reached out. His hand hovered near her cheek. Then he pulled back.
"Then we will learn together," he said. "Slowly. One brick at a time."
He walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the frame.
"Goodnight, Aarohi."
"Goodnight, Kabir."
He left. She stood alone in his study, surrounded by his scent, his presence, the ghost of the touch he had almost given her.