A MARRIAGE FORSAKEN

The dim light of the bedroom casts long shadows across the floor as Sohan lies on the bed, drenched in sweat, his face flushed from the fever raging inside him. His body trembles, but it's not just from the sickness—it's from the torrent of emotions he's been battling ever since Anastasia entered his life. He can feel his pulse in his temples, anger surging through him with each labored breath.

Anastasia stands in the doorway, her figure soft against the low light, concern etched across her face. She hesitates for a moment before stepping into the room, but she doesn't approach him—knowing better than to invade his space.

"How are you feeling?" she asks gently, her voice hesitant but warm, despite the cold distance between them. She holds a damp cloth in her hand, ready to place it on his forehead, if he’ll let her.

Sohan glares at her from where he's half-reclined, his chest rising and falling erratically. His throat tightens, and he fights the urge to scream. The sight of her, standing there—so calm, so innocent—irritates him beyond belief. Every part of him wants to shut her out, to forget the tangled web of resentment he’s been living in since their marriage.

His jaw clenches, and he struggles to contain the rising tide of anger that makes his heart race. She’s the reason I’m stuck here. Why I can’t be with her. Why I can’t have what I want.

"You shouldn't even be here," he mutters, voice hoarse, but loud enough to be heard. He feels a bitter sting of regret even as the words leave his mouth, but he can't stop himself. "I told you, I don’t need you."

Anastasia doesn't flinch, but there's a brief flicker of hurt in her eyes. She takes a small step forward, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone. "Sohan... I know you’re angry. I know you think I’m the one who ruined everything. But I’m just trying to help."

His eyes narrow. His mind flashes to the days before the arranged marriage, when his heart had been with someone else—the girl he had been so sure would be his future. Then his father had made the decision for him. Anastasia was a stranger, a chain around his neck, a reminder that his life was no longer his own.

"You don't get it, do you?" Sohan spits the words out, his voice thick with frustration. "You ruined everything. My life, my choices, my future—gone, all because of this." He gestures around the room, as if the four walls could explain the deep sense of entrapment he feels. "I didn’t want this. I didn’t want YOU."

A heavy silence fills the space between them, the words hanging like an accusation in the air. Sohan’s feverish eyes track every move she makes, but when she finally steps closer, his heart skips a beat—not with any sense of warmth, but with dread.

"I'm not your enemy," she says softly, her voice trembling just slightly as she kneels by the bed, daring to touch his wrist. "I never wanted to hurt you. But I am here now. And you’re in pain. Please, just let me help you."

Sohan feels the burning heat of his fever and his pulse thundering in his ears. His body betrays him, weakness setting in as he tries to turn away, but her presence—soft, caring, unyielding—makes him feel something he doesn't want to acknowledge: the faintest whisper of guilt.

But then, the anger returns, a tidal wave that pushes everything else aside. His vision blurs as his frustration builds, and he pushes her hand away with a rough motion.

"Go away," he growls, his voice strained and edged with desperation. "I don’t want to see your face."

Anastasia freezes, her hand retracting. She lowers her eyes, but there's a quiet sadness in her expression—an acceptance, as if she's been waiting for this moment all along. "I’m sorry," she whispers, but there's no bitterness in her tone—only the weight of understanding.

Sohan’s heart clenches painfully. His body screams for help, but his pride, his anger—everything within him—wants to keep her at a distance. He knows he needs her, but he can't bring himself to let her in.

The room grows cold, despite the feverish heat that burns through his skin.

And in the silence, the gulf between them grows even wider.

"It's 3 a.m... All the servants are asleep right now... Let me..." Anastasia said, her voice soft but persistent.

Sohan rolled his eyes. "Of course they’re asleep, it's the middle of the night..." he muttered, his words dripping with sarcasm.

He leaned back on the bed, still seething with anger, but there was a flicker of truth in her words that he couldn’t ignore.

"Fine..." he said begrudgingly, his voice heavy with resentment. "But just because I let you help, doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you."

"Lay down," she requested quietly, almost as if she were speaking to herself.

Sohan shot her a glare, his eyes a mixture of fury and exhaustion, but despite his internal battle, he reluctantly obeyed, lying back on the bed. His body felt heavy and weak from the fever, and the vulnerability of it all gnawed at him. He hated feeling like this in front of her.

Through the night, Anastasia continued to change the damp cloths and adjust his clothes, tending to him with a calm, focused determination. And now, as the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, his fever finally seemed to be breaking.

By morning, his fever had subsided. Sohan slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh morning light. The night had been a blur of feverish dreams and half-conscious moments, but he slowly began to regain his senses.

He glanced around the room and saw her—Anastasia, still there, quietly tending to him as she had all night. His expression still held a hint of anger, but beneath that, there was something more—something soft, almost imperceptible: vulnerability.

"Your fever is almost gone... I’m leaving now. Madame will arrive in five minutes with two other maids to take care of you," she said, her tone gentle but firm.

Sohan's hands clenched the sheets tightly as he watched her prepare to leave. A complicated mix of relief and resentment washed over him, stirring a conflict he couldn’t quite shake.

"Good," he grumbled, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. "I don’t need your help anymore."

Anastasia nodded, her face betraying no emotion, and made her way toward the door. Sohan hated himself for the small part of him that wanted to stop her, to call her back. But he said nothing, watching in silence as she reached for the door.

"I know," she whispered, her voice barely audible, before closing the door behind her, leaving him alone.

As the door clicked shut, Sohan let out a deep sigh, his shoulders slowly relaxing, though the tension inside him remained. He stared at the ceiling, his mind spinning with conflicting emotions.

He wanted to hate her—wanted to cling to his anger and bitterness. But as the images of her tending to him all night flickered through his mind, they stirred something within him—something strange, unwanted. It was a feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge, a feeling that left him more confused than ever.

He closed his eyes once more, his expression a mixture of frustration and confusion.

The days passed, and Sohan’s body healed from the fever, but his mind remained restless. He couldn’t seem to shake the images of her—the way Anastasia had cared for him during his illness, the soft, patient way she had tended to him. It stirred something in him he didn’t want to acknowledge, a feeling that gnawed at him from the inside.

To escape his thoughts, he threw himself into work, his business demanding his attention. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, his mind always drifted back to her. Late one evening, as he sat in his study staring out the window, the soft glow of the setting sun not doing much to calm his racing mind, a knock on his door startled him.

For a brief moment, his heart fluttered with hope. Could it be her?

But when he opened the door, his hope was quickly dashed. Standing in the doorway was his ex-girlfriend, Meera.

Her presence struck him like a cold gust of wind, and a mixture of surprise and reluctant disappointment passed across his face.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended, masking the swirl of emotions beneath.

“I came to see you,” she replied, her tone soft. “They were talking at the office about your fever, so I thought I’d come check on you.”

The mention of his recent illness hit him harder than he expected. His fever, his vulnerability—it felt like a wound he’d just begun to heal, and hearing about it now reopened it. He crossed his arms tightly, leaning against the doorframe, unwilling to invite her in.

“Well, you’ve seen me. I’m fine,” he said gruffly, trying to sound unaffected, though a thread of annoyance crept into his voice. “There’s no need for you to worry.”

Meera stepped closer, eyes searching his face as if looking for something, perhaps the vulnerability he had tried to hide.

“Why?” she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. “Why shut me out like this?”

Sohan’s jaw tightened, his whole body tense with the weight of the question. He forced himself to remain calm, but inside, it was a different story.

“Because I’m not your concern anymore,” he replied, his words sharp but laced with a deep, underlying pain. “We’re not together. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Her face softened, and she took a step closer, her eyes full of something he couldn’t quite place. “I know it was a forced marriage, Sohan. But I still care about you. I always will.”

Sohan let out a bitter laugh, the sound bitter and harsh, echoing in the quiet of the room. His gaze locked with hers, fury and hurt flashing in his eyes.

“You care about me?” he repeated, disbelief in his tone. “That’s rich. You walked away without a second thought, and now you want to pretend like you care?”

She seemed to falter for a moment, but she pressed on, her voice quieter this time. “I had no choice. It was all because of your wife. If things had been different, the three of us... we would’ve been happy.”

At that, Sohan’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. His anger burned hotter than before, mingled with sorrow and confusion.

“You HAD a choice,” he spat, his voice thick with emotion. “You could’ve stayed. You could’ve fought for us. But you didn’t. You chose to walk away. You made your choice. I didn’t.”

The bitterness in his voice was like a wall between them, but she stepped closer, her hand reaching for his, trying to bridge the distance he’d put between them.

“It was just a heat of the moment,” she murmured, her tone pleading for understanding. “Please, Sohan. Try to understand.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “A heat of the moment?” His voice was laced with sarcasm. “You walked out of my life like it was nothing. And now you expect me to UNDERSTAND?”

Sohan’s gaze hardened, the weight of the past and present pressing down on him.

“Fine,” she said quietly, almost too calmly. “We’ll talk tomorrow at the office, okay?”

Without waiting for his response, she cupped his face gently, her fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.