1. A Title, A Duty, An Afterthought
She stood before the full-length mirror, staring at the woman reflecting back at her—a woman she barely recognized anymore.
Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the sky-blue knee-length dress, tugging at the fabric as if it could somehow hide the truth—the weight she had gained, the exhaustion that dulled her once-bright eyes, the loneliness that had settled into her very bones.
Her wavy hair was pulled into a ponytail, but it didn’t frame her face the way it used to. It only exposed the hollowness in her expression. The diamond studs in her ears—once a cherished gift, once a symbol of her wedding finery—felt cold and foreign against her skin, like relics from a past life.
She ran her hands over her stomach, a soft curve where there had once been firmness. She wasn't pregnant. No, that would have been easier to explain. This wasn’t the result of new life growing inside her—it was the weight of emptiness, of a love she had poured into a man who had never held out his hands to catch it.
It was stress.
It was neglect.
It was heartbreak.
She had fought against it, tried to push back against the suffocating heaviness pressing down on her. Diets, workout plans, desperate consultations with a dietician—none of it worked. Because how do you shed the weight of loneliness? How do you burn away the pain of being unseen, of being reduced to a title, a duty, an afterthought?
Her life had become a relentless cycle—balancing motherhood, running a house that never felt like a home and managing the secretarial department of Mittal Empire.
Her husband—Sameer Mittal's Empire.
A man who was more myth than reality in her life, whose presence in their marriage was nothing more than an obligation, whose touch she’d never remembered, whose voice—when it wasn’t about business—felt like an echo in an empty room.
A sudden knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts.
"Come in," she called out, hastily
tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She forced herself to focus, swiping a final coat of lipstick over lips that hadn’t tasted a real smile in years.
Lata, the head maid, stepped inside with a respectful nod. "Madam, the car is ready."
The lady of the house forced a smile, but it barely touched her eyes. Beneath the carefully composed facade, an unshakable restlessness stirred—a silent storm no one else could see.
Two months.
It had been two months since Sameer left for his business trip, taking their six-year-old daughter Anaya with him for the summer holidays. Every day, she'd counted down, hoping, waiting.
She had stayed behind, tethered to her responsibilities—the company, the house, the endless duties that filled her days but left her nights unbearably empty.
She spoke to Anaya daily, her daughter's laughter crackling through the screen, bright and beautiful. But a video call was never enough. She longed to hold her, to breathe in her scent, to feel the tiny arms that always found their way around her waist. She missed her with an ache, so deep, it felt like a hollow space in her chest, growing wider with each passing day.
As for Sameer…? They never really talked much, unless, of course, it was related to business and …!
No! She would not think about it right now. It had been two months. Surely, he had been over it. They needed some time apart. And she believed two months were enough for Sameer to think it through.
Sameer Mittal—her husband. A man of few words, not cold, just… distant.
He wasn't cruel. No, cruelty would have been easier to bear.
He was indifferent.
And indifference was worse—it hollowed her out from the inside, day by day, until she felt like she was disappearing.
In the beginning, it frustrated her. She had tried—desperately—to break through his silence, to coax laughter, to make their marriage feel like a real one. She had searched for cracks in his armor, places where she could slip in and make a home in his heart.
But love cannot bloom in barren soil.
Every attempt had been met with indifference, every effort quietly dismissed. And slowly, painfully, she had learned that some doors would never open, no matter how many times she knocked.
So, she stopped trying.
She turned all her affection toward Anaya, pouring every ounce of warmth into their daughter, because at least with Anaya, she was needed. At least with Anaya, she was loved.
Seven years of marriage had turned into a script she knew by heart.
Every morning, she laid out his clothes, prepared the breakfast he liked, saw Anaya off to school, and went to work. She returned home before him, waited for his arrival, helped him take off his coat, served dinner, and watched him retreat into his study—where he stayed, as if she didn't exist.
Their marriage wasn't a war; wars at least had passion. Theirs was silence, suffocating, and cold.
Every night, she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take her away from the crushing silence of their marriage, with a hope that tomorrow would be better.
Every night, she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take her away from the crushing silence of their marriage, with a hope that tomorrow would be better.
