After Marriage

Ishan’s POV

The door closed behind us.

Click.

That sound echoed louder than the wedding vows.

Gill Mansion.

White walls. Minimal decor. Everything perfectly aligned.

Even the air felt disciplined.

I threw my sehra on the couch.

“Don’t,” came his cold voice from behind me.

I turned slowly.

Shubman Gill.

My husband.

He had already removed his sherwani jacket. Sleeves folded neatly. Watch placed precisely on the table. Even after a wedding, the man looked like he was about to attend a board meeting.

“Don’t what?” I asked lazily.

“Don’t throw things in my house.”

I smirked. “Our house. Unfortunately.”

His jaw tightened.

Interesting.

“You will maintain basic decorum here,” he continued calmly. Too calmly. “No late-night parties. No unnecessary people. No drinking inside the house. No chaos.”

I blinked.

Then I laughed.

“You married the wrong man, Mr. CEO.”

He stepped closer. Slow. Controlled.

“And you,” he said quietly, “were never my first choice.”

That hit.

Just for a second.

But I masked it.

“Trust me,” I shot back, stepping into his personal space, “you weren’t mine either.”

The tension between us could burn the mansion down.

He smelled expensive. Calm. Dangerous.

I smelled like rebellion.

“This marriage,” he said, adjusting his cuff, “is for family reputation. You will behave accordingly.”

“And what if I don’t?”

His eyes darkened slightly.

“Then I will make sure you do.”

Oh.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

I grabbed my phone and flopped onto the couch.

“By the way,” I said casually, “my friends are coming tomorrow.”

“No, they’re not.”

“They are.”

“No.”

I grinned.

“Watch me.”

For the first time, his composure cracked just a little.

Good.

Let him hate me.

Because I refuse to live like a well-trained trophy husband in his perfectly organized glass palace.

He thinks I’m chaos?

I’ll show him a storm.

The room was too big.

Too quiet.

Too… perfect.

White sheets. Dim lights. Everything was arranged like a luxury hotel suite prepared for a

“happy couple.”

Happy.

I let out a dry laugh.

The door clicked open behind me.

Shubman entered.

Calm. Controlled. Still in command of himself like this was just another deal he had signed.

“Get out.”

My voice was sharp.

He stopped.

“This is our room,” he said evenly.

“No,” I snapped. “This is your prison. I’m not sharing it.”

His eyes moved to me slowly. Measuring. Calculating.

“I have no intention of touching you,” he said, tone flat. “You can relax.”

That made it worse.

“I don’t need your reassurance!”

Silence.

He walked further in, placing his phone neatly on the side table.

The audacity.

“I said get out!” I shouted.

“I will not,” he replied calmly.

That calm.

That unbearable calm.

It felt like he wasn’t even affected. Like I was just noise.

And something inside me snapped.

Before I even processed it—

My hand moved.

Smack.

The sound echoed in the room.

My palm stung.

His face turned slightly with the impact.

And then—

Nothing.

No anger.

No retaliation.

No shouting.

He just slowly looked back at me.

Eyes steady.

Not furious.

Not hurt.

Just… silent.

That silence was worse than any scream.

“Are you done?” he asked quietly.

My chest rose and fell rapidly. I didn’t even know why I had hit him.

He hadn’t touched me. Hadn’t insulted me. Hadn’t threatened me.

He just stood there.

And somehow that felt like dominance.

“Get. Out.” I whispered.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he removed his watch.

Placed

it on the table.

Perfectly aligned.

“I will take the guest room,” he said. “Not because you ordered me to.”

He walked past me.

Stopped near the door.

“But don’t mistake my silence for weakness, Ishan.”