Aishweriya's POV
The door creaked softly as I stepped inside the house, my heels muffled by the Persian rug in the foyer. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—familiar, grounding, yet tonight it felt like it was suffocating me. I clutched my dupatta tightly around my shoulders, shielding myself from a chill that wasn't really in the air but emanated from within.
Aaron was waiting.
He stood by the fireplace, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other swirling a half-filled glass of scotch. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes, hawkish, scrutinizing eyes, sliced through the quiet and through me. I felt myself shrinking under his gaze, a reflex I had perfected since our engagement.
"I was worried," he said, his voice low, deliberate. Each syllable is carefully measured.
"I texted you that I will be in 1 hour," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. Not too cold, not too warm. The perfect temperature that wouldn't ignite his temper.
"I know. but I told you to come back in 20 minutes." He paused, took a sip of his amber poison, then pierced me with his gaze again.
I nodded, unblinking, feeling my pulse quicken at the edge in his voice. "I was tired. So I was just resting in my car for some time"
"Tired." He repeated the word as if testing its validity. "Too tired to come back home but to roam around the city?"
His question hung between us, a trap waiting to be sprung.
"It wasn't like that," I said softly. "I lost track of time also some business I have to take care of. The bride changed her mind about the centerpieces again."
"Do you have any idea what went through my mind?" His voice rose slightly. "When you weren't home by ten?
I swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."
There was a beat of silence. Then Aaron's expression softened, and he stepped toward me. His transformation was seamless, practiced.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice suddenly laced with remorse. "I shouldn't have gotten angry. I shouldn't have yelled at you earlier. I know I overreacted."
His apology slipped through the cracks of my defenses, grazing my heart. Not because I believed him—I had learned that lesson too many times—but because some small, loyal part of me wanted to. That traitorous part that still remembered who we were before. Before the control. Before the fear. Before I became a shadow.
"It's just that I worry about you," he continued, reaching for my hand. "You know how dangerous the city can be after dark."
I stared past him at the flames dancing in the fireplace. "It's late. I'm going to bed."
He reached for my hand, but I slipped away with practiced ease. No argument. No defiance. Just silence.
And silence, after all, was the safest form of resistance I had left.
"Aishwariya." My name on his lips was both a plea and a command. "Don't walk away when I'm talking to you."
I turned back, my heart hammering. "What do you want me to say, Aaron? That I'll never go out again? That I'll call you every fifteen minutes to check in? Would that be enough for you?"
His jaw tightened. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" The words escaped before I could catch them. "Tell me, what parts of my life am I still allowed to keep?"
"That's not what this is about!" he snapped, his mask slipping. "This is about respect. About consideration."
I took a deep breath, suddenly too exhausted to continue this dance we'd been performing for months.
"You're right. I should have called. I'm sorry."
The surrender seemed to satisfy him. His shoulders relaxed, the storm in his eyes subsiding.
"Go get some rest," he said, his voice gentler now. "You have that big meeting with the Kapoor family tomorrow, don't you?"
I nodded, grateful for the shift in conversation. "Yes. Ten o'clock."
"You'll do great," he said, offering a smile that would have made my heart soar three years ago. Now it felt like another weight pressing down on me—another expectation to fulfill.
I climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom I used when I stayed over, each step a small escape. In the quiet of the room, I changed quickly, washing away the day with mechanical movements. But even as I lay in the dark, I could feel the walls closing in. The golden cage is getting smaller by the day.
Sleep came in fractured pieces, haunted by dreams of running through endless corridors that led nowhere.
The next morning, I stood before the closet where I kept some clothes at Aaron's place, brushing my fingers past the stiff silks and rigid forms of designer blouses—clothes Aaron had chosen, clothes that made me feel like someone else's idea of beautiful. I reached instead for a soft cotton kurta in pale blue. One, Aaron wouldn't notice. One that wouldn't make me feel like a doll someone had dressed.
My phone buzzed just as I tied my braid.
Carter: There's a bookstore on 6th and Avery. 2 PM. Thought you might like it.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Every part of me knew I should delete the message. Ignore it. Pretend I never saw it.
Instead, I placed the phone down without responding.
Downstairs, Aaron was already at the breakfast table, newspaper spread before him, coffee steaming in his favorite ceramic mug—the one I had painted for him when we first got engaged. Before everything changed.
"Morning," he said, looking up with a practiced smile. The stormy Aaron from last night seemingly vanished, replaced by this calm, collected version. "Did you sleep well?"
"Fine," I replied, pouring myself some tea. "I have that meeting with the Kapoor family, then I need to check on some venue arrangements downtown."
"What time will you be back?" he asked casually, but I knew better. Nothing about his questions was ever casual.
"Around four, maybe five." I sipped my tea, avoiding his eyes. "I might stop by Priya's after. She wanted to show me some new fabrics for the Sharma wedding."
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the narrative I'd constructed. The perfect fiancée with the perfect, innocent activities. The woman who never strayed. Who never thought of rebellion.
"Try to be back before dinner," he said. "My mother might stop by."
I nodded, the weight of another expectation settling on my shoulders.
By 1:45, I was already driving toward 6th and Avery, my heart racing with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. I kept checking my rearview mirror, half expecting to see Aaron's car following me. Paranoia had become my constant companion.
The bookstore was tucked between a flower shop and a used vinyl store, its wooden sign weathered with time and ivy curling around the windows. The bell above the door chimed softly as I entered, the scent of old paper and rain greeting me like an old friend.
This wasn't just any bookstore. It was where I had rented the second floor just three months ago—a small space I'd converted into a private retreat. A place where I could breathe without feeling Aaron's expectations weighing on my every inhale. A secret space that belonged only to me.
Books lined the walls in tall, mismatched shelves, forming a maze of solitude and nostalgia. I wandered down the aisles, my fingers grazing spines like rosary beads, feeling a sense of peace wash over me that I rarely experienced anymore.
As I turned the corner into the poetry section, I nearly collided with him.
Carter.
He stood with a slim volume open in his hands, his eyes lifting to meet mine with a warmth that made my chest tighten. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then, as if sensing my presence had startled him into action, he read aloud from the page:
"This isn't love. This is control."
The words hung between us, too raw, too true. My breath caught.
"Neruda?" I asked, trying to steady my voice.
He smiled faintly. "No, actually. Just my own notes in the margins. I used to work here, you know. Three years ago."
"I didn't know that," I said, genuinely surprised.
"Yeah, before I started working in publishing. I didn't get a job anywhere, but Mr Trevor was good enough to give me a job. "I didn't know you rented the space upstairs until Mr Trevor mentioned it to me that some Aishweriya Patel rented the space for a last studio, so I just knew it was you."
"It's nothing fancy," I said, suddenly feeling defensive about my secret sanctuary. "Just somewhere quiet to work on designs sometimes."
"Can I see it?" he asked, his question so simple, so direct that it caught me off guard.
I hesitated, aware that showing him my private space meant crossing a line—one I had carefully drawn to protect myself from... From what? From feeling something real again?
"Sure," I heard myself say.
We walked up the narrow staircase in silence, each step feeling like a decision. I unlocked the door with slightly trembling fingers, pushing it open to reveal my small, secret world.
The room was modest—a desk by the window overlooking the street below, a comfortable chair in the corner with a reading lamp, and walls covered in my sketches. Wedding designs, yes, but also other drawings. Landscapes. Abstract emotions captured in ink and watercolor. Parts of myself I no longer shared with Aaron.
"It's beautiful," Carter said softly, his eyes taking in every detail. "It feels like you."
Those four words hit me harder than any of Aaron's criticisms ever had. It feels like you. Because it did. It was me—the me I had been slowly burying under layers of compliance and compromise.
"Thank you," I managed.
He moved to the window, looking out at the cityscape below. "Do you come here often?"
"Not as often as I'd like," I admitted. "It's... complicated."
He nodded, understanding without needing the details.
"Aaron..." I began, then stopped, not sure what I wanted to say.
"You don't have to explain," Carter said, turning back to me. "We all have our cages, Aishwariya. Some are just more visible than others."
We ended up in the small café across the street, sitting at a corner table surrounded by succulents and pale yellow light. Our coffee cups steamed between us.
Carter didn't try to pry. He didn't ask questions that would force me to either lie or expose wounds I wasn't ready to show.
Instead, he spoke in a way that made it feel like we were simply floating on the same river, not confessing, not bleeding, just drifting.
"Sometimes I think purpose is overrated," he said, stirring his drink absentmindedly. "Like people spend their whole lives searching for this one, grand meaning, and miss the tiny ones that happen every day."
I tilted my head. "Like what?"
"Like helping someone find a poem. Or saying the right thing at the right time. Or making someone laugh who hasn't in a while."
My lips curled, despite myself. "Is that your goal today? To make me laugh?"
He met my gaze, and something electric passed between us. "No. Just to remind you that you still can."
And just like that, I laughed.
Softly. Genuinely. Not out of politeness or obligation. But because something about his presence, his simplicity, cracked through the wall I'd spent years fortifying.
I sipped my coffee slowly, savoring the warmth.
"What do you think your purpose is?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I don't know yet. But I know what it isn't—being what everyone else expects."
I looked down at the table, tracing patterns in the wood grain.
"What if you don't have a choice?" My voice was barely above a whisper.
He leaned forward slightly. "You do. The cost might be high. But the choice is still yours."
His words struck me like lightning. Simple, devastating truth.
The ride home was silent.
Not awkward, not heavy.
Just thoughtful.
As I drove, a war raged inside me. Carter's presence had awakened something I'd spent years trying to numb—desire. Not just physical, but deeper. A desire to be seen. To be known. To be free.
Yet, as the days passed, I found myself retreating.
Not because I didn't want to see Carter again.
But because I did.
Because the flutter in my chest when I thought of him wasn't just relief. It wasn't just comfort.
It was dangerous.
And desire.
And freedom.
And everything I wasn't supposed to crave as Aaron Wells' fiancée.
I ignored Carter's messages. Short, kind, never insistent.
I made excuses when Priya asked if I'd go to the café again.
I threw myself into work, planning other people's perfect days while my own future loomed before me like a beautiful prison.
And Carter didn't chase.
Didn't ask why I was pulling away.
Didn't corner me with demands or guilt.
He just... let me be.
And somehow, that made it harder.
Because when someone doesn't try to own you, you realize just how much of yourself you've already given away.
Three weeks later, I found myself back at the bookstore, drawn there like a compass seeking north. I hadn't planned to go—had actually scheduled visits to two different florists that afternoon—but something in me needed the peace of that space. Needed to remember what it felt like to breathe without someone watching to make sure I was doing it correctly.
As I climbed the stairs to my rented room, I caught myself listening for his voice, hoping and dreading in equal measure that Carter might be there. He wasn't.
Inside my sanctuary, I sat by the window, watching the city pulse below. On the desk beside me lay the wedding planner for my own upcoming nuptials. Six months away. Everything was arranged. Perfect. The culmination of two prominent families' expectations.
I ran my fingers over the embossed cover, feeling nothing but emptiness where excitement should be.
My phone vibrated with a text from Aaron.
Don't forget dinner with our parents tonight. 7 sharp. Wear the red dress that I gifted you.
So simple. So ordinary. A fiancé reminding his bride-to-be about dinner plans.
Why then did it feel like another bar being welded onto my cage?
I placed the phone down and closed my eyes, letting myself remember Carter's voice reading those words: "This isn't love. This is control."
And suddenly, sitting alone in my secret room with the afternoon sun painting patterns on the floor, I allowed myself to imagine a different life. One where I didn't shrink. One where I painted without fear. One where my laughter wasn't measured and my words weren't calculated.
One where I might, just might, love a man who saw me—really saw me—and wanted nothing more than for me to be free.
The realization didn't come with drama or tears. It came quietly, settling into my bones with the certainty of truth long denied.
I didn't love Aaron anymore. Perhaps I never had.
What I had felt was gratitude for his attention. Pride in being chosen by someone so respected. Relief at fulfilling my family's expectations.
But love? Love was a possibility. Love was freedom.
I picked up my phone, staring at it for a long moment before typing a message I wasn't yet brave enough to send.
To Carter: I think I'm finally ready to choose myself.
I didn't press send. Not yet. But for the first time in years, I felt something long dormant unfurling in my chest.
Hope.
And as terrifying as it was, it felt like coming home to myself.