Episode 2: A Cold Home

The drive from the airport to the Malhotra mansion was the longest Ananya had ever experienced. The chauffeur, a kind old man who had been with the family for decades, kept his eyes fixed on the road, the rearview mirror an unspoken taboo. In the back seat, the silence between Ananya and Arjun was a living, breathing entity, a suffocating blanket of unspoken words and shattered expectations.

Ananya sat pressed against the window, her gaze fixed on the passing city lights, their cheerful glow a mocking contrast to the darkness that had descended upon her. She could feel Arjun’s presence next to her—the subtle scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from him—yet he felt a million miles away. He was on his phone, answering a barrage of texts, his fingers flying across the screen with a practiced ease that made her feel even more invisible.

She tried, once, to break the silence. "Your parents are so excited to see you," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He didn't look up from his phone. "I'm sure they are," he replied, his tone clipped, his voice devoid of any warmth.

That was it. Her last attempt. She shrank back into her corner, the public humiliation from the airport replaying in her mind like a broken record. The smirk. The cold eyes. The "performance." Every word was a dagger twisting in her heart. He had not just rejected her; he had publicly ridiculed her. She had thought their marriage was a blank page, ready for them to write their own story. But he had made it clear that the page was already torn, and there would be no new chapters.

When the car finally pulled up to the grand entrance of the Malhotra mansion, a wave of relief washed over Ananya. The front door was flung open by Mrs. Malhotra, her face a beacon of joy. She was a woman of generous spirit and even more generous hugs. Ananya was her favorite, the daughter she never had.

"Arjun!" she cried out, her voice filled with relief and love. She rushed to her son, enveloping him in a tight embrace. Arjun’s rigid posture softened for a moment as he returned his mother's hug. For a fleeting second, Ananya saw a glimpse of the man she had hoped to meet: a son who loved his mother. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come. He pulled away, his face resuming its impassive mask.

"It's good to be home, Maa," he said, his voice low and sincere. Ananya, standing awkwardly a few feet away, watched the scene with a heavy heart. He was a different man with his family. Cordial, respectful, even loving. But with her, he was a stranger.

Priya, who had taken a separate car home with the rest of the friends, burst through the door, throwing her arms around her brother. "Arjun Bhai! I missed you so much! What took you so long?"

The house was alive with a celebratory buzz. The staff was busy serving sweets and tea, and Mr. Malhotra, a stern but fair man, walked up to his son with a proud smile. "Welcome back, son. You've done well in London. Your mother and I are very proud."

Arjun’s eyes met Ananya’s over his father's shoulder. A cold, distant gaze that said, "This is my world. You are simply a guest in it."

The rest of the evening was a blur of forced smiles and painful silence for Ananya. Arjun was the center of attention, fielding questions about his work, his life abroad, and his plans for the future. He spoke with passion and intelligence, a brilliant architect with a vision for his company. Ananya sat on the periphery, a silent shadow, occasionally offering a forced smile when someone looked her way. She had spent the last three years keeping his memory alive in this house, decorating his room, ensuring his favorite books were on his shelf, and maintaining his presence as best she could. Now he was here, and it was as if she didn't exist at all.

After dinner, a sumptuous feast that Mrs. Malhotra had personally overseen, Arjun announced he was tired and needed to get some rest. Ananya, her heart pounding with a renewed, desperate hope, saw her chance.

"I’ll help you with your luggage, Arjun," she offered, her voice soft and tentative.

He stopped, turning to face her. His expression was one of polite indifference, a mask he wore just for her. "That won't be necessary, Ananya. I can manage."

The dismissal was swift, but it left a deep bruise. She watched him walk up the grand staircase, his presence commanding the space as if he had never left. As he reached the landing, he turned to face the family, offering a polite "Goodnight," before disappearing down the hallway. Ananya's heart sank. She wanted to follow him, to try to talk to him one more time, to ask him why he was doing this to her. But her feet felt rooted to the floor.

She went to their room, the room she had meticulously decorated with soft colors and subtle touches, hoping to make it a sanctuary for them. She found the door slightly ajar. She took a deep breath, her hands shaking as she pushed it open. The room was empty. A single suitcase stood by the door, untouched. A moment of panic shot through her. Where was he?

She walked down the long, ornate hallway, her ears straining for a sound. She passed the family library, the guest rooms, and finally, came to the door of his study. She stopped. The door was closed. A soft light bled from under the door, and she could hear the low murmur of his voice on a phone call. She knew this room. It was his sanctuary, the one place he had always kept sacred. She had never dared to enter it in his absence.

She took a step closer, her hand raising to knock. But then, she heard the definitive click of a lock turning. He had locked her out. The door, once a symbolic barrier, was now a physical one. It was a clear, unspoken message. She was not welcome. She was not his wife. She was just… there.

Ananya's shoulders slumped. The tears she had been holding back all evening finally came. She leaned against the cold wall, her cheek pressed against the smooth plaster, the sobs shaking her body. The grand, beautiful house that she had called home for three years now felt like a prison. The man she had waited for had returned, but he had left her heart out in the cold. She was alone, in a house full of people, with a locked door separating her from her husband. The finality of the moment was crushing. Her fairy tale had ended before it had even begun.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***