Episode 4: A Locked Door

The next day, a somber quiet had settled over the Malhotra mansion. The celebratory mood had dissipated, replaced by the mundane rhythm of daily life. For Ananya, the crushing disappointment of the family feast had morphed into a quiet, simmering anger. It was an emotion she was unfamiliar with, a desperate, fiery resolve that fueled her where hope had once been. She couldn’t let this go. She couldn't live a life of polite indifference, a life where she was a ghost in her own home. She had to talk to him. She had to demand an answer.

She found him exactly where she had expected to. His study. It was a room that felt like an extension of his own personality: cold, austere, and impeccably organized. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, filled with architectural tomes and leather-bound journals. A large, minimalist desk dominated the center, covered in blueprints and design sketches. The light streaming in from the large window illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, but the room itself felt sterile and uninviting. This was not a place for warmth, for conversation, or for a wife. It was a fortress.

Ananya took a deep breath and knocked softly on the heavy oak door. There was no response. She knocked again, this time with more force. "Arjun? It's Ananya. I need to talk to you."

A long silence. Then, his voice, muffled and detached, came from within. "I'm busy, Ananya. We can talk later."

"No," she said, her voice firm, a new strength she didn't know she possessed. "We can't. We will talk now."

There was another, longer pause. Then, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, and the door was pulled open. Arjun stood in the doorway, his face a perfect mask of annoyance and fatigue. His white kurta from the previous night was gone, replaced by a simple grey t-shirt and dark trousers. He looked younger, less intimidating, but his eyes were still as cold as ice.

"What is it, Ananya?" he asked, his tone impatient, as if she were a child interrupting his work. "I have a lot to do."

"What is it?" she repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "What is it? You've been home for two days, and you've barely said ten words to me. You treat me like a stranger, or worse, like an inconvenience. What do you want from me, Arjun?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I want you to leave me alone. I want you to go back to whatever you were doing for the last three years and let me work."

The words stung, but she refused to back down. "And what was I doing for the last three years, Arjun? I was living with your family. I was taking care of your parents. I was waiting for you! I was your wife, in name if nothing else. I had hope. But you… you don't even see me. Why did you marry me if you were just going to treat me like this?"

His expression finally shifted. The mask of indifference cracked, revealing a flash of genuine anger. "What did you expect, Ananya? We barely know each other. This was an arrangement. You fulfilled your side of the bargain, I fulfilled mine. My father wanted me to marry a good girl, a girl who would be a daughter to his parents, and you fit the bill perfectly. I never promised you a fairy tale. I never promised you love."

The cruelty of his words was like a physical blow. She staggered back a step, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob. "Is that all I am to you? A business arrangement? A duty?"

"That's all this marriage is," he said, his voice hard and uncompromising. "Don't delude yourself into thinking otherwise. Don't start this… this drama of love and expectations. It's not fair to either of us."

"And what about you?" she cried out, her voice breaking. "What about your life? I saw the photos, Arjun. The woman in the album. Who is she? What happened?"

The mention of the photos seemed to hit a nerve. His jaw clenched, his eyes turning to hardened steel. The anger in him was palpable, a dark storm brewing behind his cold exterior. "That has nothing to do with you," he growled, the politeness completely gone now. "My past is my past. It is not your concern. You are my wife in name only. Nothing more."

His words hung in the air, a final, definitive declaration that shattered what little was left of her heart. She looked at him, at the handsome, angry man who was her husband, and she saw nothing but a stranger. She saw the pain in his eyes, a deep, abiding sadness that she instinctively knew was tied to the woman in the photos, but it was a pain he would never share with her.

She took a step closer, her voice a soft, desperate plea. "Arjun… please. We can… we can try. We can get to know each other. I'm not that woman. I am a different person. Please, just give me a chance."

His face hardened, the last vestiges of emotion disappearing. He took a step back, creating a definitive space between them. "I'm tired, Ananya. I've had a long day, a long three years. I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't want to have this conversation ever again."

He raised his hand, a final, definitive gesture. "Go. Just go."

Ananya’s eyes filled with tears, her vision blurring as she looked at him. She saw the coldness in his eyes, the absolute rejection in his posture. There was nothing left to say. There was nothing left to do. She turned and slowly walked away, the weight of his dismissal a physical burden on her shoulders.

As she walked down the hallway, she heard it. The soft, but definitive click of the lock. He had shut her out. Not just from his study, but from his life. The locked door was no longer a symbol; it was a reality. A solid barrier that separated her from the man she was married to. The man she had tried to love, but who had made it painfully, tragically clear that he would never love her back.

Ananya stopped in the middle of the hallway, her legs giving way under her. She slid to the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall, her face buried in her hands. The tears came, not in a torrent of sobs, but in a quiet, defeated cascade. She was alone. Truly, irrevocably alone. The family feast was a memory, the romantic confession a painful joke. Her fairy tale had not just ended; it had been torn to shreds, and the pieces were lying on the cold marble floor, just outside a locked door.

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