Page 40 of Mrs. Rathore

“I’ve arranged treatment for Avni’s mother,” he continued. “And her brother, he'll be your responsibility now. Tomorrow, you’ll enroll him in school.”

My fists clenched. “I wouldn’t have married her if I knew she’d turn our lives into a negotiation.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said firmly. “Today, you’re taking her to the hospital for her checkup. I expect you to behave, Aryan.”

“I can’t promise my best, but I’ll try not to lose my temper,” I said coldly, walking away before he could respond.

From the hallway, I heard my grandmother’s voice float in.

“When will I see my great-grandchild, Avni?”

I rolled my eyes. Of course. That was the dream they all nurtured. As if this was a marriage worth building a future on.

I sat across the dining table and poured myself some juice. My eyes never left Avni, who smiled politely at Grandma, playing the part to perfection. Manipulative. Cold. Beautiful.

“Bhai…” Rhea nudged me, whispering urgently. “Stop pouring!”

I blinked down, realizing I’d spilled juice all over the table. She snatched the jug from me, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Where were you even looking?”

I didn’t answer. I just stood, pushing my chair back with a screech.

“Tell Avni I’m waiting in the car,” I muttered. “She can finish her breakfast first.”

And I left, trying to outrun the heat in my chest, the scent of roses, and the woman I should never have married.

______

Chapter 14

AVNI

Aryan looked impatient, leaning against the hood of the car with his arms folded tightly over his chest. The moment he heard the soft clink of my wheelchair approaching on the pavement, his gaze snapped toward me, and he sighed more out of habit than concern.

Without a word, he helped me into the passenger seat, then folded my wheelchair and placed it carefully into the trunk. Rhea had wanted to come along, but with her NEET exams just a few months away, I couldn’t let her miss more study time, especially not after everything she’d already done for me. She’d already sacrificed enough. I refused to let my broken pieces distract her from her future.

As Aryan started the engine, he asked, “How are your legs?”

The question caught me off guard. Was that… concern? From him?

“You don’t have to pretend you care,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“I’m not pretending,” he said dryly, eyes fixed on the road. “I care about your legs because they’re my ticket to getting rid of you.”

I turned to him, teeth clenched. “You think you’ll get rid of me that easily? Come on, Mr. Soldier, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You will, Mrs. Ballerina,” he said with a smirk. “You’ll leave on your own. Eventually.”

I said nothing after that, fixing my eyes on the blur of the world outside the window. I hated his voice. I hated his calm. I hated the way his eyes never flinched, even when he threw daggers at me. But more than anything, I hated that I had married him. Not for love, not even for family but just to spite him. I hated the thought of him being happy after ruining my legs.

Fifteen minutes later, Aryan parked in the hospital’s lot. He got out, placed my wheelchair beside the car, and gently helped me into it like he’d done it a hundred times before.

God, I even hated my legs. Hated needing help for every little thing. Every time I relied on someone, I felt smaller.

We didn’t speak inside the doctor’s office. The verdict was the same: no walking, no unnecessary movement, and bed rest until further notice. Aryan asked about a psychotherapist, and the doctor handed him a contact. He called immediately, arranging for sessions at home.

After two long hours, we stepped out of the room. “Wait here,” he said. “I need to ask your doctor a few more questions.”