Chapter 11: The Black Silence

The Black Silence of Shimla

The air in the Shimla suite was thin and frigid, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the tension between them. Arnav adjusted his cufflinks in the mirror, his reflection a portrait of sharp edges and dark intent. The black suit he wore fit him like armor, making him look every bit the ruthless tycoon the world feared. Behind him, the silk of Khushi’s black saree hissed against the floorboards—a sound that made the hair on his neck stand up.

"I can't reach the hook," Khushi whispered, her voice trembling.

Arnav stilled. He turned slowly, his gaze raking over her. The black silk clung to her curves like a second skin, making her look dangerously ethereal. He walked toward her, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. When he reached her, the scent of her rose-water perfume invaded his lungs, mocking his resolve. His cold fingers brushed against the bare skin of her back as he reached for the small metal hook. Khushi gasped, her spine arching instinctively at his touch.

Arnav’s eyes darkened. He didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned in until his breath ghosted over her ear. "Next time, bring something that you can wear alone." he rasped, his voice vibrating with a jagged edge of hatred. "Not just in this room, but we are strangers."

He fastened the hook with a jerk and stepped back, the silence in the room turning into a tangible, bruising weight.

**

The party at the historic Oberoi Cecil was a sea of glittering diamonds and whispered scandals. The elite of Shimla had gathered, and the arrival of the Raizada heir was the night’s crowning event. When the mahogany doors swung open, Arnav entered with Khushi on his arm. His grip on her hand was iron-clad, a public display of possession that felt like a private shackle.

He led her to the center of the hall where the most influential families stood. With a practiced, charming smile that didn't reach his stormy eyes, Arnav raised a glass. "Gentlemen, ladies," he projected, his voice commanding the room. "Allow me to introduce the woman who now carries the Raizada name. My wife, Khushi Arnav Singh Raizada."

A ripple of shock and polite applause went through the crowd. Khushi maintained a frozen smile, her heart hammering against her ribs. She felt like a trophy won in a war she hadn't wanted to fight. For the next hour, Arnav played the role of the devoted husband to perfection, his hand never leaving the small of her back, his eyes occasionally "lingering" on her in a way that made the onlookers envious of their supposed passion.

But then, the music changed. The jazz orchestra shifted into a sultry, upbeat tempo, and the crowd began to swell toward the dance floor.

"I need to discuss some business with the commissioner," Arnav murmured near her ear, his tone dropping the facade for a split second.

Khushi nodded, retreating to a shadowed corner near the balcony. She watched him walk away, but he didn't head toward the commissioner. Instead, he was intercepted by a woman in a shimmering gold gown.

Khushi’s breath hitched. She watched as Arnav’s entire demeanor shifted. The rigid tension in his shoulders vanished. He tilted his head back and laughed—a genuine, carefree sound she hadn't heard in years. He wasn't the vengeful husband or the grieving brother; he was the Arnav from London, the charmer who owned the room.

The woman touched his arm, her fingers lingering on his black sleeve, and he didn't pull away. Instead, he placed his hand over hers and led her onto the dance floor. Khushi stood paralyzed as she watched them. They moved in perfect synchronization, Arnav spinning her around with an effortless grace. He leaned in, whispering something that made the woman giggle and hide her face against his chest.

It was a knife to Khushi's soul. He was capable of joy, of touch, of warmth—just not with her. To him, she was a penance. To this woman, he was life itself.

"They look beautiful together, don't they?"

Khushi jumped, turning to find an elegant, middle-aged woman standing beside her, clutching a champagne flute. The woman’s eyes were fixed on Arnav and his partner.

"I’m sorry?" Khushi managed to say.

"Arnav and my daughter, Simran," the woman said, her voice laced with a bittersweet edge. "I am Mrs. Kapoor. We’ve known the Raizadas for decades."

Khushi felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. "Your daughter?"

"Yes," Mrs. Kapoor sighed. "You know, if that sudden marriage hadn't happened... if he hadn't announced you as his bride out of nowhere... he would have been married to Simran by next month. Everything was almost fixed between the families. Arnav and Simran... they liked each other immensely. He used to visit our estate in London all the time."

Khushi felt the world tilt. She looked back at the dance floor. Arnav was now holding Simran closer, his hand resting on her waist with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, long-standing connection.

"He looks happy," Khushi whispered, the words tasting like ash.

"He was," Mrs. Kapoor said pointedly, her gaze finally shifting to Khushi’s face. "Until he wasn't. I don't know what happened or why he made such a rash decision to marry so suddenly, but seeing them tonight... it’s clear where his heart truly lies. Simran has been devastated, but she couldn't refuse to dance with him. They have too much history."

The woman moved away, leaving Khushi in a vacuum of silence despite the roaring music. Every word felt like a confirmation of her own guilt. She wasn't just the woman who had "betrayed" his brother; she was the woman who had effectively trapped Arnav in a marriage he didn't want, dragging him away from a woman he actually liked—perhaps even loved.

She watched him spin Simran one last time, a bright, genuine smile lighting up his face. That smile was her breaking point. She realized then that her presence in his life was a poison. By saving her from the neighbors' taunts, he had condemned himself to a life of resentment, walking away from a future that actually held happiness.

Overwhelmed by a crushing weight of guilt and the stinging realization that she was the obstacle to his peace, Khushi turned and fled. She ignored the curious glances of the guests as she ran through the corridors of the hotel, her black saree billowing behind her like a mourning shroud.

She reached their suite and slammed the door, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. She slumped against the wood, sliding down to the floor just as she had on her first wedding night. She looked at the red sindoor in her reflection in the full-length mirror—the mark Arnav had placed there to protect her.

"I've ruined him," she sobbed into her hands, the cold Shimla wind whistling through the window. "I've taken away his chance to be happy."

In the darkness of the room, the black saree felt heavier than ever, a reminder that even in marriage, she was more alone than she had ever been as a widow. She had gained a husband, but she had truly lost her best friend to a woman who could make him laugh when she could only make him bleed.