The darkness wasn't peaceful. It was a suffocating, heavy blanket that offered no true rest, only a chaotic swirl of fragmented nightmares. I was back in the filthy library, the dust choking my lungs. Then the scene would violently shift, and I was standing at the altar in my heavy red bridal dress, looking at my father. He was holding a stack of money, his face twisted in a grotesque, celebratory smile as he handed me over to a shadowy monster with eyes like burning coals.
"Sold," the monster whispered, the voice sounding eerily like Rudra's. "To the highest bidder."
A sharp, stinging sensation on the back of my hand dragged me out of the nightmare.
I gasped, my heavy eyelids fluttering open. The blinding glare of a crystal chandelier directly above me forced me to squeeze my eyes shut again with a weak groan.
"Easy now, child," a gentle, unfamiliar voice murmured near my ear. "Keep your eyes closed for a moment. The light is too harsh."
I swallowed dryly, my throat burning as if I had swallowed glass. The paralyzing cold of the library was gone. I was lying on something incredibly soft, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and... cedarwood. The scent of danger.
I forced my eyes open, turning my head slightly. I was in a massive, luxurious bedroom—not the sterile guest room I had been assigned, but a room dominated by dark colors, heavy mahogany furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows.
A middle-aged man with kind eyes and graying hair was leaning over me. He wore a crisp white shirt and had a stethoscope draped around his neck. He was carefully taping a piece of gauze over an IV needle inserted into the back of my hand. The cool liquid dripping into my veins was the only thing keeping the raging fire of the fever at bay.
"Dr. Mehta," a low, dangerous voice rumbled from the shadows near the window.
I flinched involuntarily, my heart rate spiking on the heart monitor sitting on the bedside table. Beep-beep-beep.
Rudra stepped out of the shadows. He had changed into a dark grey tailored suit, looking every inch the ruthless billionaire he was. But the usual aura of complete, unbothered control was missing. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle ticked visibly, and his dark eyes were fixed on the doctor with an intensity that could melt steel.
"Is she stable?" Rudra demanded, his tone clipped and impatient.
Dr. Mehta didn't cower like the rest of the staff. He finished adjusting the IV drip, then slowly turned to face the billionaire. The doctor's expression was one of profound, unhidden anger.
"Stable?" Dr. Mehta repeated, his voice laced with heavy sarcasm. "Rudra, you called me in a panic telling me your new wife had collapsed. You failed to mention that she was suffering from severe hypothermia, severe dehydration, and a raging bacterial infection."
Rudra's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Just tell me what's wrong with her."
"What's wrong with her?" Dr. Mehta snapped, stepping away from the bed and closing the distance between him and Rudra. "I have been your family physician since you were a child, Rudra. I know you can be ruthless in business, but this... this is barbaric."
"Watch your tone, Doctor," Rudra warned, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"Or what? You'll fire me?" Dr. Mehta scoffed fearlessly. He gestured towards the bed, towards me. "Look at her, Rudra! Truly look at her! She weighs next to nothing. Her body is completely exhausted. But that isn't even the worst part. Have you seen her hands?"
I instinctively tried to pull my hands under the thick silk duvet, shame and fear washing over me, but I was too weak to move them. Both of my hands were heavily bandaged in thick, white gauze.
"Her knuckles are completely raw, the skin peeled back to the tissue," Dr. Mehta continued, his voice shaking with professional outrage. "The wounds are packed with decades-old grime and bacteria, which is what caused this massive fever spike. Furthermore, her knees are bruised black and blue, and she has a severe muscle strain in her lower back. It looks like she was forced to do hard manual labor on her hands and knees for ten straight hours in freezing temperatures."
The silence in the massive bedroom became absolute.
I kept my gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling, terrified to look at Rudra. I expected him to sneer, to tell the doctor that I deserved it, that it was part of my punishment.
But he didn't.
When I finally gathered the courage to steal a glance at him, the expression on his face shocked me to my core. The icy, untouchable mask had cracked. His dark eyes were wide, staring at my bandaged hands resting on the stark white sheets. For a fleeting, almost imperceptible second, an emotion that looked terrifyingly like guilt flashed across his handsome features.
"I... I gave her a task," Rudra finally spoke, his voice sounding strangely hollow, completely lacking its usual commanding thunder. "She disobeyed my rules. There are consequences."
"A task?" Dr. Mehta practically yelled. "Rudra, she is a young woman, not a draft horse! The temperature in the East Wing drops to near-freezing at night. You locked her in there without food, water, or warm clothing! If that young maid hadn't found her this morning, or if you had arrived even an hour later, her organs would have started shutting down. She could have died."
The word 'died' seemed to strike Rudra physically. He took a sharp breath, taking a small step backward as if the doctor had punched him in the chest.
"She is fine now," Rudra said, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself rather than the doctor. He quickly masked his shock, rebuilding his walls of ice brick by brick. His posture stiffened, and his eyes grew cold once more. "You've given her antibiotics. She will recover."
"Physical wounds heal, Rudra," Dr. Mehta said quietly, his anger morphing into a deep, profound sadness as he looked at the man he had known since childhood. "But the damage you are doing to her spirit... to her soul... that cannot be fixed with an IV drip. Whatever war you are fighting with her father, she is not the enemy. You are breaking an innocent girl to punish a guilty man."
"You know nothing about this situation, Doctor," Rudra spat venomously. "Do not presume to lecture me on morality. Your job is to keep her breathing. Nothing else."
"I have done my job," Dr. Mehta sighed, picking up his black medical bag from the leather armchair. "The IV contains strong antibiotics and a mild sedative to help her sleep through the pain. She needs absolute rest for the next three days. High-calorie meals, warmth, and zero stress. I will send a nurse to change her bandages tomorrow morning."
Dr. Mehta paused at the heavy oak door. He looked back at me, offering a sad, sympathetic smile, before turning his gaze back to Rudra.
"You survived a terrible tragedy, Rudra," the doctor said softly, referencing the secret I had uncovered in the library. "Don't become the monster that caused it."
The door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was suffocating. I lay frozen in the massive bed, acutely aware that I was alone in Rudra's personal sanctuary—the very room Mrs. Verma had explicitly told me was off-limits.
Rudra didn't move for a long time. He stood by the window, his broad back facing me, staring out at the sprawling, manicured lawns of his estate. The tension radiating from his body was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Water," I croaked out, the word tearing at my dry throat. I hated asking him for anything, but my thirst was unbearable.
Rudra turned slowly. He walked over to the bedside table, his movements stiff and mechanical. He poured a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. But instead of handing it to me—knowing my bandaged hands couldn't hold it—he sat on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped under his weight. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs.
Without a word, he slipped his large, warm hand behind my neck, gently lifting my head off the pillows. He brought the glass to my dry, cracked lips.
"Drink slowly," he commanded, his voice barely a whisper.
I drank greedily, the cool water feeling like liquid heaven soothing the fire in my throat. When I finished, he gently lowered my head back down, his fingers lingering against the feverish skin of my neck for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
"Why am I here?" I asked, my voice still raspy. "Mrs. Verma said this is your private room."
Rudra stood up abruptly, placing the glass back on the table with a sharp clink. The fleeting moment of gentleness vanished instantly.
"Because the guest room is not equipped for medical monitoring," he replied coldly, not looking at me. "And because I do not trust my staff to follow my instructions without my direct supervision."
"You mean you don't trust them to not kill me before you're done playing your games?" I whispered, a bitter, exhausted smile touching my lips.
Rudra turned to face me, his dark eyes flashing with sudden anger. "Do not push me today, wife. You are entirely dependent on my goodwill right now."
"Your goodwill?" I let out a weak, hollow laugh. "You locked me in a freezing room to die over a dusty photograph. You don't have goodwill, Rudra. You only have a black hole where your heart used to be."
I expected him to yell. I expected him to rip the IV out of my arm and drag me back to the library.
But he didn't. He stared at me, his chest heaving with unspoken emotions. He looked at my pale face, my bandaged hands, and the sheer, unbroken defiance still burning in my tired eyes.
"Get some sleep," he finally said, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn't identify.
He walked towards the door, stopping just before he opened it. He didn't turn around, but his words echoed clearly in the silent room.
"Mrs. Verma has been fired. She will be gone before you wake up."
Before I could even process the absolute shock of his statement, the door closed behind him, leaving me alone in his bed, surrounded by the lingering scent of cedarwood and a million unanswered questions.