Heer
The morning after the kiss felt unreal.
Like it had happened in a dream—too intense, too messy, too unforgettable.
Carlos didn't mention it.
Not at breakfast. Not in the hallway. Not when we accidentally locked eyes across the dining table and he quickly looked away.
He was back to being quiet.
But something had changed.
In me.
In him.
In the air between us.
I stood in the library that afternoon, staring at the old contract—the one my father had made me sign before sending me into this marriage like I was a pawn.
Clause 7: "Both parties agree to conceal the marriage from the public for business protection and political leverage."
Clause 9: "No emotional entanglements."
I almost laughed.
Too late.
I was already entangled.
Not by choice—but by feelings that had crept in, tied themselves around my soul, and whispered Carlos's name when I least expected it.
I ran my fingers over the signature.
Heer A. Malhotra
I remembered signing it.
My hand was shaking.
Tears had blurred my vision.
I didn't even read it fully. I just wanted it to be over. I just wanted my parents to stop looking at me like I was a deal, not a daughter.
Suddenly, I heard the door click behind me.
I turned.
Carlos stood there, holding a folder in his hand.
We both froze.
His eyes fell on the contract I had laid open on the table.
For a second, we just looked at each other.
Then he stepped forward, dropped the folder beside the contract.
"What's this?" I asked quietly.
"An addendum," he replied, his voice low.
I opened it.
It was another contract.
But this one was different.
It had only one clause.
Clause 1: You are free to walk away. No obligations. No secrets. No debts. No expectations. Just freedom. Whenever you choose to leave, I'll let you go. No consequences.
I looked up at him, stunned.
"You're letting me go?"
He shook his head.
"I'm giving you a choice," he said, looking straight into my soul. "Because I took yours away once. I forced you into this. I won't do that again."
My heart squeezed.
I searched his face for any signs of mockery.
There were none.
Only sincerity.
And a flicker of something deeper.
"I'm not leaving," I whispered, placing the paper back on the table.
He blinked.
"I'm staying," I repeated. "Not because I have to. Not because of a contract. But because… somewhere in this darkness, I see you. And I want to understand who you are when you're not hiding behind your name."
Carlos looked away.
His jaw tightened.
"You don't understand what staying means, Heer. This life—my life—isn't normal. It's dangerous. Ugly. I've done things…"
"I know," I cut in. "But I've felt things too. And I don't want to run from them anymore."
He stepped closer.
Barely inches away.
His breath touched my face when he whispered, "You're not afraid of me?"
"I was," I admitted. "But now… I'm afraid of losing you without even getting to know who you really are."
That made him flinch—like I'd touched a wound too deep to speak of.
He reached for the contract, tore it down the middle without hesitation.
Then, softly, "No more contracts."
My eyes filled with tears.
Not from sadness.
But from something that looked… a little like hope.
Carlos
I tore the paper because it felt like the only honest thing I could do.
She deserved more than lines on paper and promises written in ink.
She deserved a man who could tell her the truth—not just the one she wanted to hear, but the one that burned to say.
I wanted to tell her that she was breaking something inside me—something I thought was untouchable.
But I couldn't say it yet.
So I let the silence between us say it for now.
And for the first time…
The silence didn't hurt.
Heer
That night, Carlos knocked on my door.
Not barged in.
Not demanded anything.
Just… knocked.
I opened it, heart pounding.
He stood there, holding something.
A cup of hot chocolate.
No words.
Just a look.
A quiet offering.
I took it with trembling hands.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded once, then turned to leave.
But before he could walk away, I asked the question that had been haunting me for days.
"Do you regret marrying me?"
He paused.
Then, without turning around, he whispered, "I regret not meeting you… before all this."
My breath caught.
And when I closed the door, I cried.
Not from pain.
But from the slow, blooming ache of love.
Real. Raw. Beautifully broken love.