Smithen sprinted to the door, his heart pounding with anxious hope. As he reached it, he found the watchman standing there, a middle-aged man wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. In his right hand, the watchman held an umbrella, opening the door slowly and calmly. He glanced at Smithen—who was still catching his breath from running—but offered no reaction. The watchman already knew who Smithen was waiting for: Viran Sir.
"Sir," the watchman began, his voice steady yet carrying a hint of sympathy, "I received a call earlier. Viran Sir will not be coming today. He told me to inform you."
Smithen's smile, which had been faint but genuine, faltered immediately. It shrank by around twenty to thirty percent as he realized the truth—he wasn't seeing the person he had been waiting for all this time. Instead, it was just the watchman, delivering news that felt like a blow to the gut.
"Oh," Smithen murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes instinctively darted to his phone, but no message or missed call awaited him—no sign of any communication, not even from his personal PA. A knot of confusion and unease tightened in his chest.
The watchman, sensing Smithen's growing discomfort, voluntarily added in a softer tone, "Sir has gone abroad, I believe. Maybe an important meeting. To make sure you are safe, I was sent here. Perhaps he was too busy to send a message himself."
Smithen nodded slowly but said nothing more. His eyes narrowed as he stared at his empty phone screen. Without another word, he turned away and said quietly, "Okay, I'll go and sleep." Then he left, his steps heavy and slow.
The watchman watched him go, hoping that his explanation had eased some of Smithen's worry, even just a little.
But the night was far from over.
At around 3 a.m., a scandal broke wide open, shaking the very foundation of everything Smithen believed. The headline flashed boldly across his screen: "Viran Sir is married to Akanya Shisha—billionaire heiress of a top client linked to Viran's company, where Viran himself is a major stakeholder."
This was no minor rumor. It was the first in a series of scandals, but to Smithen, it was a devastating revelation—a sharp, painful crack in his world.
Smithen, the most devoted anonymous online follower of Viran and now, shockingly, his husband, couldn't tear his eyes away from the article. He read every word carefully, from the headline to the last line, with a heavy heart. Sixteen photographs accompanied the story, each one a dagger to his soul: Viran and Akanya dining under warm restaurant lights, their faces bright with laughter; images of their intimate conversation; and finally, a photo of them entering a private room together, their closeness undeniable.
Smithen's spirit shattered completely. He couldn't bear it. Though he had once been only a distant admirer, now that he was legally married to Viran, the betrayal felt overwhelming. Tears welled up instantly and spilled down his cheeks. His phone slipped from his hand as he turned it off, sinking onto his bed like a man broken beyond repair.
Sleep eluded him despite his exhaustion. His eyes burned with unshed tears, but he refused to close them. Instead, he lay there motionless, as if half-dead, trapped in a painful limbo between hope and despair.
Days passed in a blur. College proceeded with its usual demands—report submissions, group projects, and outings with friends. Through it all, Kiren, Smithen's closest friend, never mentioned the scandal. Instead, without judgment, Kiren simply advised, "It's time to forget him and move on." Smithen had no desire to explain or defend himself; the wound was too raw. He hadn't seen Viran in nearly seven months, and even his own eyes began to doubt the reality of their marriage.
No calls came from Viran's assistant, who had once summoned him to the bridal house at 7 p.m. on their wedding day. No messages, no explanations, only silence.
The scandal remained, untouched and glaring, still visible online as if branding Viran and Akanya's secret marriage into public belief. Anger simmered beneath Smithen's skin, mingling with discomfort and confusion. The wedding ring—the same one Viran had placed on his finger—felt like a cold weight rather than a symbol of love. Yet he could neither confront Viran nor voice his frustration. To scold was a luxury he could not afford.
Then, unexpectedly, his phone rang.
The same number that had called him on their wedding day flashed on the screen. Without hesitation, Smithen answered on the second ring.
"Sir," came the calm voice of Viran's personal PA, "Viran Sir would like to meet you today. Can you come to the bridal house at 5 p.m.? He has a flight at 6 p.m. the same day."
Smithen's face brightened for the first time in months. A fragile spark of hope flickered inside him. "Okay," he said quietly, leaving college without telling his friends. In the group chat, he sent a quick message explaining he wasn't feeling well and was leaving early.
Kiren, concerned, messaged him privately: "Are you okay? Should I take you to the hospital?"
"No, I think after some sleep I'll be fine," Smithen replied, hiding the storm of emotions inside.
At 5:10 p.m., Smithen arrived at home. The villa was bathed in the warm glow of the evening sun, filtering through the towering windows of the grand hall. There, seated like an emperor surrounded by shadows and light, was Viran.
His face was a perfect sculpture, carved with sharp lines and angles that caught the fading sunlight. His jawline was strong and defined, his red eyes captivating but cold—resolute and unyielding.
For the first time since their marriage, Viran spoke directly to Smithen. His voice was steady, his expression unreadable, without a hint of warmth or remorse.
"Do you want a divorce?" he asked bluntly. "I will give you alimony. Six months have passed. If you want to proceed, I can grant you a divorce."
Smithen's heart began to race uncontrollably. The sudden ache in his chest was sharp and suffocating, his breaths growing short and shallow. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
Viran's personal PA approached, wheeling in three large silver suitcases.
One was packed with golden bars, shining even in the dim evening light, their smooth surfaces reflecting the last rays like captured sunlight. Another contained stacks of documents—ownership papers for grand villas, luxury buildings, and sprawling estates. The third was filled with crisp currency notes, filling the air with the unmistakable scent of fresh money.
Smithen remained silent, his eyes locked on Viran's. Those eyes were cold, indifferent, and completely devoid of emotion—not anger, not disgust, just an empty void.
Finally, gathering the strength to speak, Smithen asked, "May I know why you married me?"
Viran glanced briefly at his watch, his tone sharp and dismissive. "Did you not ask your mother before the marriage?"
At that moment, a soft, melancholy melody began to play, filling the empty hall with a haunting tune that seemed to echo the loneliness between them.
Smithen gasped, stunned by the coldness in Viran's words. "He just said—no."
Without another word, Viran turned and walked out, leaving Smithen alone with the three heavy suitcases—the tangible price of a marriage that had lasted barely two hours together over seven long months.
Author's Note:
Will Smithen choose to divorce him?
Why did Viran marry him if the plan was always to end it coldly?