Sharanya gripped the key tightly as she stood outside the grand mansion. Her heart pounded against her ribs. This was it—the place where she had once lived as Naksh Malhotra's wife.
But why did it feel so unfamiliar?
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. The guards at the entrance gave her a brief nod before opening the massive doors, as if they had been expecting her.
Inside, the mansion was breathtaking—marble floors, towering chandeliers, and walls adorned with expensive paintings. It was the kind of house that screamed wealth and power.
And yet, she felt nothing. No recognition. No nostalgia. Just emptiness.
A slow clap echoed through the hallway.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Malhotra," Naksh's voice drawled from the staircase.
She looked up, finding him leaning against the railing, dressed in a crisp black suit. His sharp gaze traveled over her, assessing, calculating.
Sharanya straightened her shoulders. "I'm only here for a month. Don't forget that."
He smirked. "We'll see."
She frowned. "Where's my room?"
Naksh's smirk widened. "Our room is upstairs. Second door on the right."
"Our?"
"You're my wife, remember? We share a room." His voice was calm, but there was a challenge hidden beneath it.
Sharanya's stomach tightened. "I—"
"Unless," he interrupted, stepping closer, "you want to sleep somewhere else? The guest rooms are available, but I doubt they'll help jog your memory."
She clenched her fists. This was a game to him, wasn't it? A twisted way to make her remember the past.
"Fine," she muttered. "I'll stay in our room."
Naksh's eyes darkened slightly, but he simply nodded. "Good."
As she followed him upstairs, her mind raced.
She was in a stranger's house. Sharing a bed with a man she didn't remember.
For the next thirty days, she was Mrs. Naksh Malhotra.
And she had no idea how she was going to survive it