The scent of antiseptic and slow decay filled the dim hospital ward. The fluorescent lights above flickered weakly, casting pale shadows over peeling walls and rusted bed frames. In the corner of the room, Andaleeb Shah sat with her back straight and her eyes wide, clutching a file so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Beside her, her father lay unconscious, a pale shell of the man he used to be. Tubes ran from his arms, machines beeped softly in rhythm with the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful—but Andaleeb knew it was the kind of peace that came before the end.
She had sold her mother's jewelry, her phone, her laptop, and even begged her landlord for an advance she knew she could never repay. But it wasn't enough.
The surgery cost 1.8 million rupees.
She had less than ten thousand.
Her vision blurred as tears welled up again. She blinked them back furiously. Crying wouldn't save him.
Then came the knock.
A soft tap on the door, followed by a man stepping into the room. Tall, well-dressed, and sharp-eyed, he looked like he had walked out of a business magazine and into the wrong place.
"Andaleeb Shah?" he asked.
She stood up instantly. "Yes. That's me."
The man nodded and extended a silver folder. "I represent Mr. Zayan Khan. You submitted an application for emergency medical sponsorship. He reviewed your case. He's offering you… a contract."
Her brows furrowed. "A contract?"
He didn't smile. "Please read. Mr. Khan is awaiting your decision."
Her fingers shook as she opened the folder. Inside was a crisp document, its title printed in bold letters:
Marriage Agreement.
---
On the fifty-second floor of the tallest skyscraper in Karachi, Zayan Khan stared out at the city. A storm was brewing—lightning crackled in the distance over Clifton Beach—but inside, his office was still and silent.
Zayan liked silence. It helped him think. Control.
He turned away from the window and walked back to his desk. On it lay a single framed quote:
> "Trust no one. Love is weakness."
His father had repeated those words so often, they had become scripture. That morning had been no different.
"You can't even close a deal without sentiment getting in the way," his father had shouted.
His mother had simply added, "At least marry someone useful. Iqra's father owns four textile mills."
Zayan had said nothing. He never argued. He didn't need to.
He just did what they hated most—acted on his own terms.
If they wanted a marriage? Fine.
But he would choose. Not them.
Someone from nowhere. No bloodline. No business. No power.
Someone… harmless.
He opened a file on his desk. The girl's name: Andaleeb Shah.
Twenty-two. University dropout. No assets. No connections.
Desperate.
Perfect.
---
Andaleeb stood in front of the Khan Mansion, feeling like she had stepped into a dream where everything was beautiful and wrong. The white pillars stretched two stories high, the driveway sparkled, and two guards stood by the gates like statues.
She wore her best outfit: a clean, pale green cotton kameez and her only polished shoes. Her heart thundered in her chest as the gates opened.
The butler led her through a hall lined with chandeliers and polished marble floors. Every corner gleamed. Every sound echoed.
Then he entered.
Zayan Khan.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes like frost.
He looked at her the way a king looks at a servant who tracked mud into his palace.
"You're late," he said flatly.
"I—I took the bus and walked the rest," she stammered.
"Next time, take a car," he said, then gestured for her to follow him.
She did, barely able to keep up with his long strides.
He led her to a lounge room bigger than her entire apartment. On the table were the same papers she had seen in the hospital.
"You read the contract," he said.
"I... skimmed it."
"Then sign it."
She hesitated. "You want to marry me. For one year. Why?"
He didn't blink. "Because you're nobody. And I need a wife who expects nothing and stays quiet."
Andaleeb swallowed hard. "And in return?"
"I'll pay for your father's surgery. He gets the best doctors. You get a monthly stipend. You live here. You smile at events. One year later, we divorce. Quietly. No strings."
Her eyes welled again, but she didn't let the tears fall.
She picked up the pen.
And signed.
---
The wedding was nothing but ink on paper. No guests. No vows. No rings. Just silence and an exchange of documents under the supervision of a lawyer.
She was now Mrs. Andaleeb Zayan Khan.
And yet, she had never felt more alone.
---
That night, her room was ready. Bigger than her entire family's home. Decorated like a bridal suite—but without celebration.
She sat on the bed, trying to breathe.
How had her life changed so much in one day?
She looked at the ring he'd placed on the table, not even bothering to put it on her hand. A symbol without meaning.
Then came the whispering.
As she stepped into the hallway, she passed two maids speaking in hushed tones.
"She's the new wife?"
"She looks like a schoolgirl."
"She's not even pretty in a rich way."
Andaleeb paused—then kept walking, head high, even as her heart dropped into her stomach.
---
The next morning, she wandered into the kitchen looking for water.
She greeted the chef. "Assalamualaikum."
The man blinked. "Waalaikumassalam… Ma'am?"
She laughed. "Just Andaleeb, please."
From that moment, she decided:
If this house was going to treat her like a ghost, she'd haunt it properly.
She sang while walking the halls. She gave the houseplants names. She sat in the garden and talked to herself. She got lost—twice.
Then she wandered into the wrong room.
---
Zayan's study was dark, filled with books, shadows, and tension. She entered, humming to herself, using a pen as a microphone.
She turned mid-twirl—and screamed.
He was there, seated at his desk, glaring.
She dropped the pen. "I—I was just… uh…"
Zayan stared, eyes narrowed.
Then, against all odds—he smirked.
"You're ridiculous," he muttered.
Andaleeb, still on one foot, grinned. "Thanks. I try."
He shook his head and returned to his work.
She walked out, heart racing.
---
The days that followed blurred into a strange routine. Zayan ignored her—but watched when he thought she wasn't looking. She spilled water in the hallway. He handed her a towel. She tripped over a rug. He didn't laugh—but his eyes softened.
The staff began to warm up to her. Even the cat stopped running away.
And slowly… so slowly… she saw the ice begin to crack.
One evening, she found him on the balcony, watching the sunset.
"You hate everyone," she said, standing beside him. "But you keep showing up."
He looked at her, truly looked.
"You're not what I expected."
She smiled. "Neither are you."
He didn't smile—but he didn't walk away either.
And in that silence, something began.
Something neither of them had planned.