### Chapter 3: The Forbidden Wing
486 Words
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The next morning, the sun filtered through the velvet curtains, casting golden patterns across the marble floor. Anjali awoke with a heavy heart and swollen eyes. The events of the previous day still echoed in her mind like a haunting melody.
A contract bride.
Not a wife. Not a partner. Just a well-dressed placeholder in a billionaire’s world.
After a quick shower, she stepped out of the lavish guest room she’d been moved to. The silence of the Mehra mansion felt unnatural — as though the house itself was holding its breath.
She wandered through the hallways aimlessly until something caught her attention.
A long corridor with double mahogany doors at the end.
The **west wing**.
Aaryan’s warning echoed in her head: *“Stay away from the west wing.”*
But curiosity is a dangerous thing — and Anjali’s mind refused to ignore the mystery behind that closed door.
She stepped forward, heart pounding.
Just as her fingers brushed against the doorknob, a soft voice behind her made her freeze.
“Ma’am… please don’t go in there.”
It was Renu, the middle-aged housekeeper who had served the Mehra family for years. Her eyes held a flicker of fear.
“Why not?” Anjali asked, trying to stay calm.
Renu hesitated. “It’s... not my place to say. But that part of the house has been locked since—”
She stopped herself. “Since before Mr. Aaryan left for New York two years ago.”
“Then why is it still locked?” Anjali pressed.
Renu looked around nervously. “Some doors are better left closed, Ma’am.”
Before Anjali could ask more, Aaryan’s younger cousin Veer appeared behind them, casually sipping his black coffee.
“She wants to know about the ghost wing?” Veer smirked. “Tell her the truth, Renu. That’s where his fiancée died.”
Anjali’s eyes widened. “Fiancée?”
Veer nodded. “Rhea Sharma. They were engaged. But she died here. In that room.”
A chill passed down Anjali’s spine.
She had heard nothing about Aaryan’s past relationships. Nothing about Rhea. No one had spoken her name — not even during the wedding rituals.
“Accident?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“No one knows,” Veer replied, suddenly serious. “Some say it was suicide. Others say she was pushed.”
That night, Anjali lay awake staring at the ceiling.
So that’s what he was hiding.
This marriage wasn’t just built on a contract — it was built on secrets, silence, and a tragedy no one dared to speak of.
And yet, for the first time, Anjali didn’t feel like a victim.
She felt… **determined**.
She would uncover the truth — not just about Rhea, but about the man she had married. The man who locked away a part of himself in the west wing… and maybe, his heart too.
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- Writer
