chapter : 20
password exchange

THIS CHAPTER HAS MY HEART AND SOUL!!
COMMENT!

please read:

ALSO, see uhm, so we get like almost 200 views per chapter but there are less than 50 votes. i know commenting isn't possible for many, but voting? i really hope you silent readers just take a second of your time to put a vote. it helps with the ranking, and spread.

With my study course and the lack of my technological skills, i don't use insta much to promote the book, i try but it's just a limited medium for me.

i hope you all can vote/ comment and if possible for you guys (and if you like the book) to share the books with other people interested in such genres. Thank you!

━━━━━━━❅━━━━━━━
n o o r
━━━━━━━❅━━━━━━━

I make the most terrible choices.

It's clear in my head that I have a thriving liking towards my temporary husband. I might not be in love with him but my body has started to desire him.

He hasn't done anything to earn that if I am being honest, but because he is the only man I have been in close vicinity of, the man who brings a boil in my blood with his attitude and is capable of handling my sarcastic self with his own snarky remarks. Also, he is the only man I find myself being comfortable with.

He is also very extremely handsome. His brown eyes, not dark but light amber mixed with honey coloured, with his defined jawline, which has the perfect amount of well-maintained stubble. His face is perfectly symmetrical, and hence, very capable of having a girl on her knees, precisely me.

And I have been friend-zoned, and bluntly. So any possibility of me fulfilling my carnal desires has gone down the drain, flushed into the sewer.

I have dug this hole myself, no one is to be blamed.

I lay on the soft plushy pillow, white, on a foreign bed, also covered with a white bed sheet, in Kabir's home. He is obsessed with keeping his things in perfect order, his house is painted in a neutral monotone. He likes mundane things and monochromatic contours.

There's no speck of dust even in the guest room that is not always in use. Unlike my flat, his is a duplex. Two floors connected by a flight of stairs. He had converted the top floor into a home office and a gym. On the lower floor, there are three rooms, one kitchen and a living hall.

He had shown me around, the one thing that had my most attention was how he had replaced the balcony area and extended the foot area separating the outside with a glass panel lengthening from the ceiling to the floor. It gave the hall an infinity look, endless and deep.

We had set all my stuff in the guest room which is now labelled as my room and the rest we had dumped in the third spare room. We would eventually sort those boxes too, but today we were too tired, okay, I was tired. He insisted on cleaning that mess too but I glared at him and threatened to leave if I had to do any more labour work.

So once we were done with the basic shifting, he wished me a good night and returned back to his room. I took a quick bath, wanting to settle in quickly.

The bed's comfortable but not enough to lure me to sleep. It feels alienated. Things are getting more concrete, I am now sharing a home with my husband. Not typically but it's something.

It brings a stir in my head, a dip in my heart rate. The ceiling appears way too interesting. I gawk at it, trying to process how the fuck did I land in this situation.

It's too hard to decipher.

Glancing at the wall clock I realise it's way past two in the morning. I click off the lights, hugging the other spare pillow I close my eyes waiting for sleep to take over.

━❅━

I overslept.

I had woken up after my third alarm, rushed to freshen up, gotten ready and dashed to the hall. I had planned to leave for the office directly.

"Good morning, Noor." I stop in my tracks. My hand fall from the main door's handle and I turn back.

Kabir is seated on the dining table with his iPad standing on a stand.

"Don't go without breakfast. Come here." He calls for me.

I walk to him noticing how the table has two plates already set. He has his plate filled with toast and some fruits. A cup of steaming coffee on the side.

"We are late." I try making it an important issue. We are never late.

"So?"

"Aren't we supposed to reach the office?" He butters one toast, peeling an orange. He plops the buttered toast on the second plate, keeping the peeled pieces of oranges as well.

"We are allowed to be a little late on our wedding night." He says it with a straight face, sipping on the black liquid.

"I—" My cheeks warm up.

"Well, wasn't it? It was the first night after our wedding which we spent under one roof." He is now pouring coffee into a new glass. Milk and no sugar.

He ushers me to sit, offering me the cup.

"No?" He asks. I busy my mouth by gulping down the hot coffee, anything to evade his direct and bold statements.

I chew on the bread slice, taking some secret peeks at my husband who is busy working on his electronic device. Is it how girls feel after an arranged marriage? Completely diffident and yet eager to know more about their spouses.

He takes his leisure time with the breakfast, seizing the chance to inform me about the staffing pattern. He tells me that the cleaning squad comes every day during our office hours while the chef comes once a day for dinner, on the day offs she rings in twice or even thrice a day.

He tells me that the chef, Sudha, an old lady has been his chef and caretaker since childhood. He explains about the lock system for the floor over us. He bares his floor plan, and his security management in front of me.

To take it one notch higher, he also tells me that there is money and necessary valuable items that are kept in the locker in his walk-in closet, and recites the code to me. He makes it his mission to make sure that I feel that this is my home too.

I tell him about the codes of my home and my locker too. It just fits.

We went from disliking each other to giving silent treatment to now acting so domesticated. Fuck.

"Let's go." He finally realises that we had to start our work day. We are already one hour late. I have never arrived later than five minutes in my entire four years. This man is making me go rogue and disorganised.

"Okay." I check my pockets for my car keys and scoop them up. Clutching them in my hand, I pick up my bag.

"We can go together."

"No." I clearly refuse. I will never risk us being seen together. People in the office are very competitive, they won't even take a second before ripping someone apart and stripping them of their respect. I will not allow anyone to raise their fingers at my achievements and hard work.

"But—"

"Please. We agreed to keep it a secret in the office. I can't let it slip up there." He nods in understanding and we leave the house together. Ride the elevator down and take two separate paths to our cars.

I can't let it slip, ever.

━❅━

I almost crawl to the couch, and slump down on the comfortable cushion. It envelopes me and I feel relaxed. Today had been a little hectic day with all the interviews, and meetings. I have slowly learnt the ropes of business, understanding the core of an interior designing firm and how managing every department is important.

This is why I devoted four years of my life to gaining exposure and experience.

It's been a week since Kabir and I moved in together, we have gotten friendlier with each other. We share conversations, and adjusting is getting a little easier day by day.

"Wash your hands, Noor."

"Bleh." I shimmer my heels off, scooting close to the end and laying my head on the small pillow.

"Noor."

"I am very tired. I can't feel my feet."

"I can see them attached to your body."

"Get your eyes checked."

"Wash your hands."

"What are you, my dad? Shush. Let me rest."

"Noor, it's dinner time."

"Here, take my hands and wash them for me." I extend my hands over my head.

I peek my one eye open glancing at an amused Kabir, I am not sure if he is disappointed in me or wants to cackle up.

"What? Can't a husband help his wife?" I retort jokingly but notice a very minute change in his facial emotions.

Fuck. Why did I say that? I should try to be more aware of what I say. He asked me to maintain a distance, be on the yellow line of friendship and not convert into a zebra crossing towards love and affection and desires.

Thankfully he doesn't berate me for my words.

"Lie down after you get freshened up. Come." The moment we entered, he had rushed to his room. My laziness prevails over his freaky nature for cleanliness.

I have closed my eyes, loving the darkness and the comfort it is providing.

"Noor." His voice is closer now. I peek through my eyelashes seeing he is standing just in front of my area of lodgement.

Changed clothes.

This position gives me a clear view of how the sweatpants he is wearing fit his thighs. The fitted tee stretches over his torso and triceps.

"Shoo away." I shut them again, squashing my face on the soft pillow.

Slight touches, fingers prodding, skimming over my sides. This man is tickling me.

"Kabir!" I am howling and guffawing. Twisting and turning back, my feet kicking in the air as he continues his assault.

"Will you get up?"

"Yes yes. Please stop." My eyes water and my cheek muscles are paining. My stomach rolling with waves of laughter.

"Promise me."

"I promise." He finally stops, relieving me of my miseries. He raises his hand in surrender, taking a step back.

"Get up."

"I hate you." I snarl, throwing the pillow at him. With the help of his quick instincts, he dodges right on time and picks it up. Pointing the finger towards my room, he huffs.

"Come back here after you freshen up," I stick my tongue out at him slouching my way to the room.

I replace my work attire with shorts and a loose oversized top. Wash my hands and scrub my face. Comb my hair and untie it, allowing it to freely fall. Barefoot, I walk to the hall where Kabir is arranging our dinner plates on the coffee table adjacent to the sofa and the home theatre set.

There are two plates of rice and pulses, a bowl of popcorn and two transparent glasses. One with a cool drink and the other with iced coffee.

We take our seats on the recliner sofa, eating food and sipping on our drinks. I take control of the remote, directly heading to Netflix and selecting the best sitcom to ever be released. We finish our dinner, washing the crockery and loading it in the dishwasher.

We returned back, and that's when my husband told me that he hadn't actually ever watched it.

"You haven't? How have you not watched Brooklyn Nine-Nine? That's my favourite show!"

"I was never into sitcoms." He shrugs, sipping on his cool drink. I throw a buttery popcorn in my mouth, pressing play on the paused screen.

"Let me change your life." The entry music of my favourite show starts rolling.

We are lounging on the recliner sofa, covered with a thin yet squashy comforter. Shoulders touching, arms brushing.

.
.
.

"You just ran?"

"Not exactly. I told my parents, they were against it. I secured a good university for my MBA, so even they couldn't stop me then."

"You didn't go back?"

"I wanted to, but I couldn't. You don't know the life there. It's too strict, a bondage. It wasn't for me, it suffocated me. Constricted my neck, cutting off my air supply."

After three episodes we let the fourth one be paused. We got familiar with the silence, falling into soft conversations. Whispers and tiny murmurs, half sentences and incomplete words.

"I have felt that way too. Not always like you but most of the time. My Pa adores his working morals more than anything in this world. He wasn't that way, but after my grandma died, he turned bitter."

"So he decided to turn you like him?"

"He did. He is why I feel that love has the power to destroy you. He became a shell, with no emotions and no warmth. After love expired, he lived his life for morals. Obsessed and controlling."

"I am so much like him. It scares me." The tone of his voice becomes more sloppy, softer. He is professing his secrets, the darkness he constraints within him. I say nothing, he doesn't want me to pity or tell him otherwise. He just wants me to hear.

So I do just that.

I rest my head on his shoulder, closer and nearer. My arm circling his. He crooks his head, settling it above mine. It's strangely consoling. Flutters and tingles. I feel them all.

The rope is slipping, it's chaffing the skin over my palms but it still doesn't hurt. It feels swift, and cottony. The grip on my emotions is loosening.

"I didn't want my parents to cause any more embarrassment than I already had. When I ran off, they were targeted a lot. Many taunts, sly remarks. They never told me about it. My father wanted me to come back but he never told me that he was ashamed of me. They hid it so well that I got okay with their lies. My marriage assured them. I couldn't deprive them of it."

"You did good, Noor. You chose yourself, and I am proud of you for that. It's not easy you know..choosing yourself. People make sure that you get drowned in guilt, they try pulling you down where they are stuck. Your parents love you and are very proud of you. You started with nothing and you have made yourself independent, all by yourself."

"Thank you." There's so much gratitude in my sentence because he eased something in me. He finally put my storm to calm. He didn't do anything and yet did everything.

"I want to start an NGO, I want to contribute a significant share of earnings for the betterment of people. I don't want to do charity, I want to be the reason for change. I want to work in the field, overview the workings along with managing my company."

I don't move myself, but my heart's touched. His fingers play with mine. He doesn't do this often, explaining this and doesn't share his dreams with anyone. He hasn't yet. I can sense he is unsure, uncertain. I know he is worried that I might not agree, and might tell him that he is wrong.

He is so scared of being told that he will fail, not because he is afraid of falling but because a stamp of failure would mean him to rethink his plan, something he doesn't want to do.

He is determined and yet so timid.

"I can only do that once I am the sole owner of the company. When all the profits are mine to deal with. And my grandfather has the last stack of shares with him."

There it is. The reason he wanted us to get married. He isn't greedy like I deemed him to be. He isn't fucking heartless, he has the biggest one I have ever come across.

He hides it. Protects it. He is wary.

He lets a soft sigh, warmth and contentment. He encloses his palm with mine, allaying all my doubts. I feel complete and there's solace. I maintain my accord, I can't show how much this is affecting me. How much a mere touch is troubling me.

We snuggle a bit, not voicing the reason behind what we are unconsciously doing. We are walking our paths, covering the distance between us, slowly yet steadily.

He can't see me, and I am thankful for that.

I have a smile dancing on my lips, as I close my eyes and fall into deep slumber.

So as sleep knocks my brain, there's a realisation. A hint. A fucking inkling.

That I am unconditionally and irrevocably falling in love. Diving and plummeting head first. With my temporary husband.

Who promised me that he wouldn't ever be able to love me back.

━━━━━━━❅━━━━━━━

FEELS AND FEELS AND FEELS.

CAN MY SINGLE ASS GET A LOVE LIKE THIS?

I WROTE ABOUT THE ORANGE PEEL THEORY WAY BEFORE IT BECAME A THING ;)
(these chapters are pre written XD)

thank you for reading.

royally yours,
meethi.