The Paper Cage_

The room smelled of ink, polished mahogany, and the faint cologne that seemed to follow him everywhere.

Ira Mathur sat rigid in the leather chair, her palms damp against the hem of her peach salwar. She wasn’t supposed to be here — not in this penthouse, not across from a man like him. The chandelier above her dripped light like diamonds, yet she felt like a speck of dust under its glare.

Across from her, Arhaan Malhotra leaned back with casual arrogance, the marriage contract spread before him. Even in a black shirt rolled at the sleeves, he looked untouchable, like sin sculpted into flesh. His dark eyes lifted to hers, pinning her in place.

“Read it,” he said.

Her throat bobbed. “I—already have.”

“Then sign.”

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the pen. Her name looked foreign next to his on the paper — Ira Malhotra.

She had never expected to bear it. She had never dreamed of this, never wanted this. But for her stepmother, for the secrets that bound her, she had no choice.

Arhaan’s signature was sharp, decisive, and almost violent. He leaned forward, his voice smooth and lethal.

“You’re nothing more than my wife on paper, Ira. Don’t mistake this for anything else.”

The pen slipped from her hand.

Her lips parted, but no words came. She lowered her gaze, blinking hard. “Yes, Arhaan.”

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good girl.”

The way he said it — taunting, mocking, as if she were a child obeying her master — made her stomach twist.

“From tonight, you’ll live here,” he continued, his tone clipped. “You’ll play the role of Mrs. Malhotra when I need you to. Otherwise, you’re invisible. Don’t ask me where I go. Don’t question what I do. And most of all—”

His gaze sharpened, cutting into her like a blade. “Don’t ever think you matter to me.”

Her breath hitched, but she nodded. “I… understand.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching her for a long moment, as if waiting for tears, a scream, anything.

But Ira sat still. Quiet. Obedient.

His jaw ticked. “Good.”

He stood, buttoning his blazer with deliberate calm. “Don’t wait for me tonight.”

Her heart sank. “Where are you going?”

His smirk deepened, cruel. “Out. To enjoy my freedom. You may have my name, little wife… but you’ll never have me.”

He left her alone in the grand, silent penthouse, a gilded cage that shimmered under chandeliers but pressed down on her chest like iron.

__

The dining table gleamed under golden light, polished to perfection. Silver cutlery lay in neat lines, the wine was chilled to the exact temperature he preferred, and the dishes — his favorites — waited, untouched.

Ira sat on one side, her dupatta folded carefully in her lap, her eyes darting toward the clock every few minutes.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Still, no sign of him.

Her stomach growled, but she ignored it, resting her chin lightly against her palm. She told herself she would wait. That’s what a wife was supposed to do, wasn’t it? Even if she was a wife only on paper.

When the clock struck midnight, the door finally opened.

Ira rose at once, smoothing her dupatta. Relief stuttered through her chest — but it shattered the next second.

Arhaan entered, his tall frame shadowing the doorway, and with him came Myra Sharma.

Myra Sharma is one of the famous models of India, she was involved in many scandals with Arhaan.

The woman clung to his arm, her red lips curved in a mocking smile, her diamond earrings flashing. Her perfume filled the room before her laugh did — loud, sharp, designed to sting.

Ira froze.

“Myra.” Arhaan’s voice was smooth as silk, his hand sliding around the woman’s waist. “Make yourself comfortable. This is your home too, after all.”

Myra smirked. “Your wife doesn’t mind?”

Arhaan’s gaze flicked toward Ira, cold, assessing. He wanted her to crumble, to scream, to break.

Instead, Ira lowered her lashes and whispered, “Welcome.”

Myra’s laugh rang out. “Your wife?” She looked Ira up and down, her gaze dripping disdain. “She looks more like your maid.”

Heat pricked Ira’s skin, but she kept her chin tucked, her voice calm. “Shall I serve dinner?”

Arhaan’s eyes narrowed. Something flickered there — annoyance, or perhaps something darker. He had expected her to protest, to shatter. Instead, she stood like a soft wall, enduring.

“Exactly,” he said, turning to Myra, his voice laced with cruelty. “She knows her place.”

Myra leaned into him, lips brushing dangerously close to his jaw. “Then tonight, let’s eat in your room. No need for company.”

Ira’s hands faltered as she lifted the wine bottle, but she steadied them. She filled his glass with practiced precision, the same way she had set his coat neatly on the chair earlier.

Her silence clawed under his skin.

Arhaan’s smirk deepened, though it didn’t touch his eyes. He whispered something into Myra’s ear that made her laugh again, and together they left the dining hall, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.

The untouched food on the table stared back at Ira.

Her chest tightened, but she sat down again. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she folded the napkin neatly, placed it over the plate, and whispered under her breath, “Good night, Arhaan.”

---

Later, when the penthouse had fallen into heavy silence, Ira moved quietly through the rooms. She picked up his discarded blazer from the sofa, straightened the shoes he had left by the door, and switched off the dimmed lamps.

Every action was small. Every movement is careful.

And yet, it was those quiet gestures that screamed louder than any outburst could.

---

At half past two, Ira curled on the edge of the vast bed, staring at the ceiling. She told herself not to cry, not to break. But her pillow soon grew damp.

Her soft sobs filled the darkness, muffled against the silk.

She didn’t hear the door open.

Arhaan stood at the threshold, his tall frame shadowed, his face unreadable. He had come for a drink of water, but froze when he saw her — fragile, folded in on herself, yet still glowing with a kind of innocence that mocked him.

His gaze dropped to the folded blazer at the armchair, the tidy shoes, the waiting dinner on the table.

Something twisted in his chest.

He stepped closer, silent. For the first time in years, he felt… unsettled.

His lips parted, but no words came.

So instead, he smirked faintly, whispering to the dark, almost to himself:

“This isn’t over, little wife. You’ll break… but not tonight.”

__

The city slept beneath a sky littered with stars, but inside the Malhotra penthouse, silence pressed like a weight.

Arhaan sat alone in the library, the amber of his whiskey catching the light. Myra had long since left, leaving behind her perfume and a lipstick stain on his glass — one he wiped away almost instantly, irritation prickling his skin.

His jaw flexed.

He should have been satisfied tonight. He had humiliated his “little wife” in every way that mattered. He had brought Myra to their home, kissed her in front of her, taunted her, called her a maid in her own cage.

But Ira hadn’t broken.

No tears. No screams. No please.

Only silence. Obedience. That maddening, suffocating innocence.

He downed the whiskey, the burn doing nothing to ease the gnawing inside him. His mind replayed the image: Ira’s small hands folding his napkin neatly after he left with Myra. The way she had lowered her lashes but still served him dinner with trembling grace.

And later, her sobs.

He had stood at the doorway longer than he cared to admit, his hand fisted at his side, watching her curl into the pillow.

A woman like her should have shattered by now. Should have begged. Should have run.

But she hadn’t.

“Fragile little dove,” he muttered, swirling the whiskey. “Do you even know what kind of cage you’ve walked into?”

His lips curved into a cruel smile, but his chest ached with something he refused to name.

She would break. He would make sure of it. He would strip her quiet dignity piece by piece until she screamed his name, until she hated him, loved him, needed him.

Because he couldn’t stand the thought of her silence chaining him.

---

Meanwhile, Ira sat in the vast, cold bedroom, her dupatta clutched to her chest. Her tears had dried, leaving only raw emptiness.

She whispered into the darkness, her voice trembling.

“God… I don’t ask for much. Just give me the strength to endure. Please… let tomorrow be kinder.”

But even as she prayed, a shadow leaned silently against the doorframe, listening.

Arhaan’s gaze was fixed on her, his breath shallow, his heart pounding with an emotion he would never admit — fascination.

His fists clenched as he whispered to himself, his voice dark, reverent, dangerous:

“Tomorrow won’t be kinder, little wife. Tomorrow will be mine. Every breath, every tear, every touch… mine. I’ll cage you until you can’t breathe without me.”

He turned away at last, retreating into the darkness.

But Ira’s prayer still lingered in the air, colliding with his vow, two worlds destined to burn each other alive.

And as the clock struck three, the cage of their marriage finally sealed shut — velvet on the outside, iron beneath.

In the shadows, Arhaan whispered one last time, his lips curling: “This isn’t over. It’s only the beginning.”

_____...

So this was the first chapter, hope you liked it...

Your Insiya khan..♡︎