Aayan x Aashi: Grumpy x Sunshine, Age Gap, Marriage of Convenience, Contract Marriage
Aayan - "Please don't expect love or compassion from me. I can promise you respect, but I'll never be able to give you the place of a wife. However, I can be your...
For the past three days, I've been desperately searching for a heart donor, feeling more helpless than I ever have in my life. I've reached out to every top hospital, called friends, colleagues, and even distant acquaintances I barely remember speaking to, all in the hope of finding a match. Finally, on the fourth day, we found one-a heart from the mother of one of my employees, who had just passed away. Now, I'm standing outside the operation room, the weight of the world on my shoulders, waiting anxiously for the surgery to be successful. My sister and mother are deep in prayer, their whispered words a fragile thread of hope. The door opens, and the doctor steps out.
"Is the operation successful? How is she, Doctor?" I ask, my voice trembling with fear.
He hesitates before replying, "For now, we can't say anything. We have to wait and see if the heart responds to her body. As I mentioned before, there's less than a 40% chance that it will." With that, he's gone, leaving us in a limbo of uncertainty. I watch as Navya, my wife, is shifted to the ICU, her fragile form lying motionless on the bed.
Scene Change
At 3 a.m., my phone rings, jolting me from a restless sleep. I answer, my heart pounding.
"Sir, the patient has woken up and she wants to talk to you right now," the voice on the other end informs me.
Within fifteen minutes, I'm at the hospital, rushing into her room. I see Navya lying there, her eyes open, and as soon as she spots me, she tries to sit up. I gently stop her halfway and take a stool, sitting beside her. The sight of her awake and conscious after nearly a week fills me with overwhelming relief, bringing tears to my eyes.
"What was so important that you couldn't wait until morning?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood, though the tears in my eyes betray my emotions.
"Yes, it's very important," she says, her voice trembling, her body weak. "I want you to get married."
Her words hit me like a sledgehammer. I can't believe what she's saying. "What are you talking about?" I ask, utterly shocked.
"Listen to me," she pleads, tears forming in her own eyes. "Let me finish. I don't know if I'll wake up tomorrow. I want you to get married again, to have children, to start a new life."
Her words make my heart feel like it's shattering into pieces. "What are you saying, Navya?" I ask, taking her hand gently in mine. "We'll talk in the morning. You've just undergone such a critical surgery; you need rest. And for God's sake, nothing is going to happen to you."
But she shakes her head, her desperation clear. "No, promise me. If I die, you will get married... You will..." She starts gasping for air, struggling to breathe. "Promise me, Ayan, promise me," she insists, her voice filled with urgency and fear.
In that moment, seeing her struggle, I feel like I have no choice but to make the promise. The doctors rush in, administering an injection to help her sleep, and they ask me to wait until morning to talk to her. Exhausted, both physically and emotionally, I leave the hospital and head to the hotel I had booked a week ago to stay close by. My mother remains at the hospital, but as soon as I reach my room, I collapse onto the bed, my mind racing too much to even consider sleep.
The promise I made to Navya keeps replaying in my mind. How could I even think of another woman? Navya was the only one in my heart. We had been together since our college days-she was my best friend, my partner in mischief, the one person whose company I truly enjoyed. She never cared about my looks or family wealth; she loved me for who I was. After graduation, when her parents pressured her into marriage, I chose to marry her so we could stay together. Our relationship was more about deep friendship than romantic love, but the thought of losing her now felt like a storm raging in my heart-a deep, unbearable pain that I couldn't escape. I reminisced about our college days, memories flooding my mind, and somehow, I drifted into a fitful sleep.
At 6 a.m., another call wakes me. It's my mother. "Hello, is everything alright?" I ask, but all I hear is a faint sob. Dread fills my chest as I grab my keys and rush out of the room.
As I start the car, my mother's voice, heavy with sorrow, says, "She's no more."
The world around me comes to a standstill. I end the call and drive towards the hospital, tears blurring my vision. I'm too overwhelmed to even wipe them away. When I arrive, I see my mother, my sister, everyone crying. I walk into Navya's room and see her lying there, lifeless. I clasp her hands, tears streaming down my face as I rest my head on them.
"You can't leave me," I sob, my voice breaking. "You can't," I repeat, but there's no response. The silence in the room is deafening, and the reality of her absence begins to sink in, leaving me utterly broken.
Months Later
Six months have passed since Navya left us. In that time, I've thrown myself into work, drowning in tasks and responsibilities to keep my mind from thinking about her. I've gone to the office early, planned upcoming strategies, held back-to-back meetings, and worked late into the night, all to avoid the painful memories. But today, I receive a call from my lawyer.
"Hello, is this Mr. Ayan Singhania?" he asks.
"Yes," I reply.
"Sir, I would like to discuss the details of your late wife's will. When are you available?" he continues.
His words strike me like a thunderclap. The term "late" feels like a knife twisting in my heart. I've been running from her memory, but now it confronts me head-on. "You can meet me at my house at 5 p.m. sharp today," I say in a dry, emotionless tone.
"Okay, sir. I'll be there," he replies, and the call ends.
Scene Change
Later that day, I'm sitting in my hall, with the advocate seated across from me, a file in his hands. "Mr. Ayan Singhania, this is your late wife's will," he says, and the word "late" once again cuts through me like a blade. I take a deep breath and reach forward to grab the file.
He continues, "As per her will, all her property, real estate, and shares are transferred to your name. All her jewelry and other precious ornaments are to be transferred to her mother, except her wedding ring."
I sign the papers, numb to the process, and hand them back. But just as I'm about to stand, the advocate says, "There's something else in her will." He hands me a letter and adds, "She wanted you to get married again. The ring she left for you is to be given to your future wife. This was her last wish."
With that, he packs his bag and leaves. My servants see him out, and I sit there, staring at the letter in my hands, trembling as I open it. The scent of her perfume still lingers on the paper, and it takes me back to a time when she was still here, still with me.
The letter reads:
"Dear Ayan,
If you're reading this, it means I'm no longer with you. I'm so sorry I couldn't make it. I can already imagine you overworking yourself, hmm? Please, don't. Not for me. You can't live your life like this. I know it's hard, but you have to move on. I want you to promise me, if you ever loved me, that you will get married again. Yes, you heard that right. Stop nodding your head in disapproval-I can see you doing it. I want you to get married, have kids, and live your life. Promise me, Ayan. You're only 29. You have so much life ahead of you. You have to live it... for me, please. I want you to get married by the end of this year, and my wedding ring should be given to her. I know I'm being insensitive, but it's for your own good. This is my last wish. Open my wardrobe locker-you know the password. I've left three pictures of girls in there. I like the one in the Kurti, but you can choose whichever one you like. Marry one of them. Please. It's my last wish. I know you'll fulfill it.
Love, Navya"
I close the letter, wiping my tears with my thumb. My heart aches with a pain so deep, I can hardly breathe. But I stand up, driven by a strange sense of duty, and walk straight to the room. I open the locker, find the photos, and search for the girl in the Kurti. My hands are trembling as I take her picture and forward it to my PA.
"I want all the information about her and arrange our meeting by next week," I text him, my heart heavy.
"Consider it done, sir," he replies promptly.
As I lower my phone, the weight of Navya's final wish settles over me, filling the room with an unbearable sense of loss.
