Marrying my Enemy's Bride

Chapter 59: When Grief Met Love

● AUTHORS POV●

The Rajvansh mansion had always been alive with laughter. With the chatter of mornings when servants hurried through corridors balancing trays of steaming chai, the gentle hum of the piano in the evenings when Ayaansh's mother would play old melodies, and the occasional chaos when everyone tried to speak at once during dinner—voices overlapping, debates about everything from politics to which restaurant made the best biryani.

But now, even the walls seemed to mourn.

The chandelier in the main hall still sparkled with the same brilliance, the marble floors still gleamed with polish, the gardens still bloomed with seasonal flowers. Yet something fundamental had shifted. The house breathed differently now—slowly, heavily, like a person recovering from a wound that had cut too deep.

It had been three months since the death of Ayaansh's father—Mr. Pratik Rajvansh, a man once admired by business circles and social elites, later revealed to be corrupt in ways that made headlines scream for weeks, and finally gone in a storm of betrayal and bullets that left more questions than answers.

The world had moved on. News cycles shifted to newer scandals. Business associates found other allies. Society whispered for a few weeks, then forgot.

The family had tried to move on too. His mother had thrown herself into charity work with renewed fervor. His older brother Arjun had become grimmer, more focused on salvaging what remained of the family business. His younger sister Ira had returned to her art and cartoons, though her laughter came less frequently now.

Except Ayaansh.

Ayaansh remained suspended in that terrible moment—the moment when everything he believed about his father shattered like glass, cutting him from the inside.

Early morning light crept through the mansion's tall windows, falling softly on polished floors that reflected the pale gold of dawn. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked steadily—each sound echoing through the stillness that had taken root in every room, settling into corners like dust.

Ayaansh stood outside his father's room for a long time before he entered. His hand rested on the doorknob—brass, slightly cool against his palm. He'd been standing here for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Time felt different these days, elastic and strange.

The door creaked when he finally pushed it open—that same old creak that used to make his father yell from inside, "Ayaansh, beta, oil this door someday, will you? It sounds like a horror movie every time someone opens it."

Ayaansh used to laugh and promise to do it tomorrow. Tomorrow never came.

The faint smell of sandalwood incense lingered in the air—a smell that refused to fade even after months. His mother had stopped lighting incense everywhere else in the house, but somehow this room held onto the scent like a stubborn memory.

Books lined the shelves neatly, organized by subject the way his father always insisted. A file still lay open on the mahogany table, spectacles resting on top of it as if Pratik Rajvansh had just stepped out for a moment and would return any second to continue reading. Time hadn't dared to touch this space. Even the cleaning staff only dusted lightly, afraid to disturb anything.

Ayaansh's steps were slow, deliberate. Each footfall on the carpet felt like an intrusion. His hand brushed over the mahogany desk—feeling the grain of the wood, the roughness of dried dust that had accumulated in the carved details.

He sat in his father's chair. The leather was cold, unyielding. It didn't welcome him the way it used to welcome his father.

The clock on the wall ticked again—sharp, unrelenting, marking seconds that added up to minutes, hours, days without his father's presence.