"Once again, Mrs. Shravanya Nair has proven why she remains a formidable force in the world of cybersecurity. In the latest triumph for VeraVista Solutions, the CEO single-handedly thwarted a major cyber theft attempt, securing sensitive data and safeguarding millions. Her brilliance continues to shine, as she keeps criminals at bay with unmatched skill and dedication.

However, amidst this remarkable success, a troubling question lingers: Where is her husband, Mr. Krishav Nair?

Despite her groundbreaking achievement, Mrs. Nair was seen navigating the event without the presence of her spouse. For weeks now, Krishav, the CEO of CerebraTech, has remained absent from public appearances, and tonight was no exception. When questioned by reporters about her husband's whereabouts, Mrs. Nair, in her trademark composed manner, responded, 'I would rather not discuss this topic.'

The absence of Mr. Krishav Nair has raised eyebrows, especially as the couple's relationship has always been a subject of public intrigue. Known for their power and wealth, the Nairs are also a hot topic across social media, with many fans and critics alike speculating about the true nature of their marriage.

Are the Nairs just a picture-perfect power couple, or is there more to the story than meets the eye? The public remains captivated, and the questions continue to mount: What is the truth behind this high-profile couple? Stay tuned as the story unfolds."

I clicked the remote, switching off the TV.

"What are you two doing since one year?" I heard the voice.

I turned towards the source of voice, my respected mother-in-law, Mrs. Akansha Nair, who was glaring at me with disapproval.

"You're going to taint the Nair name at this rate," she continued, her voice tinged with frustration.

I shifted my gaze to Mrs. Fiona Menon, my own mother, who looked just as concerned. "You're both overreacting," I said, trying to maintain calm, though the pressure was mounting. "This is just another part of the routine. One public appearance together, and the storm will settle."

Mrs. Akansha's eyes narrowed, disbelief flooding her expression. "That's not going to work. One year of marriage. A worldwide famous couple, and not a single scandalous picture leaked? That's suspicious, don't you think? Something isn't adding up, Shravanya."

The accusation hit harder than I expected. The last thing I needed was to explain the cracks in my marriage, especially not to her. "How could you-" I began to respond, but I was abruptly cut off by my mother.

"I think you need to seduce him more," Mrs. Menon said, her tone almost too casual. "You're not doing enough things as a wife. Sometimes, that's all it takes to distance yourself from your husband."

I stared at her, incredulity rising in my chest. "Mrs. Menon," I said, almost choking on the words. "Do you remember the last time you had a conversation with Dad in your right mind? Did I ever say you weren't doing enough?"

The air between us thickened, each word hanging in the silence. The weight of expectations, the years of strained relationships, and the impossible standards all felt like they were closing in. I had my own demons to fight, and now, I had to contend with theirs too.

"So what? At least I know how to put on a convincing act for the public. You two can't even manage that," Mrs. Menon said with an air of triumph, crossing her arms.

I felt my blood boil, the words rising to my tongue. "You are-"

But before I could finish, another voice cut through the room like a blade.

"What's going on here?"

I closed my eyes, exhaling sharply as irritation bubbled to the surface. That was twice now. Twice in the span of five minutes that I'd been cut off.

My eyes snapped open, and I turned my glare toward the source of the interruption. Standing at the entrance, as calm and composed as ever, was the one person I least wanted to deal with right now-my dearest husband.

Krishav Nair, with his perfectly tailored suit and impassive expression, leaned casually against the doorframe as if he owned the room. His presence alone seemed to suck all the air out, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to let my irritation spill over. "How kind of you to grace us with your presence," I said dryly, my tone laced with sarcasm.

"I'm not kind," Krishav said curtly, stepping further into the room.

His sharp gaze darted between the two ladies-my mother and his own-before he turned his full attention to his mother.

"Mrs. Nair, why are you here?" he asked, his tone clipped but laced with mock politeness.

"Why? Can't I visit my son's house?" she shot back, her arms crossing defensively.

"No," Krishav and I said in unison, the word falling from our lips like a well-rehearsed line.

Mrs. Nair rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed.

"We were here to knock some sense into your wife," my mother, Mrs. Menon, interjected, her voice tinged with the self-righteousness that always set my nerves on edge.

Krishav slowly turned to face her, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And why," he said, his tone carrying a deliberate pause, "do you feel the need to knock some sense into my wife?"

His voice held an edge of humor, but the undercurrent of irritation was unmistakable.

"We were merely advising her," Mrs. Nair chimed in, stepping into the conversation with the confidence of someone used to holding court. "She needs to... well, seduce you more. You know, make an effort to fix this marriage. Frankly, she's not performing well in this relationship."

Her words hung in the air like a live wire, sparking tension that made my chest tighten.

Krishav's expression remained unreadable, though his jaw tightened slightly. I braced myself, wondering if he would lash out or brush it off with his usual indifference. Either way, I could feel the storm brewing, and it was only a matter of time before it erupted.

"You know," Krishav began, his voice calm but laced with unmistakable authority, "she is my wife. I married this woman for a reason. And the biggest reason," he continued, his sharp gaze sweeping between the two women, "is that she is nothing like you."

Both women visibly stiffened, but Krishav didn't pause.

"She knows her limits, her dignity, and her worth. This is our marriage, and only we get to decide how to handle it. Even if it's imperfect, even if it's broken, we are fine with it. It's ours to figure out."

He took a step closer, his presence almost suffocating in its intensity. "And let me make one thing very clear," he added, his voice dropping to a steely tone, "if a marriage isn't working, it's not always the wife's fault. Sometimes, it's the husband's. Sometimes, it's both."

The silence that followed was deafening, his words echoing in the still air.

"Now," he said, straightening his posture and gesturing toward the door, "if you're done dispensing your unsolicited advice, you may leave."

The women gathered their belongings, their expressions a storm of fury, and stormed out of the mansion without another word.

"Psycho ladies," we muttered in unison under our breath, the shared thought drawing the briefest flicker of amusement between us.

Our gazes met for a fleeting moment, a mix of exhaustion and silent understanding passing between us, before we both instinctively looked away, retreating to the safe distance of indifference.

"Tell the house help to set the table," Krishav said, his voice firm but detached. "I'll be down in five minutes. We'll have dinner."

Without waiting for my response, he turned on his heel, leaving me standing there in the heavy silence of the aftermath.

I stepped into the kitchen, where only a handful of people lingered, their quiet presence echoing the late hour. The muted clatter of utensils was the only sound until my entrance turned heads. Instantly, they bowed in respect.

"Please set the table," I instructed, my voice calm but commanding, before turning on my heel and leaving the room.

Settling at the dining table, I absently scrolled through my phone as the maids busied themselves with their task. My feed was inundated with headlines and articles about us-the infamous 'Nair Couple.' Speculations, assumptions, and outright fabrications flooded the internet, each story more dramatic than the last.

I couldn't help but smirk at the absurdity. The media had a knack for spinning fiction into a circus. But what truly intrigued me was imagining the chaos that would erupt if a scandalous photo of us were to surface. The internet would implode, feeding on the frenzy.

Not that there ever could be such a photo. The reality of our relationship was far colder, far more distant than their fantasies dared to depict.

The sharp screech of the chair broke my train of thought. I looked up, and there he was-my husband, Krishav Nair, sitting across from me for dinner. It had been two months since we'd shared a meal together.

Dressed casually in a white T-shirt and grey track pants, he exuded an effortless charm that made him look almost ethereal. His hair was slightly tousled, the faintest shadow of stubble framing his jawline, a testament to his relentless hours spent perfecting his latest AI innovation. Despite the weariness etched into his features, he looked undeniably handsome, his presence commanding even in the silence.

For a moment, I simply observed him, an enigma of brilliance and detachment. It struck me how, despite the icy void between us, his aura never failed to fill the room.

"Congratulations on your achievement, Shravi," he said, breaking the silence with a casual ease that felt oddly rehearsed.

Ah, the nicknames. Yes, we have those-a carefully crafted illusion of a happy couple, a façade we agreed upon at the beginning of our marriage. Back then, it seemed like a clever way to maintain appearances, to convince the world-and perhaps ourselves-that we were the perfect pair.

But now? Now it feels absurd, a remnant of a childish idea we're both too indifferent to discard. And yet, despite the growing void between us, the nicknames persist, lingering like ghosts of a long-lost connection.

"Thanks, Krish," I replied, a practiced smile curving my lips. The word felt hollow, but I delivered it with just the right touch of warmth to match the role we had mastered.

"Did you want me to come to your event today?" he asked, his tone measured, his gaze steady as it met mine.

I paused, my fork hovering over my plate, before lifting my eyes to meet his. For a few moments, I simply stared, searching his expression for something-anything-that might give away his intent. But as always, his face was an unreadable mask, as if carved from stone.

"It doesn't matter to me," I finally replied, my voice even, betraying nothing.

"Good," he said, the word landing like a gavel in the silence that followed.

And just like that, the conversation was over, as fleeting and detached as the relationship we now shared.

"Krish?" I called out casually, my voice muffled as I chewed on my food.

"Hmm?" he responded, his attention fixed on his plate, not sparing me a glance.

"Was your project successful?" I asked, more out of formality than genuine curiosity.

This time, he looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine with a flicker of pride. "It was my project, Shravi. Of course, it would've been successful," he replied, his tone carrying a trace of arrogance but also an undeniable confidence.

I didn't respond, merely resumed eating in silence. His words lingered in the air, an unspoken reminder of the stark difference between us-his self-assured brilliance and my indifferent detachment.

I could feel his gaze on me, lingering, as if searching for a reaction I wasn't willing to give. After a moment, he returned to his meal, and the quiet between us deepened, settling like a barrier neither of us was ready to cross.

Our dinner came to a quiet end, the silence stretching between us like an unspoken rule. We muttered a quick "Goodnight" to each other, the words almost mechanical, and then both rose from the table.

Without another glance, we parted ways-me toward my room, and him toward his. Yes, we sleep in separate rooms, a quiet reflection of the distance that had slowly crept into our marriage. What started as a convenient arrangement had long since become the norm, a way to avoid the discomfort of shared spaces, of intimacy we no longer knew how to foster.

The door to my room clicked shut behind me, and I let out a breath, the weight of the evening settling into the quiet solitude.

That was it. The end of another quiet day, another reminder of the life we had built-a life of obligation and routine, of unspoken words and fading affection.

I climbed into bed, pulling the covers around me as I opened my laptop. The screen flickered to life, and I dived into yet another cybersecurity project, the tasks demanding my attention. Lines of code and endless reports filled my mind, a welcome distraction from the stillness of the evening.

Hours seemed to slip by unnoticed as I worked, absorbed in the complexities of the project. But eventually, the weight of exhaustion caught up with me. I pushed the laptop aside, letting it rest on the bedside table.

Lying back against the pillow, I closed my eyes, the darkness behind my eyelids offering a temporary escape. The quiet of the room enveloped me, a silence that seemed to stretch far beyond the confines of this night.

The Next Day

"Shravanya."

The sound of my name echoed through the hallway, dragging me out of the warm embrace of sleep. My eyes shot open, and for a brief moment, I thought I was still dreaming. But no, it was real. Krishav. My cold, distant husband, knocking on my door for the first time in... well, a year. I could feel my heart race, but not from excitement-more from sheer panic. Is this what it feels like when you're woken up by the apocalypse?

I shot out of bed, moving in a frenzy. I ran to the door, all too aware that my hair probably looked like a bird's nest, and my face resembled a confused potato. But there he was, standing with that unmistakable scowl plastered on his face.

Oh no, this is not a good sign.

"Time?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm, like he had just discovered a new level of annoyance with me.

"Huh?" I blinked, still in a fog from being yanked out of sleep.

"What's the time, Mrs. Krishav Nair?" he asked again, the sarcasm thick enough to cut with a knife.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:34 AM.

"It's 8:34 a-"

Oh no, no, no.

And then the reality of it hit me like a ton of bricks. OH SHIT.

I slammed the door shut in his face without another thought, the sound of his startled gasp muffled by the door. I didn't even have the decency to apologize. The last thing I saw before the door closed was his wide eyes-surprised, maybe even a little betrayed. But let's be honest, this wasn't about me really caring about his feelings.

Today was Saturday. Family breakfast day. Our parents were probably already here.

What was I thinking?

I sprinted to the washroom, mentally cursing myself the whole way. I had no idea how I was going to pull off this "family breakfast" without setting off some sort of emotional nuclear bomb. But first things first: I needed to make myself look presentable enough to not be the laughing stock of the family. And if I had to fake a smile for the next few hours, so be it.

After all, nothing says "everything's fine" quite like pretending you're not living on the brink of a marital meltdown.

I blinked, the realization of the time hitting me like a cold splash of water. The day was already running ahead without me. My heart skipped a beat as I scrambled to my feet, disoriented for a moment. I had stayed up later than usual last night, lost in my own thoughts, and I had forgotten to set the alarm. The morning was already slipping away, but there was no room for panic. I was the woman who had it all under control, and I was going to make sure I kept that image intact.

I rushed to the bathroom, my steps swift and purposeful, even if the panic was clawing at my insides. I flicked the tap, letting the warm water cascade into the bathtub, its sound almost soothing as it filled the space. The steam began to rise, wrapping the room in a soft haze that would allow me to breathe and ground myself for the chaotic hours ahead. I quickly undressed, and the cool air against my skin made me shiver slightly, but I pushed the thought aside.

I slid into the bath, letting the hot water envelope me, as if I could wash away the stress of the late start. The luxurious warmth felt like a small luxury, a few minutes of silence before the demands of my life came rushing back. I ran my hands through my hair, lifting it to wash with a gentle shampoo, the smell of jasmine filling the air as I massaged it in. I took a deep breath, the water swirling around me as I closed my eyes for a brief moment of solitude.

I was always in control, always organized-so much so that even a small hiccup in my routine felt like a mountain to climb. It was part of the persona I had created over the years-calm, collected, beautiful-perfect in every way. No one would ever know that sometimes, inside, it felt like I was on the verge of unraveling, especially with Krishav and everything between us.

I rinsed the shampoo from my hair and reached for the soap, my motions smooth and practiced. The soft lavender scent lingered, and I let it calm my frayed nerves, even though I knew today would be a whirlwind. I needed to get to the family breakfast, look poised and perfect, like nothing was out of place. Even if the cracks were starting to show.

I finished my bath quickly, not allowing myself to waste another second. As the water drained from the tub, I stepped out, wrapped myself in a soft towel, and went to the mirror. My face was already starting to look refreshed, but I still had a long way to go. I was a royal in every sense-well-mannered, graceful, beautiful-and I had to maintain that image for everyone around me. Even if it meant pretending everything was fine, even when nothing felt right.

I moved swiftly as I dressed in a silk robe that draped over my body with the elegance only real luxury could offer. Every movement was graceful, my posture immaculate as I did my hair. It only took a few minutes, but I looked effortlessly composed when I was done.

I quickly glanced at the clock again. My parents must be waiting, and I was running late-yet, somehow, it didn't seem to matter. The façade of perfection had to remain, no matter what was brewing beneath the surface. So I continued with my routine, each step a reassurance that I could control this, that I could make everything look flawless, even when the pieces of my life felt scattered.

I grabbed my phone and headed downstairs, where everyone was already seated in the living room. The air felt tense-Saturday mornings at the Nair household were always some blend of tradition and drama.

"Hi, Bhabhi!" my brother-in-law, Kartavya, greeted with his usual energy.

I gave him a small wave. "Hi."

"You're late by 20 minutes," came the sharp comment from my father-in-law, Mr. Susheel Nair, whose obsession with punctuality rivaled a Swiss watch.

I fixed the politest smile on my face, one that could melt glaciers or annoy critics, depending on my mood. "If you recall, your dearest son married a human, and humans-unfortunately-are prone to mistakes. Statistically speaking, there were 366 days in 2024, which included 52 Saturdays. On none of those Saturdays did I dare to arrive late. But if, by any chance, my rare slip-up has bruised your delicate emotions or caused your fragile heart to ache, then I extend my sincerest apologies."

The room was silent for a beat before I heard Kartavya suppressing a laugh, his shoulders shaking. Even Krishav, who was usually colder than an Antarctic wind, cracked a rare smile.

Mr. Susheel Nair, however, looked at me as though I'd just suggested replacing his morning chai with instant coffee.

Finally, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Akansha Nair, chimed in with her trademark disdain. "Your wife is talking nonsense," she said, directing her words toward Krishav with a look of faint horror, as though my words had personally offended her lineage.

Krishav leaned back in his chair, his smile widening ever so slightly. "Well, Mother, it's only natural you'd think that. After all, when an intellectual speaks in front of someone... less equipped to understand, it's bound to sound absurd."

I almost choked on the laugh I was holding back, but Krishav wasn't finished. He stood up with the grace of someone who knew he had just delivered a verbal checkmate.

"Come, Shravi," he said, slipping an arm around my waist with a casual confidence that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. "Let's have breakfast. The others will follow, of course-they always do."

With that, he led me toward the dining room, leaving a stunned silence in our wake. In that moment, I couldn't help but marvel at the dynamic we shared. For all our coldness and distance, we had this-an unspoken understanding that no matter how dysfunctional our relationship might be, we were still a force to be reckoned with.

As we all settled into our seats, I mentally braced myself for the inevitable tension that accompanied these so-called "family breakfasts." These were the only meals where Krishav actually sat beside me, though the proximity didn't mean much-yet.

Just as the room was starting to fill with the clatter of cutlery and small talk, my father, Mr. Hareesh Menon, decided it was the perfect moment to strike. His voice cut through the calm like a knife. "Why weren't you with your wife yesterday?"

Krishav paused mid-bite, setting his fork down with deliberate slowness. He leaned back in his chair, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated ease as he met my father's glare head-on. "Why weren't you with your daughter yesterday?" he shot back smoothly.

The room went silent. My father, clearly not expecting to be questioned in return, stiffened. "Because I've already given my daughter to you," he retorted, his tone dripping with misplaced authority.

Krishav tilted his head slightly, a sardonic smile creeping onto his face. "Oh, really? Is she a belonging? An object you just handed over?"

I held my breath, knowing full well that Krishav's retorts were like expertly aimed arrows-always hitting their mark, always drawing blood.

"Stop diverting the topic," my father snapped, his voice rising slightly. "Are you cheating on her?"

Krishav let out an exasperated laugh, the kind that comes from being utterly unimpressed. "And why, exactly, do you care?" he asked, his voice calm yet laced with a cold challenge.

The audacity of his response left the table in stunned silence. Even I couldn't decide whether to cringe at his boldness or applaud him for holding his ground. In typical Krishav fashion, he had managed to both dismantle my father's accusations and make it clear that his life-and his choices-were nobody's business but his own.

The room felt heavy, but Krishav picked up his fork again, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than an amusing distraction. It was moments like these that reminded me of just how complicated and enigmatic my husband truly was.

The atmosphere turned ice-cold as Krishav muttered in response to my father, "I had a very important project going on in my company. That's why."

"Krishav, why do you always place work-" Mr. Menon started, but I didn't let him finish.

"Mr. Menon," I interrupted, my tone sharp and controlled, "if I don't have any problem with it, then why are you making a mountain out of a molehill? It's not like you care. He's my husband, and he knows what I like and what I don't. Okay?"

The room went eerily silent, and for a fleeting moment, I caught Krishav looking at me with genuine surprise. It was the first time I had taken a stand for him in front of my family, and clearly, he hadn't expected it.

But just as the moment hung in the air, Mr. Susheel Nair decided to dive straight into the depths of insensitivity. "If you guys know each other so well, then why the hell are you not pregnant yet? Are you sterile?"

His words hit me like a slap, making my heart skip a beat. I felt Krishav's gaze shift to me immediately, protective yet understanding, knowing exactly where my vulnerabilities lay.

Somehow, I managed to compose myself, refusing to let their words crack my façade. Before I could respond, Krishav stepped in.

"I suggest," he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, "that you both stay out of our marital life. What happens-or doesn't happen-between us is none of your concern."

His declaration was firm, unyielding, and for once, I felt a strange sense of solidarity with him. It wasn't about affection or love; it was about boundaries-and Krishav had just drawn a line neither of our families could cross.

The silence that followed was deafening, but in that moment, I couldn't have been more grateful for his words. Even if our relationship was complicated, at least we had each other's backs in moments like these.