Inaaya always woke up before the sun these days.
Not out of discipline. Not out of duty.
Simply because sleep no longer came easy.
Her eyes fluttered open to the filtered grey of dawn peeking through the gauzy drapes of the penthouse bedroom—if it could even be called hers. She had only moved into this space a few weeks ago, but it already felt like a museum curated for someone else's life. Monochrome, pristine, untouched.
The side of the bed next to her was already empty. Crisp sheets, tucked neatly, no sign of a body having rested there.
Dr. Aryan Rathore, heir to the Rathore Medical Empire, was always early. Not just to work, but to everything. He had a schedule that seemed carved in marble, down to the exact second his espresso machine hummed to life at 6:03 a.m.
They only share a bed. They didn't share much of anything, really.
Sometimes, it felt like she had been married to a shadow.
Inaaya slipped out from the duvet and sat up slowly. The weight of the silence pressed against her shoulders. Her fingers touched the chain around her neck—her father's stethoscope charm. She hadn't taken it off in months.
Every morning began like this: a breath, a memory, a hollow space where her father used to be.
She padded across the hardwood floor, past the mirror she rarely looked into. She barely recognized herself anymore. The bright-eyed, ambitious girl who had once dreamed of becoming a surgeon like her father—where had she gone?
⸻
The living area of the penthouse smelled faintly of espresso and expensive cologne. Aryan stood by the tall window, back straight, dressed already impeccable. He looked like he belonged in a magazine. Untouchable. Inevitable.
He turned when he heard her steps.
"You're up early," he said, voice smooth but neutral.
"I couldn't sleep."
A pause.
He nodded once, then turned back to the window.
She waited for something—anything. A question, a glance, a conversation. But nothing came.
She moved to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, hands trembling slightly from the cold. This wasn't how she imagined her married mornings would be. There were no shared smiles, no soft jokes exchanged over toast.
Aryan checked his watch. "You have rounds today, don't you?"
"Yes," she said. "I'll be there."
"Don't be late again."
That clipped tone—so clinical. So unlike her father, who had always made her feel seen even in her failures. Her chest tightened.
"I won't," she replied, quieter than she intended.
He didn't respond.
⸻
The hospital was colder than she remembered.
Rathore Medical Group was a temple of glass and steel. The corridors gleamed with the kind of sterile elegance that cost millions. Every step she took echoed softly, a rhythm of nerves tightening in her gut.
Dr. Vihaan Deshmukh, Aryan's closest friend and a senior cardio-thoracic surgeon, passed her with a quick nod and a teasing smirk. "Morning, Mrs. Rathore. Better not let the boss catch you with a coffee that isn't black and soul-destroying."
She managed a weak smile. "Duly noted."
Vihaan was one of the few who tried to make her feel normal. Everyone else treated her like she was either an imposter or a threat—thanks to her marriage.
She reached the conference room right as the morning briefing began. Aryan stood at the head, immaculate as ever. She slid into her seat, trying not to draw attention. It didn't work.
His eyes found hers immediately.
"Dr. Inaaya Mirza," he said, not a trace of warmth in his voice. "Can you tell us the proper intervention pathway for a post-op arrhythmia in a pediatric patient?"
Her heart stopped.
He knew she had studied adult cardiology. She wasn't trained in peds. Was this a test?
She cleared her throat. "I... would need to consult with the pediatric team and adjust based on patient vitals, possible electrolyte imbalances..."
"Unacceptable." His tone didn't rise, but the room felt ten degrees colder.
A few residents exchanged glances.
Aryan continued, "We don't consult when a child is crashing. We act. Immediate EKG, magnesium bolus if Torsades is suspected. Think, doctor."
Inaaya bit her lip, nodded.
He turned back to the room. "Learn from her mistake. There is no room for hesitation in this department."
The shame burned hotter than anything else.
She lowered her gaze, feeling like she had shrunk into her chair.
⸻
Bonus Scene: The Space Between Us
(Aryan's POV)
She was late again.
Aryan checked his watch—not because he needed to, but because it gave him something to do instead of watching the door.
She slipped in quietly, but his eyes caught her the second she entered. Soft grey kurta under her white coat, eyes wide like a deer caught in sterile hospital light.
She looked afraid.
That... bothered him.
He didn't understand why. This was his world—order, control, precision. And she didn't belong here, not really. Not with the way she hesitated. Not with the way she questioned herself even when she was right.
But a part of him... noticed.
The way her fingers trembled before answering. The way she looked down when he spoke, not out of submission, but out of some deep ache he didn't yet understand.
He shouldn't have snapped at her.
But the rules were the rules.
And yet, even as he moved on to the next resident, he felt her shame like a pulse in the room. Like a whisper just beneath his skin.
He hated it.
He hated how much he noticed her.
How much she made him feel.