He Married Me Without Touching Me—Then I Found a Hidden Room With Another Woman
Episode 1: The Bride and the Secret Chamber

From the outside, our marriage was picture-perfect. People envied us. Our wedding was elegant, simple but expensive, held in a private haveli just outside Udaipur. He was gentle, polished, and wealthy—Arjun Mehra was the kind of man every woman dreamed of. And me? I was the quiet girl who thought she had struck gold.

But behind the smiles, something was… wrong.

We had been married for four months, and not once had he touched me. Not even on the wedding night.

At first, I thought maybe he was just being respectful.
“I want us to build emotional intimacy before physical,” he had whispered, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand.
I blushed, naïve, hopeful. But weeks turned to months, and his distance never changed. No kisses. No lingering looks. No passion. Just short conversations, polite dinners, and cold sheets.

I began to wonder if I had done something wrong.

He traveled often—always “urgent meetings” in Hyderabad or “board presentations” in Mumbai. When he was home, he kept to himself—always locking the third room on the top floor, the only one I was told never to enter.

“It’s just storage,” he said with a tight smile. “Dusty and dangerous.”

But curiosity is loud when silence lives in your heart.

One rainy Saturday afternoon, while he was away on yet another mysterious trip, I decided to clean the house top to bottom. I needed a distraction from my spiraling thoughts, my aching loneliness, and the growing voice in my head asking, “Why did he marry me?”

I stood before the locked room. My heart raced. I knew he kept the keys in his drawer. He once left it open for a second when I walked in, and I never forgot. With trembling hands, I took the key.

The lock clicked.

Dust flew as I pushed the door open. The room was dark, cold, and windowless. At first glance, it looked empty—just boxes, old curtains, and a heavy almirah against the far wall.
But something was off.

The almirah had no dust on it.

I walked closer. Touched it.

It moved.

There was a draft.

Behind it… a door.

My hands shook as I opened it—and what I saw made my soul jump out of my skin.

A bed.
A woman.

Alive.

She lay unconscious—or asleep—hooked to some kind of IV. A fan buzzed above her, and a small monitor blinked green. The air smelled of antiseptic and fear. My feet froze. My eyes scanned the room. Clothes. Hairbrush. A photo on the wall.

Her and Arjun.
Smiling.

She looked like me.

Same height. Same skin tone. Same quiet face.

I gasped.

And just then… her eyes opened.

She whispered, “Did he marry you too?

Episode 2: The Woman in the Walls

“Did he marry you too?”

The words barely escaped her cracked lips, but they pierced through my chest like a dagger. My knees buckled. I stepped back, nearly tripping over a steel tray on the floor.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.

This woman—this mirror of me—was alive, hidden, and asking that question.

She blinked slowly, eyes trying to focus. I moved closer, crouching down beside her. Her skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh white light.

I reached out. “Who are you?”

Her lips trembled. “I was his wife.”

Was?

My blood ran cold.

“No… I’m his wife,” I whispered, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. “I married Arjun Mehra four months ago.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. “He married me two years ago.”

A beat of silence fell between us. Two wives. Two timelines. One man.
My breath quickened as the room suddenly felt tighter, darker.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

She shook her head, barely able to move. “I don’t know. Months? Maybe more. He said I was sick. That I needed to be kept away from the world.”

Her voice cracked. “I believed him… until I realized I wasn’t sick. I was a prisoner.”

I stood slowly, my hands shaking. My world was unraveling. I had to get out, call someone—anyone.

But then I heard it.

A soft click.

The sound of the main door downstairs.

He was home.

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Episode 3: His Return

My heart slammed in my chest. I turned off the light and carefully closed the secret door, pressing the almirah back into place as silently as I could.

Downstairs, I heard his voice. Calm. Controlled.

“Priya?” he called.

I quickly shut the outer room and returned the key to his drawer. Then I darted to the kitchen and turned on the tap, pretending to fill a bottle.

He walked in moments later, removing his watch, always immaculate in a cream kurta and tailored vest.

“There you are,” he said, smiling. “How was your day?”

I turned slowly, forcing my lips into a smile. “Quiet. Just did some cleaning.”

His eyes lingered on me longer than usual. “You look tired.”

I looked down. “Just a bit. Nothing unusual.”

He stepped closer and gently touched my chin—something he rarely did. My skin prickled with tension.

“Let me take you out this evening. There’s a new rooftop café near Fateh Sagar Lake.”

I nodded robotically. My mind was elsewhere—back in that hidden room. Back with her.

She was alive. She needed help. And I was sleeping next to her captor every night.

But why? Why would he marry again? Why trap her? Why me?

That night, I pretended to fall asleep early. When his breath grew heavy beside me, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed back to the locked room. This time I brought my phone.

I opened the hidden door again.

She was still awake.

“I need your name,” I whispered.

She blinked. “My name is Ananya Sharma. We met in Chennai. He said I was the love of his life.”

I showed her my wedding photo on my phone.

She looked at it and let out a soft sob. “He said those same vows to me. In the same villa. Same priest. Same rings.”

A recycled love story. Repeated lies. But what was his endgame?

Ananya gripped my wrist weakly. “Please… you have to get me out. He won’t let me live if he knows you’ve found me.”

And in that moment, I made a silent vow.

I would uncover every secret Arjun Mehra had buried.
And I would not be his next prisoner.

To be continued…  

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