She divorced me looking at my property,

I never thought I'd be one of those stories. The ones whispered about at parties, passed around like cold wine in hushed tones. "Did you hear? She left him. Took the property. Must've only married him for the money."

But here I am.

People assume wealth makes you immune to pain. That if your house is big enough and your bank account full enough, the cracks in your soul will magically fill themselves. I can tell you now, it doesn't work that way. Heartbreak finds its way in, no matter how high your gates are.

My name is Ayaan Mehra. Thirty-four. Architect. Dreamer. Millionaire-on paper, anyway. My company, Mehra Designs, revolutionized urban architecture in Hyderabad, and after a few high-profile projects, I became the golden boy of luxury real estate. My friends called me the "Modern Maharaja." My enemies called me lucky. I built homes people would sell their soul to live in, but I was still trying to build a life worth coming home to.

Then she arrived-Kiara Kapoor.

She wasn't loud, not the type to enter a room and demand attention. She had this quiet confidence, a softness that felt rare in a world of sharp edges. I met her at a real estate investor's dinner, though she wasn't technically part of the industry. Her uncle was, and she was visiting from Mumbai. She stood by the open bar, sipping something clear, alone but not lonely. I was giving a speech about sustainable luxury homes. When I stepped off the stage, our eyes met. I smiled. She didn't.

That intrigued me.

I approached her, unsure of what to say. "So... do you believe in glass houses?" I asked, gesturing to the massive floor-to-ceiling design projected on the screen behind us.

She raised an eyebrow. "Only if the people living in them aren't throwing stones."

I laughed. She didn't. I liked that even more.

We spoke for hours that night. She was sharp, read Camus and Coelho in the same breath, and knew more about architecture than most clients I'd dealt with. When I asked her what she did, she said she was "between truths"-a poetic way of saying she was still figuring life out. I told her I had it all figured out, but now I wish I hadn't said that. Sometimes, when people think you have everything, they don't feel bad taking something from you.

We began dating, slowly at first. She'd fly in from Mumbai every weekend, stay at my penthouse in Jubilee Hills. We'd cook together, sometimes talk until the sun came up. She'd sit on the ledge of my balcony, feet dangling, asking me strange, beautiful questions like, "Do you think souls can outgrow each other?" or "If money vanished tomorrow, would you still be you?"

I always said yes. Of course. I didn't see the trap in her eyes. Not yet.

It was during our sixth month together when she said it. "Ayaan, I don't care about your money."

I believed her. God help me, I believed her.

A year later, we got married. A destination wedding in Udaipur-elegant, not flashy. I told the wedding planner to keep it tasteful, small. I didn't want to show off. My father always said, "The more private the love, the stronger it grows." He had passed away just two years before, but I could still hear his voice in my head as I slipped the ring on her finger.

She looked beautiful that day. Hair tied in a soft bun, jasmine tucked into the folds. She wore a white and gold saree, no diamonds, no extra ornaments. Just her. She looked at me and said, "All I want is you, not the world you've built."

It should've been the happiest day of my life. But even then, a small, nagging voice deep inside whispered something I ignored.

Watch her.

Not everyone who touches you wants to love you. Some want to leave a mark. Others want to take something away.

I silenced that voice with champagne and celebration. I danced with her beneath fairy lights, believed in every dream we painted that night. She said she wanted to help me build, to be part of my world. She asked me about my favorite designs, the philosophies behind them. She was curious-too curious, perhaps.

Looking back now, I see the moments I should've questioned. Like the time she asked for joint ownership of my Dubai property "for investment safety." Or when she wanted me to add her name as a partner on Mehra Designs "to help with branding." But I was in love. Hopelessly, stupidly, fully. Love makes men fools. Wealth makes them blind. I had both.

We lasted three years.

The unraveling didn't happen with shouting or cheating or scandal. No, it was slow-like watching wallpaper peel. Subtle shifts. Her touch got colder, her eyes drifted more often toward her phone. Our dinners became quieter. Her laughter less frequent. I asked her once, "Are you happy?"

She said, "Shouldn't I be?"

That answer haunted me.

Then, one morning, she left. No note. No confrontation. Just an envelope on the kitchen counter and silence.

Inside the envelope was a legal notice-divorce papers. Alongside it, a list of demands. She wanted the Hyderabad penthouse, joint ownership of the Dubai property to be transferred entirely to her, a percentage of my architectural firm, and alimony.

I sat at the table for hours, staring at those documents. I read them again and again, thinking it had to be a joke. Some cruel prank. But no. It was real. Her signature in black ink. Precise. Cold. Detached.

I tried calling. No answer. Her number was blocked. Her social media wiped clean.

Days passed before I got a message-via her lawyer. She wasn't interested in speaking. "This is a clean legal process," they said. "Let's keep emotions out of it."

Emotions?

That was all I had left.

I'd like to tell you I fought her. Took her to court. That I stood my ground. But I didn't-not at first. I spiraled. I went into hiding. Stopped showing up to meetings. Ignored emails. I drank. Alone. I stayed in bed for days, curtains closed, haunted by her laugh, her voice, her betrayal.

And worst of all?

I blamed myself.

I wondered if I had missed the signs. If I had talked too much about money. If my success had overshadowed my love. If somewhere along the way, I became the mansion she admired, and not the man she loved.

But the truth? She never loved me.

She loved the idea of me. The architect. The empire. The image.

And when she was done admiring the portrait, she tore the canvas and walked away with the frame.