Updated Feb 14, 2026 • ~9 min read
[MARIUS POV – One Week Later]
Father made good on his threat. Cut me off. Completely.
Email from family lawyer arrived Thursday morning: Effective immediately, Octavian Khatri is suspending your access to company accounts, credit cards, and family resources. Your trust fund remains intact per grandfather’s will, but all other financial support is terminated pending resolution of current legal matters.
So I had my trust fund. Thank god Grandfather had been thorough. Father couldn’t touch it. Couldn’t control it. Couldn’t—use it to manipulate me back into compliance.
But it meant I was effectively—homeless. Staying in hotels indefinitely wasn’t sustainable. Returning to family properties was impossible. I needed—
I needed actual residence. Actual life. Actual—plan beyond hiding and surviving.
“You could move in with me,” Aspen offered. “My apartment. It’s small. Bailey’s there too so you’d have roommates. But it’s—available. If you want.”
Living with Aspen. In tiny apartment in neighborhood I’d never visited before all this. Sharing space with her and Bailey. Playing house in middle of legal warfare and media siege.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “It’s a lot. You’d be stuck with me. Constantly. No escape.”
“I’m already stuck with you. This just makes it official.”
So we moved me in. Which meant retrieving my things from Father’s house. Which meant—confrontation.
I’d been avoiding Khatri Properties headquarters. Avoiding family. Hiding. But if I wanted my clothes, my camera equipment, my—life, I had to face them.
“I’ll come with you,” Aspen said.
“That’s not necessary.”
“It’s definitely necessary. I’m not letting you face them alone.”
We drove to Mayfair. To the house I’d grown up in. Five-story townhouse worth £15 million. Home for thirty-one years. Now—
Now just building I used to live in.
Rhys met us at the door. “Mother’s inside. Father’s at the office. I convinced him to give you time to pack without—confrontation. You’ve got two hours.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just—get your stuff and go before he comes back. He’s furious, Marius. I’ve never seen him like this.”
Inside, the house felt like museum. Cold. Beautiful. Empty. Everything in its place except—me. I didn’t fit here anymore.
Mother appeared from sitting room. Priya Khatri, elegant in silk kurta, face tear-stained but composed. “Marius.”
“Maa.”
Silence. Weighted. Painful.
“You brought her,” Mother said, looking at Aspen. Not hostile. Just—observing.
“Her name is Aspen,” I said. “And yes. She’s helping me pack.”
“Helping you abandon your family.”
“Helping me choose myself.”
“Same thing.”
Was it?
“Maa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened. Sorry about the wedding. Sorry about—everything. But I couldn’t marry Allegra. I couldn’t spend my life performing a role I never chose. I couldn’t—”
“Couldn’t choose family. Couldn’t choose duty. Couldn’t—” Her voice broke. “Couldn’t choose me. Your mother who wants what’s best for you.”
“This is what’s best for me.”
“Living in poverty? Being sued? Dating woman who—” She stopped. Looked at Aspen. “Who destroys weddings for money?”
“I didn’t destroy the wedding for money,” Aspen said quietly. “I destroyed it because we were both trapped. Both drowning in lives we didn’t choose. I just—helped him choose something else.”
“By ruining everything.”
“By giving him option you never did.”
The words hung sharp. True. Cruel in their accuracy.
Mother looked at me. “Is this what you want? Her? This life? Walking away from everything your grandfather built?”
“I want choice,” I said. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And yes—that includes her. Includes this life. Includes walking away from business I never chose to run. Grandfather built empire. That’s wonderful. But it’s his dream. Not mine. I want—”
“What?” Mother demanded. “What do you want?”
“To design buildings. To photograph life. To—live authentically instead of performing constantly. I want to be Marius. Just Marius. Not heir. Not groom. Not—your son.”
She flinched. “Not my son?”
“I’ll always be your son. But I can’t be only your son. Can’t live only for family. Only for duty. I have to live for myself too. That’s—that’s what this is.”
Mother cried. Silent tears down elegant face. “Your father will never forgive you.”
“I know.”
“You’ll lose everything. Inheritance. Business. Family.”
“I know.”
“And you’re choosing it anyway?”
“I’m choosing myself. Finally.”
She looked at Aspen. “You did this. You took my son.”
“I didn’t take him,” Aspen said gently. “I just gave him permission to take himself.”
Mother left. No goodbye. No blessing. Just—left.
Rhys helped us pack. Clothes. Camera equipment. Books. Laptop. Everything I could carry in suitcases fitting in rental car.
Thirty-one years of life condensed to three suitcases.
“You okay?” Rhys asked.
“No. But I will be.”
“I’m proud of you.” He hugged me. “Father won’t say it. Mother can’t say it yet. But I’m proud. You finally chose yourself.”
“Thank you. For—everything. For helping. For not hating me.”
“Could never hate you. You’re my brother. Even if you’re stubborn idiot ruining his life for love.”
“It’s not for love. It’s for—choice.”
“Sure.” He smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Was it love? With Aspen? Or just—partnership born from crisis? Conspiracy bonding into something else?
I didn’t know. Didn’t have space to analyze it. Too busy surviving.
We drove back to Aspen’s apartment. Carried my life in suitcases up three flights of stairs. Entered tiny two-bedroom apartment where I’d be living with Aspen and Bailey.
“Welcome home,” Aspen said. Nervous. “I know it’s small. And cramped. And nothing like what you’re used to. But it’s—”
“Perfect,” I finished. “It’s perfect.”
And it was. Tiny. Cramped. Third-floor walkup in neighborhood where media hadn’t found us yet. Thrifted furniture. Mismatched dishes. Space so small you couldn’t avoid each other.
Perfect because it was chosen. Not inherited. Not expected. Just—chosen.
Bailey appeared from her bedroom. “So you’re moving in? For real?”
“If you’ll have me.”
“Rent’s twelve hundred split two ways. Now three ways. Four hundred each. Can you handle that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. House rules: Clean up after yourself. No leaving beard trimmings in sink. Grocery shopping rotates weekly. I get bathroom first on workday mornings because I have actual job. You two are unemployed so you wait.” She smiled. “Welcome to the broke people club. Membership sucks but the company’s good.”
Living with Aspen meant discovering all the ways we were different.
She woke up early. Anxious-early. Couldn’t sleep past seven. Spent mornings working on legal documents for Marshall. Reconstructing timeline. Every interaction with Dominic. Every detail.
I was night person. Used to working late. Creating late. Living late.
We adjusted. Compromised. Figured out coexistence.
She cooked. Well. Creatively. Making meals from whatever was cheapest at market. Teaching me recipes.
I’d never cooked. Private school, university, family home—always staff. Always catered. Always—provided.
“You’ve never made pasta?” Aspen asked, incredulous.
“I’ve eaten pasta. Never made it.”
“Rich people are weird.”
She taught me. Patiently. Laughing when I overcooked everything. When I used too much salt. When I—failed at basic life skills she’d mastered at sixteen.
“It’s not funny,” I protested. “I’m trying.”
“It’s hilarious. You went to Oxford. But you can’t boil water properly.”
“Oxford doesn’t teach practical skills.”
“Clearly.”
But she taught me. And I taught her—things. Photography. How to use manual settings on camera. How to see light and composition. How to capture moments.
She was good. Natural eye. Saw things I missed.
“You should’ve studied art,” I said.
“Couldn’t afford it. Journalism was practical. Marketable. Art is luxury.”
“Art is necessity.”
“For people with money maybe.”
The class difference was everywhere. Constant. Undeniable.
I thought nothing of spending £50 on coffee equipment. She calculated every purchase against rent and facility payments.
I suggested restaurants. She suggested cooking at home.
I wanted to help with expenses. She wanted to maintain independence.
“I can pay more rent,” I offered. “Split it differently. You’re unemployed because of me. Let me—”
“No. Equal split. I’m not your charity case.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s what it is. You paying my share. You supporting me. That’s—that’s not partnership. That’s dependence. And I don’t want to be dependent on you.”
“Why not? You let me pay your mother’s facility.”
“That’s different. That’s—survival. That’s emergency. That’s not—everyday life. I can’t let you pay for my everyday life. I need to contribute. Need to feel like—like equal partner instead of burden you’re carrying.”
I understood. Sort of. But it frustrated me. Having resources and not being allowed to use them. Watching her stress about money when I could fix it easily.
“At least let me buy groceries sometimes,” I said.
“Fine. But I buy them too. We rotate. Equal.”
“Equal.”
We fought sometimes. Small fights. Couple-who-aren’t-officially-couple fights.
About money. About space. About—adjusting.
“You left beard trimmings in the sink again,” she said one morning.
“Sorry. Forgot.”
“You forgot three times this week.”
“It’s unconscious habit. I’ve always had staff clean up. I’m learning.”
“Learn faster. I’m not your maid.”
“I never said you were.”
“You act like it. Leave messes assuming someone else will fix them. That’s—that’s privilege. And it’s annoying.”
She was right. I was carrying thirty-one years of privilege into space where privilege didn’t work. Where everyone cleaned up their own messes. Where—everyone pulled equal weight.
I tried harder. Noticed more. Cleaned up. Adjusted.
“Thank you,” she said a few days later. “For trying. For—learning. I know it’s different from what you’re used to.”
“It is. But I like it. This life. With you. Even the fights. Even learning to clean sinks properly. It’s—real. First real thing I’ve had in years.”
She kissed me. Gentle. Real.
We were figuring it out. This life. This partnership. This—whatever we were becoming.
Slowly. Imperfectly. But together.
Bailey watched us navigate cohabitation with amused resignation.
“You two are adorable,” she said one evening. “Frustrating but adorable.”
“We’re not adorable,” Aspen protested. “We’re surviving.”
“You’re both. Surviving adorably.”
Maybe she was right.
Maybe survival could be adorable.
Maybe—
Maybe this was working. Despite lawsuits and media and family rejection and class differences.
Maybe three people in tiny apartment figuring out life together was exactly what we all needed.
Chosen family. Chosen space. Chosen—everything.
For the first time in thirty-one years, I’d chosen my life.
And it was broke and cramped and imperfect and—
And exactly right.
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