6. TRAINING
VEERANSH:
The chopsticks slipped from her fingers again.
A soft, brittle sound. Barely anything. But in the silence of the dining hall, it felt louder than the damn news channels screaming my name all morning.
She stared at her plate. Her shoulders curled inward, her breath shallow, her fingers trembling so hard I could see the twitching from where I sat.
I didn't speak. Not yet. I watched her struggle. Because sometimes silence says more than shouting ever could, and she felt every second of it.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Sweat at her temple. She tried to hide her shaking hands under the table but failed miserably. I placed my chopsticks down slowly.
Her eyes flickered up, wide, scared, already bracing for something she didn't even know yet. "I... I d-don't know h-how to" Her voice cracked like a weak thread. She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
I leaned back slightly, elbows on the chair arms, fingers steepled. It was Sunday, supposedly a quiet day. Except nothing in my life had been quiet since I put a pen to that marriage contract.
The entire city, the entire state, every single vulture in the media... all clawing at the same story:
Veeransh Sarkar married.
Everyone wanted to know who the girl was. Everyone wanted a photo of her. Everyone wanted answers. I had none to give. And no patience left to tolerate anyone's incompetence, not the staff's, not the media's, not even hers.
Still, I watched her. The way she flinched, The way her eyes darted anywhere except at me. The way her breath hitched every time I shifted in my chair.
Weakness rolled off her in waves. Raw. Untrained. Unpolished. Everything I didn't have time for. But she was mine now.
My pawn. My key. My route to the empire my grandfather tried keeping from me. She lifted her hand again. Her fingers barely managed to hold the chopsticks upright before they fell for the fourth time.
My jaw tightened. Not at her.
But at the weight of everything else clawing at my mind, the reporters crowding the front gates, the board demanding answers, the whispers about my marriage contract spreading like venom, the property finally in my name but not yet secured.
Chaos everywhere. And now, a girl who could barely lift her lunch. When I finally spoke, my voice cut the air cleanly.
"Pick them up." She jerked slightly at the sound.
Her shaky fingers reached out, brushing the wooden sticks, and lifted them with obvious difficulty. Her knuckles whitened with the effort. She tried again to pick a single grain of rice.
Her hand betrayed her. Again. The chopsticks slipped. Again. Her breath hitched, and embarrassment flooded her face, flushed and pale at the same time. She wiped her palms against her kurta, but shaking in her body got worse.
I stared. Not at the chopsticks. Not at the food, At her. How fragile she looked. How tense. How she seemed like she might faint from the pressure of being watched. "Stop," I said. She froze instantly, fear tightening every line of her body.
I reached forward, took the chopsticks from her hand, and replaced them with a spoon. Her eyes widened in shock, like I had handed her something forbidden.
"You don't know this," I said simply. "Fine. Then use what you know."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She stared at the spoon like it was some unexpected mercy. It wasn't mercy.
It was efficient. I didn't have time to sit here for an hour while she learned basic coordination.
"Eat," I ordered. She obeyed instantly. Her hands were still trembling, but at least the spoon stayed in her grip. She lifted her first small bite to her lips and chewed quietly, almost silently.
The hall softened for a second. Barely. Almost imperceptibly. Then my phone vibrated. Three times.
Five, Seven, By the tenth buzz, I stopped counting. The world outside this mansion didn't rest.
And today it wanted to tear into my flesh. I answered. "What?" A nervous voice responded.
"Sir, more reporters have gathered. The crowd is doubling every hour. They're demanding official confirmation about"
I ended the call. I didn't have time for their demands. I didn't owe anyone explanations. Not yet.
Not until the property was fully transferred. Not until every loose thread was cut clean. Aarohi tried to eat quietly beside me. But she flinched each time my phone buzzed again, as if the sound itself was a threat.
I turned my head slightly and caught her staring at me with something like confusion... and something like fear that had grown deeper overnight. Maybe she expected kindness today.
Maybe she thought weakness would earn her softness. It wouldn't.
"You'll have lunch here every day," I said "No meals in your room unless I say otherwise." She nodded immediately, spoon halfway to her mouth. Her hair fell in a damp strand against her cheek. She didn't push it back. She didn't dare.
I watched her eat for a long moment. Small bites. Slow. Quiet. Controlled.
It should've calmed me. It didn't. Because the world outside was grinding its teeth at my silence. Because the empire I finally inherited still felt unstable.
Because every hour I stayed near her, every minute I watched her tremble, every second she breathed like she was one word away from breaking.
I felt something inside me tighten. Not softness. Not care. Just a pull I didn't trust.
A pull I needed to crush before it made a mistake for me. She raised the spoon again, and I turned away.
If she was going to survive in this house, in my world, in my rules. She had to learn one thing: Her fear didn't move me. Her tears didn't matter. Her silence didn't earn compassion.
She existed here because I needed a signature, a name, a bride on paper. Not a partner. Not a distraction. Not a responsibility with eyes too wide and hands too fragile. I signaled for the staff.
"Clear the table when she's finished." Then I stood. As I left the dining hall, I didn't look back.
But the image of her tiny, shaking hands holding that spoon- followed me anyway. I left the dining hall, but the image followed me.
The way her fingers trembled around a simple spoon. The way she didn't lift her head unless ordered. The way every breath of hers felt like a question she was afraid to ask.
Sarkar's wife couldn't look like that. Couldn't sound like that. Couldn't be that. Not publicly. Not even privately. If the world was going to rip me apart over this marriage, the least she could do was not embarrass me in the process.
I stood in the corridor outside the dining hall and pressed my thumb against my temple, trying to quiet the background noise of a dozen notifications from reporters, board members, and business partners.
Everyone wanted something. But what I needed, what my empire needed. was ordered. And order started with control. I looked back toward the dining hall door. She needs training.
Not kindness. Not comfort. Not whatever emotional chaos she carried with her. If she was going to walk beside me, even if only on paper, she would behave like someone worthy of my name.
She would speak clearly. She would stop that stuttering. She would stop shrinking away like a frightened stray.
She would learn how to maintain eye contact. She would learn to stand straight, not folded into herself like a shadow. She would learn how to sit, talk, and eat. like a Sarkar's wife.
My wife.
The thought didn't soften anything inside me. It sharpened it. Because she represented my power now. My status. My inheritance. And she would not ruin it.
I called the staff manager. "Bring Aarohi to the west to study at five. Alone." There was a slight pause. "Sir... alone?"
"Yes," I said sharply. "I will handle her training personally." He didn't question me again. He knew better. The clock clicked to five.
She entered the room slowly, almost cautiously, as if stepping into a trap she already sensed. She wore the same kurta the maid chose.
She kept her eyes down. Of course she did. I set my pen down, leaned back in the leather chair, and let the silence stretch long enough that her breath turned unsteady.
Then I spoke. "You're not ready to be seen." Her head jerked slightly, though she didn't look up. "You don't behave like someone who represents the Sarkar name." Her fingers curled together.
"You don't walk with confidence. You don't speak clearly. You can't make eye contact. You freeze when spoken to. You shrink when someone raises their voice." Her throat moved as she swallowed. "This stops now," I said. A tremor ran through her shoulders.
"Look at me." Nothing. Her chin lifted a millimeter, barely noticeable. I waited.
"Look. At. Me." Slowly, painfully, she raised her eyes. For two seconds. Then she faltered. Her gaze dropped again. Weak. Fragile. Unacceptable. I stood from the chair and walked toward her. She stiffened instantly, like a trapped bird sensing the shadow closing in. I stopped just in front of her.
"From today," I said quietly, "you will learn everything required of you.
How to speak. How to stand. How to sit. How to greet.
How to walk beside me. And you will learn without breaking down every five minutes.
" She swallowed again, hard. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I didn't check it. The world could wait for a moment.
"Start with your posture," I said. "Straighten your back." She tried. Her body lifted halfway... then slumped again, as if the effort exhausted her.
I frowned "Again." She forced herself straight. Her breathing sharpened. Her knees shook. It took me ten seconds to realize something was wrong. Her chest rose too quickly. Too shallow.
Her hand pressed against her ribs. "What now?" I muttered under my breath. Her lips parted, she tried to inhale, but the breath hitched hard. Then another breath, shaky. Then a cough.
A weak one at first. Then harsher. Her whole body trembled. She covered her mouth with her hand, coughing so violently her shoulders jerked forward as if someone had struck her from behind.
For a moment, I stood there, watching her lose all color in her face, her body folding as the coughing worsened. I clenched my jaw. I should have been irritated. Instead, something colder flickered in my chest.
She tried to straighten again, as if she knew I expected perfection even while she fell apart. Another cough ripped through her.
Then another. Her knees nearly buckled. I stepped forward instinctively, before I even realized I had moved. "Sit," I said sharply. She didn't hear me. Or couldn't. Her eyes watered from the coughing, breaths coming in uneven, panicked gasps.
I grabbed her arm and guided, pushing her into the nearest chair. She didn't resist. She couldn't. Her body trembled so violently I felt it beneath my hand. Her breaths were fast, shallow, choking on air.
For the first time since she entered this house, I was irritated... shifted. Not softened. Not concerned. Just... focused. I lifted her chin slightly. "Breathe. Slowly. Not like that." She tried. Another cough tore through her chest, doubling her over.
Her hands clutched the armrests as if holding on kept her from collapsing. I watched her carefully. Too carefully. Her skin had turned pale again. Her lips trembled.
Her hair clung to her forehead. Her breath shook like the room had turned cold. "Of course," I muttered. "Your health decides to fail now." She tried to speak between coughs, "I... I'm... f-fine..." She wasn't. Not even close.
And it infuriated me, not because she was suffering, but because weakness at this level threatened everything I needed from her. I signaled sharply for a servant outside.
"Call the doctor. Now." Aarohi shook her head weakly "N-no... p-please... I'm... okay..."
"Be quiet," I said. "You're not." She coughed again, gripping her stomach as if it hurt.
My jaw tightened. She couldn't speak two sentences without trembling. Couldn't stand straight without nearly fainting. Couldn't breathe properly for more than five minutes. And I needed her presentable. Soon. Preferably yesterday.
I stared at her, this fragile girl forced into my world, her breaths cutting in and out like her lungs were being squeezed. Her weakness was an obstacle. A liability.
An inconvenience I shouldn't have to deal with. But as I stood there, watching her fight for steady air, something else flickered beneath the surface.
Something I refused to name. Instead, I said the only thing that mattered,
"You will not pass out on me." She looked up through watery eyes, confused by the words, terrified by the tone. And I looked right back at her.
Because I couldn't afford for her to break, not physically, not mentally, not emotionally.
Not until she was trained. Not until she was worthy of the role she had been forced into. Not until she could stand beside me without shaking. Not until she became exactly what I needed.
Mrs. Sarkar.
And I would make sure she became one. One way or another.