23. FEELING
VEERANSH:
I don't remember deciding to be angry. I only remember being angry.
The kind that settles beneath the skin and stays there, sharp and restless, making everything around me feel like a provocation.
I shut the door of my study harder than necessary and stand there for a second with my back against it, jaw clenched tightly enough to ache.
Why did I react like that? The question circles my mind endlessly, slow and persistent. She was going to fall. That much is obvious. The servant caught her instinctively. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing worth reacting to like that.
I stop myself abruptly. Worth what? I drag a hand through my hair and move toward the window. From here, the garden looks harmless, peaceful, green, innocent. A lie. I saw her standing there barefoot in that soft night suit, too close to him. The memory twists something ugly inside my chest.
Jealous.
The word surfaces before I can stop it.
I scoff under my breath immediately. Ridiculous. I don't do jealousy. I don't compete for attention. I don't fear losing something that was never supposed to matter in the first place. She's here because I put her here.
She stays because I allow it. She breathes freely because I decide when.
So why did the sight of another man touching her make my vision narrow like that?
Irritation flares violently inside me and I turn away from the window.
My study suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing inward while my thoughts grow louder.
I pace once across the room, then again, my footsteps sharp against the floor.
This isn't about her. That's what I tell myself.
This is about control. She crossed a boundary.
A visible one. In my world perception matters more than truth.
People watch. People talk. People assume. And I don't allow assumptions.
Still, the image refuses to leave my mind.
The way she looked at me when I grabbed her wrist. Fear, yes, but also confusion.
Hurt. Like she genuinely didn't understand what she had done wrong.
That expression lingers longer than it should.
I move toward my desk and press the intercom button sharply.
"Head staff," I say curtly. "Come to my study. Now." The response comes immediately. "Yes, sir." I straighten automatically, forcing composure back into my posture before the head housekeeper enters. She bows respectfully, eyes lowered. "You called, Sahab?" "Yes," I answer flatly.
"Effective immediately, I want all male servants reassigned.
" Her head lifts slightly in surprise. "All, sir?
" "All," I repeat coldly. "Garden staff, hallway attendants, room service, everywhere my wife has access.
" She hesitates for barely a second. "Sir.
.. if I may..." I look at her once. That alone is enough to silence her.
She bows quickly again. "As you wish, Sahab. "
"Replace them with female staff," I continue. "Experienced. Quiet. Efficient. I don't want delays." "Yes, sir." "And the servant from the garden this morning?" She swallows carefully. "Shall he be dismissed, sir?" I pause for a moment. Dismissing him would be easy. Simple. Final.
But unexpectedly, the memory of Aarohi rushing forward to defend him cuts through my thoughts.
He helped me. The words echo strangely inside my head.
"No," I say finally. "Reassign him outside the main residence.
Grounds only. No interaction." Relief flickers briefly across the housekeeper's face before disappearing.
"Anything else, sir?" I think of Aarohi's bare feet pressing painfully against stone.
The way she hissed softly in pain but still kept walking.
The way she apologized even while bleeding.
"Yes," I say after a moment. "No staff is to speak to her unnecessarily.
Only what is required." "Understood." "And if she asks to go outside.
.." "We inform you first," the housekeeper finishes quietly. I nod once. "Go."
The room falls silent again after she leaves.
I sink slowly into my chair and stare at the polished surface of the desk.
My reflection stares faintly back at me, controlled, composed, untouched.
A man who never loses control. So why does it feel like I just tightened the walls around someone who was already struggling to breathe?
I clench my fists tightly. This is discipline.
This is order. This is necessary. I remind myself of the contract, the arrangement, the reason she is here in the first place.
She is not here to wander gardens. She is not here to build connections.
She is not here to be seen by other people.
She is here because she is necessary. Nothing more.
And yet my thoughts drift back toward her again.
The way she simply nodded when I told her not to speak to any man.
She didn't argue. Didn't defend herself.
Didn't fight back. She just became quieter, smaller somehow, like she was folding pieces of herself away to fit inside whatever space I allowed her.
The realization unsettles me more than it should.
I stand abruptly and move toward the door before stopping halfway.
No. I don't need to check on her. That would mean this matters.
Instead, I turn back toward my desk and pick up my phone, forcing my attention toward market updates, business reports, numbers, contracts, anything solid and predictable.
But the words blur together. Because somewhere inside this house she's alone. Injured. Quiet. And for reasons I refuse to examine too closely, the thought doesn't sit comfortably inside me at all.
I'm reviewing another file when a knock interrupts the silence.
Not hesitant. Careful. Controlled. I don't look up.
"Come in." The head maid steps inside slowly, her posture tense enough that I already know something is wrong.
"Sir," she says quietly, "Madam is not letting us dress her wound.
" My attention lifts immediately. "Explain. "
"She says it hurts," the maid continues carefully. "She keeps covering her foot with her hands. We tried gently, sir, but she won't let anyone touch it. She says she's fine, but..." The maid hesitates slightly.
"...she's in pain." Something tightens unpleasantly inside my chest. Annoyance rises first, sharp and immediate. Why does she always minimize what hurts her? "Where is she?" I ask flatly. "In her room, sir." I close the file instantly and stand.
The walk down the corridor feels longer than usual. The house is strangely quiet now, fewer footsteps, fewer voices, an emptiness I created myself barely an hour ago. I stop outside her door. For reasons I don't examine too closely, I don't knock.
I simply open it. She's sitting on the bed, curled slightly against the headboard with both hands wrapped protectively around her injured foot.
Her head is lowered, loose strands of hair falling around her face.
She looks small. Not weak. Just contained somehow, like she's holding herself together manually.
The second she notices me, her eyes widen. "I...I'm okay," she says immediately, voice quick and defensive. "Really." I close the door behind me and glance toward the maid. "Bring the first aid kit." "I can..." Aarohi starts softly. "Now," I say without looking at her. The maid leaves instantly.
Aarohi shifts nervously, pulling her foot closer toward herself.
"I can change the bandage myself," she insists quietly.
"It's nothing to worry about." I walk toward the bed and sit down beside her.
The mattress dips slightly beneath my weight.
She stiffens immediately. "I said I'm fine," she whispers again.
"Please..." "Let me see." Her hands tighten around her foot.
"It's..." "Aarohi." I say her name once, low and firm enough that she freezes completely.
Slowly, reluctantly, she lowers her hands.
The bandage is stained. Not enough to alarm anyone immediately, but enough to tell me she's been bleeding longer than she admitted.
The maid returns with the first aid kit and leaves silently after handing it to me.
I don't ask permission. I remove the bandage carefully.
Aarohi gasps softly. "It's not a deep cut," she says quickly, panic flickering across her face.
"It just looks bad." She's lying. Or rather, downplaying again.
The wound looks worse than it did last night. Swollen. Red. Inflamed.
My jaw tightens sharply. "This hurts," I say calmly.
She nods slightly. "I know." "Then why didn't you say anything?
" She hesitates before whispering, "I didn't want to trouble anyone.
" Trouble. The word lands badly inside me.
I clean the wound carefully and she flinches immediately, breath catching painfully. "Stay still," I murmur.
"I'm trying," she whispers back, tears gathering in her eyes despite how hard she tries to control them.
I apply antiseptic and she cries out softly this time, fingers gripping the bedsheet tightly beneath her.
Something twists painfully inside my chest. "Shh," I say before thinking.
"It's done already." Her breathing stutters unevenly.
"Close your eyes for a moment," I add quietly.
She hesitates, then obeys. Her lashes tremble while she squeezes her eyes shut.
I apply the cream more carefully this time, my movements slower and steadier now.
When she instinctively tries to pull her foot away, I tighten my grip slightly, firm but not rough. "Stay still." She obeys immediately.
I wrap the fresh bandage securely around her foot, careful this time, supportive instead of merely functional. When I finish, neither of us moves right away. The silence feels different now. Quieter. Softer somehow.
"Listen to me," I say finally. She opens her eyes slowly and looks directly at me.
"If I see you walking around or standing up from this bed today, then you already know what happens.
" Her eyes widen instantly. "But I'm okay now," she protests softly.
"I can..." "You rest," I interrupt evenly.
"All day." She looks conflicted but doesn't argue again.
I reach for the remote beside the bed and turn on the television across the room.
"Watch TV," I say simply. "And rest." She blinks in surprise.
"But... there's no cartoon channel." The words leave her mouth before she can stop them.
I stare at her for a second. "Cartoon?" I repeat slowly.
Her cheeks flush immediately with embarrassment.
"I mean... sometimes..." she stammers helplessly.
"You still watch cartoons?" I ask.
She nods shyly. "Sometimes."
And suddenly, unexpectedly, I laugh.
Not a smirk. Not a dry exhale. An actual laugh.
The sound surprises both of us.
Her eyes widen in complete shock.
I can't even remember the last time I laughed like that.
I stand slowly, walk toward the side table, pick up my laptop, and place it beside her carefully. "Use this," I say. "Watch whatever cartoon you want." Her mouth parts in disbelief. "But..." "Not more than one hour," I add firmly.
"After that, you rest." She nods quickly, a small hesitant smile appearing despite herself. "Thank you," she whispers softly. I turn toward the door and begin walking away. But before leaving, I pause for half a second.
I don't look back, yet I still feel something unfamiliar settle heavily inside my chest. Something uncomfortable.
Why did I do this? Why did her pain bother me this much?
Why did I soften around her without meaning to?
I don't have answers. I only know that when I finally leave the room, something inside me has shifted quietly, and I never gave it permission to.