Chapter Six The Anniversary of Silence
The oak door connecting the guest bedroom to the master suite of the East Wing was locked from both sides. To Anshira, that thick slab of polished wood was more than a physical barrier; it was a monument to the profound, suffocating isolation that had defined nearly the past year of her life.
Almost a full year had passed since the forced, joyless ceremony in the durbar hall. Almost a year since she had become Anshira Kalresh-Dhen in name, while remaining a complete stranger in reality.
She sat at the edge of her perfectly made, impeccably stiff bed, staring at the locked adjoining door.
Outside her window, the sprawling forty-acre grounds of Kalresh Bagh were bathed in the soft, golden light of early morning, but inside her chest, the climate was one of perpetual, freezing winter.
They lived separate lives under a single, opulent roof.
She occupied this guest suite—beautifully appointed with imported silks and antique colonial furniture, yet devoid of any personal warmth—while Rovanth resided in the master suite just inches away.
They rarely crossed paths. Their schedules were independent, overlapping only when the strict, unforgiving choreography of the Kalresh-Dhen dynasty demanded it.
“Ma'am, breakfast is being served in the central dining hall,” a maid’s quiet voice filtered through the hallway door, followed by a soft knock.
“I'll be right down,” Anshira replied, her voice steady and hollow.
She stood up, checking her reflection in the gilded floor-length mirror.
She wore a simple, elegant pastel salwar kameez.
There was no life in her dark eyes, no trace of the starry-eyed girl who had walked into the KDG tower two years ago.
Whatever remnants of her old, foolish crush or unrequited feelings for Rovanth still lingered, she had painstakingly gathered them up and tucked them into the smallest, most heavily guarded corner of her heart.
She simply no longer had the emotional capacity to deal with them.
She had never, in her wildest imaginations, conceived that a human being could be so unyielding, so fundamentally capable of such sustained, absolute coldness.
When Anshira entered the central dining hall, the immense mahogany table was already partially occupied.
Ishwari Dhen sat at the head, reading a financial newspaper on a silver tablet.
Chandrasen was sipping black coffee, engrossed in a muted news broadcast on the far wall.
And sitting impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit at the opposite end was Rovanth.
Anshira took her seat quietly.
“Good morning,” she murmured to the table at large.
Chandrasen didn't look up. Ishwari merely turned a page on her screen.
“Good morning,” Rovanth replied, his tone perfectly modulated, polite, and devoid of any warmth. He did not look at her as he spoke, his attention fixed firmly on the espresso cup in his hands.
This was the extent of their interaction.
A careful, united front maintained purely for the benefit of the household staff and the occasional visiting relative.
Beyond these brief, sterile moments, there was absolutely no real interaction between them.
And just as little warmth was extended to Anshira from the rest of the family.
She was a ghost haunting their dining table, materially secure but emotionally starved, viewed only as an unfortunate, manipulative stain on their pedigree.
As she mechanically ate her toast, tasting nothing, Anshira often found herself wondering how much longer she could endure this existence.
Just a little longer, she told herself silently, a daily mantra that kept her from shattering completely.
Things will eventually settle. The media will look away.
The telecom merger is finished. Soon, maybe I can seek a quiet divorce.
I can return to the life I knew in Pune. Away from Delhi. Away from this name.
She counted this past year as the darkest, most agonizing stretch of her entire life.
Later that afternoon, safely locked back inside her guest room, Anshira propped her tablet against a stack of books on her vanity and tapped the screen to initiate a video call.
She forced the corners of her mouth upward, stretching her facial muscles into a mask of convincing, practiced cheerfulness. A second later, the screen flickered, and the warm, familiar faces of her parents filled the frame.
“Anu!” Sunita’s voice rang out, filled with an aching love that made Anshira’s throat tighten instantly. “Look at you, beta. You look so beautiful. Prakash, come here, she’s on!”
Prakash squeezed into the frame, adjusting his glasses, a wide smile breaking across his aging face. “How is my girl? How is Delhi?”
“I'm good, Papa,” Anshira lied smoothly, the bright, artificial smile never wavering. “Delhi is... well, it's Delhi. Very busy.”
“You are working too hard, Anu,” Sunita fretted, her maternal instincts buzzing just beneath the surface. “It has been an entire year, beta. A whole year since we last saw you in person. When are you coming home? You keep promising to visit, and then you cancel. We miss you so much.”
The guilt struck Anshira like a physical blow to the ribs. For the entire year of her marriage, she had not made the trip back to Pune once. She sustained their relationship purely through these digital windows and phone calls every other day.
She couldn't bring herself to visit them in person, terrified of what they would see.
She knew that the profound, suffocating sadness in her eyes would be impossible to hide in the physical presence of her mother.
If they saw the truth of her existence—the coldness, the isolation, the sheer disdain she lived under—they would carry the guilt of it for the rest of their lives.
They had tried to fight for her, and they had failed.
Anshira refused to let them drown in the wreckage of her life.
“I know, Ma, I know,” Anshira said, infusing her voice with an apologetic, breezy tone.
“I'm so sorry. The philanthropic foundation has just been incredibly demanding lately. Mr. Kalresh-Dhen expects a lot from the new initiatives, and as his wife, I have to oversee the committees. It’s just non-stop. But I promise, as soon as the quarter ends, I’ll book a flight.
Just you and me, drinking tea on the balcony. ”
“We will hold you to that,” Prakash said gently, though his eyes searched the screen, looking for the vibrant daughter he had raised. “Just... take care of yourself, Anshira. Don't let that world swallow you whole.”
“I won't, Papa,” Anshira whispered, her smile straining at the edges. “I love you both. I have to go get ready for a company event tonight. I'll call you on Tuesday.”
“We love you, beta. Be safe,” Sunita said, blowing a kiss to the camera before the screen went black.
Anshira stared at the blank tablet, the artificial smile instantly dropping from her face. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking silently as the crushing weight of her isolation pressed down upon her. She was utterly, alone.
***
By 8:00 PM, the sprawling ballroom of The Imperial was a blinding sea of crystal chandeliers, imported champagne, and high-stakes corporate maneuvering.
It was the KDG annual gala. Roughly twelve months had passed since the forced wedding, and the tragic, orchestrated nightmare that had taken place in this very hotel.
For Anshira, walking through the brass doors was an exercise in pure psychological endurance.
She dreaded this night deeply. The loud, thumping bass of the jazz band, the clinking of crystal glasses, the smell of expensive perfumes—it all triggered the deep, unresolved trauma of the night she had been drugged.
She genuinely did not want to go. She had felt physically sick while putting on her silver-embroidered designer gown.
But as Rovanth’s wife, attendance was practically mandatory. She was a prop, required to stand by his side for the initial photographs to project the image of a stable, unified dynasty.
Rovanth played his part flawlessly. He stood beside her for exactly fifteen minutes near the VIP entrance, his hand resting lightly, impersonally against the small of her back as photographers snapped pictures for the business sections of tomorrow's papers.
He smiled for the cameras—a sharp, calculating expression—but the moment the flashbulbs stopped, his hand dropped from her back as if her silk gown had burned him.
Without a word, he turned and walked into the crowd, immediately swallowed by a sea of sycophantic executives and board members.
Anshira retreated to the furthest, darkest corner of the ballroom, near a large marble pillar.
She stood stiffly; a glass of sparkling water gripped tightly in her trembling hands.
She spoke to no one. When an executive or a passing socialite caught her eye, she offered a tight, polite nod, but expertly angled her body to avoid conversation.
She could feel the stares. She could hear the whispers echoing beneath the music.
Look at her. Standing there like she belongs.
Did you hear they sleep in separate wings?
Obviously. She trapped him, he didn't actually want her.
She simply endured it. She focused on the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hotel lobby, counting down the seconds.
By midnight, the crowd had thinned slightly, descending into a louder, less formal state of inebriation. Anshira had had enough. Her head was pounding, her feet ached, and the phantom sensation of a spinning room was beginning to claw at her peripheral vision.
She quietly slipped away, moving like a ghost along the edges of the ballroom and slipping through the side doors.
This time, she did not need to stumble blindly into an elevator in terror. She had every right to retreat to the private VIP floors. She was his wife. She held the black keycard in her clutch.