Chapter Seventeen The Indulgence and the Sympathy
The perpetual demands of the Kalresh-Dhen empire were silenced the moment the helicopter touched down on the private helipad of the Aravalli hills estate.
For an entire weekend, Rovanth completely severed his ties to the outside world.
He handed his encrypted smartphone to Vikram before they even boarded, issuing a strict mandate that he was not to be disturbed unless the headquarters was literally burning to the ground.
For Anshira, the secluded stone-and-glass villa nestled in the lush, mist-covered mountains became a sanctuary of absolute, uninterrupted bliss. It was a getaway designed for one singular purpose: indulgence.
They spent nearly all their time tangled together, insulated by the sprawling, rain-washed forests outside their bedroom window.
The massive king-sized bed, draped in linen and goose-down comforters, became their entire universe.
For a man who had spent his life adhering to rigid schedules and cutthroat corporate discipline, Rovanth showed an astonishing, insatiable dedication to the art of doing nothing, provided he was doing it with her.
Sunday morning dawned with a soft, silver light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Anshira lay with her back pressed flush against Rovanth’s chest, his arm draped securely over her waist, holding her anchored to him in the warm cocoon of the sheets.
“If we don't get up soon,” Anshira murmured, her voice thick with sleep, eyes tracing the hazy outline of the mountains beyond the glass, “the estate manager is going to send a search party to ensure we haven't starved.”
Rovanth pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against her neck. “Let them search. I have instructed the staff that the perimeter of this room is heavily mined. Anyone who crosses the threshold forfeits their life.”
Anshira let out a soft, melodic laugh, turning over in his arms so she could look at his face. His dark hair was thoroughly disheveled, a shadow of stubble darkening his sharp jawline. He looked beautifully, completely relaxed—a far cry from the terrifyingly composed CEO the world knew.
“You can't just execute your staff for offering us breakfast, Rovanth,” she teased, reaching up to trace the line of his cheekbone with a delicate finger.
“I can, and I will,” he countered smoothly, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. His dark eyes locked onto hers, burning with a quiet, consuming adoration. “I am perfectly content to stay in this bed for the rest of my natural life. The steel mills can run themselves.”
“You would be bored out of your mind within a week,” Anshira smiled, her heart fluttering at the sheer, undivided focus he bestowed upon her.
“I would be looking at you,” Rovanth replied, serious, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush. “I could never be bored.”
It was a blissful, indulgent escape from everything else in their lives.
The ghosts of their first year, the crushing expectations of his family, the constant scrutiny of the Delhi elite—it all vanished in the mountain mist. They talked for hours about nothing of consequence, they drank expensive wine by the roaring fireplace in the evenings, and they lost themselves in one another with a profound, unhurried passion.
Rovanth worshipped her with every touch, his hands learning the exact cadence of her breathing, his devotion, an intoxicating reality she was finally allowing herself to fully accept.
***
When they returned to Delhi on Sunday night, the transition back to reality felt remarkably painless.
And as Monday morning arrived, bringing with it the relentless machinery of the KDG headquarters, Anshira walked through the towering glass-and-steel lobby carrying an unmistakable, undeniable glow.
She wore a soft, peach-colored chiffon saree, her dark hair cascading freely over her shoulders.
But it wasn't her attire that drew the eyes of the passing executives; it was the sheer, radiant look of a woman who had been thoroughly, completely loved.
There was a lightness to her step, a relaxed slope to her shoulders, and a secretive little smile playing on her lips that she simply couldn't quite shake.
Walking beside her, Rovanth felt a deep, overwhelming surge of possessive, masculine pride.
He didn't walk ahead of her. He walked at her exact pace, his hand resting with casual, territorial warmth at the small of her back.
Every time a vice president or a senior manager offered a respectful greeting, Rovanth returned the nod, but his attention never truly left his wife.
He looked at her serene, glowing face, and a quiet, absolute certainty settled into his bones: this remarkable, genuinely good woman belonged to him, and he belonged to her. The knowledge made him feel invincible.
“I will come down to the foundation wing to take you to lunch at one,” Rovanth said quietly, as they reached the intersection of the executive corridor.
“I have a budget meeting with the finance team at one-thirty,” Anshira reminded him, looking up with that same, lingering smile from the weekend.
“Then the finance team will simply have to wait until one-forty-five,” Rovanth replied smoothly, his thumb lightly stroking the curve of her waist through the silk of her saree. “I am not negotiating this, Anshira.”
“Tyrant,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with affectionate amusement.
“Only when it comes to your schedule,” he agreed unapologetically, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek, completely indifferent to the audience of corporate climbers around them. “Have a good morning, my love.”
From the elevated vantage point of the glass-walled mezzanine on the forty-second floor, Ananya Singhania stood perfectly still, watching the exchange in the corridor below.
She held a thick legal dossier in her hands, her knuckles white. An associate lawyer was standing a few feet away, nervously reviewing a tablet.
“Ms. Singhania, regarding the liability clause on the new telecom merger...” the associate began tentatively.
“Not now, Rohan,” Ananya snapped, her voice like cracking ice. She didn't take her eyes off the scene below.
She watched Anshira walk away toward the foundation offices, practically radiating a quiet, untouchable joy.
But it was Rovanth’s behavior that truly anchored the sickening stone in Ananya’s stomach.
She saw the way his hand lingered on Anshira’s waist. She saw the subtle, undeniable territorial warmth radiating from his posture, the way his broad shoulders shifted to shield her from the casual flow of foot traffic.
In that single, agonizing observation, Ananya understood with sudden, crystalline clarity that whatever existed between Rovanth and Anshira had evolved into something profoundly real.
It was no longer a matter of guilt or obligation. The performance had ended. This was something far, far beyond the sterile paper marriage she had once assumed it to be.
Ananya watched Rovanth turn and stride toward the private elevators, his face settling back into its usual, impassive mask of authority. But the mask was only for the world; he had left the warmth behind with his wife.
The realization quietly, violently unsettled something deep within Ananya’s soul.
She had spent the last two years waiting for the foundation of their sham marriage to crack.
She had relied on the absolute certainty that a man like Rovanth Kalresh-Dhen could never truly fall for a woman with no pedigree, no social standing, and no ambition for power.
But looking at the unmistakable glow on Anshira’s face, Ananya realized she had been calculating the wrong variables.
Rovanth didn't want a corporate partner.
He wanted a sanctuary. And Anshira had given him one.
Ananya turned away from the glass, her heart hollow, the dossier in her hands feeling empty and meaningless.
***
As the crisp chill of the Delhi autumn began to settle over the city, a significant date approached on the calendar: their two-year wedding anniversary, which coincided, once again, with the Kalresh-Dhen Group's massive annual gala at The Imperial Hotel.
The atmosphere in the master suite of Kalresh Bagh was tense as the evening of the gala arrived.
Anshira stood before the full-length gilded mirror, wearing a breathtaking, deep sapphire gown embroidered with silver thread. The estate's stylists had just finished pinning her hair into an elegant sweep, leaving her alone in the quiet room.
But as she looked at her own reflection, the sapphire fabric seemed to blur. A cold, insidious chill crept up the back of her neck.
She gripped the edges of the marble vanity, her breath coming a little faster, shallower.
The Imperial. The annual gala. The crystal chandeliers.
The memories rushed back with the violent force of a physical blow.
She remembered the blinding heat in her chest, the horrific, spinning disorientation, the sheer, primal terror of losing control of her own body as the sedative dragged her under.
She remembered stumbling blindly through the plush, silent corridors of the VIP floor, desperate for safety, only to wake up to the cruelest, most humiliating nightmare of her life.
She closed her eyes, a slight tremor shaking her hands.
She knew Sneha and Rhea were gone. She knew the truth was out.
But the visceral trauma of that night was a scar that had not yet fully faded.
The thought of stepping back into that sprawling ballroom, surrounded by the same faces, the same thumping music, the same glittering excess, made her feel physically ill.
“Anshira.”
Rovanth’s voice was a low, grounding anchor in the rising tide of her panic.