Chapter Seventeen The Indulgence and the Sympathy #2
She opened her eyes to see him standing behind her reflection in the mirror. He was dressed in a flawless, bespoke black tuxedo, looking impossibly imposing, yet his dark eyes were completely focused on the slight tremble in her shoulders.
He didn't ask if she was okay. He knew she wasn't.
Rovanth stepped forward, wrapping his large, warm arms around her from behind, pulling her back against the solid expanse of his chest. He rested his chin lightly on the crown of her head, his hands covering her white-knuckled grip on the vanity.
“I've got you,” Rovanth murmured, his voice a steady, vibrating comfort against her spine.
“I'm sorry,” Anshira whispered, a rogue tear slipping down her cheek, ruining the perfect line of her makeup. “I know it's been a long time. I know they are gone. But going back there... I just keep feeling the walls spinning.”
“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for,” Rovanth said fiercely, turning her around in his arms so she had to look at him. He framed her face with his large hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the tear.
“Listen to me,” Rovanth commanded softly, holding her gaze with an intensity that chased the shadows from the room. “I know what that place represents for you. I know what I allowed to happen. But tonight is different. I am making you a promise right now, and I swear on my life I will keep it.”
Anshira looked up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“I will not leave your side for a single second,” Rovanth vowed, his voice thick with absolute, unyielding devotion.
“Not to take a call. Not to speak to an investor. Not for anything. My only priorities tonight are your safety and your happiness. Nothing, and no one, will ever hurt you again while I am breathing. I will be your shadow.”
Moved to tears by the sheer, protective depth of his devotion, Anshira let out a fractured, watery breath. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. The panic that had threatened to consume her evaporated, replaced by a profound, overwhelming sense of security.
Rovanth held her tightly, closing his eyes as he buried his face in her dark hair.
He was deeply, profoundly touched by her vulnerability.
The fact that she was willing to step back into the epicenter of her trauma, simply because she trusted him to protect her, was a gift he felt he barely deserved.
He would burn The Imperial to the ground before he let a single moment of fear touch her tonight.
***
When they walked through the brass doors of the main ballroom, the flashbulbs of the corporate press erupted like a thunderstorm.
The gala was a blinding sea of wealth and ambition. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light over hundreds of executives in silk suits and designer gowns. The jazz band played a low, thumping rhythm that immediately made Anshira’s pulse jump.
But true to his word, Rovanth never let her go.
He kept his hand firmly, warmly laced with hers. When they waded into the crowd, he angled his broad shoulders to create a physical barrier between her and the press of bodies.
Throughout the evening, a relentless parade of executives, politicians, and socialites came and went, desperate for a moment of the CEO’s time.
“Mr. Kalresh-Dhen, an absolute pleasure,” the Vice President of a rival infrastructure firm greeted them, offering a hand. “I was hoping we might step aside to discuss the Chennai port development—”
“Anything regarding the port development can be scheduled through my office on Monday, Sharma,” Rovanth interrupted smoothly, his tone polite but leaving no room for negotiation. He didn't drop Anshira’s hand. “Tonight, I am simply enjoying my anniversary with my wife.”
The Vice President blinked, taken aback, but quickly recovered, offering Anshira a respectful, somewhat awed nod. “Of course. Happy anniversary, Mrs. Kalresh-Dhen.”
Anshira remained her usual, quiet self, offering polite smiles and gracious nods, but she carried a serene, happy radiance that was impossible for anyone in the room to miss.
The ghosts of the past were firmly held at bay by the warm, unshakeable grip of her husband’s hand.
He stayed close beside her the entire evening, never once leaving her side even while engaging in complex, high-level conversations with his colleagues.
When she needed a break, he seamlessly guided her to the quieter edges of the room; when she wanted water, he fetched it himself, refusing to send a waiter.
He was an absolute, impenetrable fortress around her.
As the evening wore on, and midnight approached, the crowd in the ballroom began to thin. The formal edge of the gala softened into an ambient, alcohol-fueled hum.
Rovanth and Anshira were standing near the grand ice sculpture of the KDG logo, identical to the one from two years prior.
Rovanth looked down at her, noting the slight droop of her shoulders. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine.
“You survived,” he whispered, a teasing, playful glint dancing in his dark eyes. “You look beautiful, and you have charmed half my board. But the clock is about to strike twelve. Are you ready to escape?”
Anshira smiled, leaning her weight against his side. “Please. My heels are officially a form of torture.”
Rovanth chuckled, his arm wrapping securely around her waist. He looked at her, his expression shifting into something wicked and deeply amused.
“Tell me, Mrs. Kalresh-Dhen,” Rovanth murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you have any interest in returning to the scene of the crime?”
For a fraction of a second, Anshira merely blinked. And then, the sheer, audacious absurdity of the joke hit her.
She burst out laughing. It was a loud, genuine, joyous sound that turned the heads of several nearby executives. Two years ago, the Presidential Suite had been the site of her absolute destruction. Now, standing here secure in his love, the irony of it was unexpectedly, brilliantly funny.
“You are terrible,” Anshira laughed, swatting lightly at his chest, her eyes shining with mirth.