Chapter Eighteen The Matriarchs and the Devotion #2
“I understand,” she confessed, “but if our positions had been reversed...
if the man I loved had been unavailable to me, bound to someone else, I would have simply wished him well.
I wouldn't have let myself hope for a tragedy to break his marriage, and I certainly wouldn't have cursed the woman he chose. It just feels so sad Rovanth.”
Rovanth released one of her hands to cup her cheek, his thumb gently stroking her jawline. He was gentle, but his tone was absolute iron.
“That is because you are good, Anshira,” Rovanth reassured her, ensuring she heard every single syllable.
“You possess a pure, uncalculated kindness that Ananya does not understand, because she was never taught how to wield it. You have absolutely no reason to carry any guilt over her choices tonight. You are my wife. You are exactly where you are supposed to be.”
The absolute, unshakeable certainty in his voice finally severed the last, lingering threads of Anshira’s anxiety. The shadows of the room receded, leaving only the warmth of the man sitting before her.
Despite the jarring chaos of the previous hour, and the deeply unsettling nature of Ananya’s breakdown, the Presidential Suite slowly transformed back into a sanctuary.
They retreated to the massive master bedroom.
The lingering adrenaline of the confrontation melted away, replaced by a profound, grounding intimacy.
Rovanth held her with a desperate, lingering reverence, worshiping her body and her soul with a slow, agonizing tenderness that left her breathless and completely consumed by him.
They shared a genuinely peaceful, blissful night, the trauma of the past completely overwritten by the sacred, unbreakable bond they had forged.
The next morning, the golden light of the Delhi sun crested over the city skyline, streaming through the sheer curtains of the suite around nine o'clock.
The massive king-sized bed was a warm, tangled cocoon of linen and soft limbs.
They lingered in bed, affectionate and deeply unhurried.
Anshira lay with her back pressed against Rovanth’s chest, his strong arms wrapped securely around her waist. She was hovering in that delicious, hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, listening to the steady, comforting thrum of his heartbeat against her spine.
She let her eyes drift shut, slowly beginning to drift back to sleep in the warmth of his embrace.
Suddenly, the mahogany double doors to the outer suite burst open with a loud, violent CRASH.
Rovanth’s eyes snapped open. His body went instantly rigid, the primal, protective instincts of a man ready for war flooding his veins in a fraction of a second.
From the outer sitting room, the frantic, panicked voices of two women echoed off the gilded walls.
“Rovanth! Rovanth, are you in here?”
It was his mother, Nandini.
“Check the bedroom!” barked the unmistakable, commanding rasp of his grandmother, Ishwari Dhen.
Rovanth exhaled a sharp, irritated breath, the adrenaline instantly converting to profound exasperation.
He moved with remarkable agility, carefully disentangling himself from Anshira’s limbs without jarring her awake. “Go back to sleep, my love,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her bare shoulder as she let out a soft, confused hum.
He slid out of the bed, grabbing a terrycloth hotel robe and shrugging it on, tying the belt tightly around his waist. He stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door mostly shut behind him to muffle the noise, leaving only a small crack.
Rovanth strode into the opulent sitting area, stopping dead in his tracks.
Standing in the center of the room, looking visibly anxious and wildly out of breath, were the two most formidable matriarchs of the Kalresh-Dhen empire.
Ishwari was leaning heavily on her silver cane, her silk saree slightly rumpled, while Nandini was clutching her designer handbag as if it were a life preserver.
“What on earth are the two of you doing barging in here at this hour?” Rovanth demanded, keeping his voice hushed so as not to wake his wife, but lacing every word with a biting, exasperated authority. “This is a private suite.”
Nandini physically sagged with relief upon seeing her son standing there whole, and unbothered. “Thank God. Rovanth, we heard the rumors.”
“What rumors?” Rovanth frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.
“We heard about the disturbance,” Ishwari interjected, her sharp eyes scanning his face for any sign of distress.
“Girish's office logged an emergency security call to this floor last night. Word leaked through the staff that Ananya Singhania had bypassed the locks and ambushed you both in this room. We were terrified something terrible might have happened.”
Rovanth let out a long, sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. The sheer efficiency of the KDG gossip network never ceased to amaze and annoy him.
“Everything is completely fine,” Rovanth assured them, gesturing vaguely to the quiet room.
He pointedly lowered his voice again, gently scolding them.
“And your early-morning panic was unnecessary. Ananya was intoxicated. She was escorted out safely by Vikram and Kalyani. There was no physical altercation, and the matter is handled.”
Ishwari leaned harder on her cane, a rare flicker of genuine vulnerability crossing her aged features.
“I wasn't worried about her physical strength, Rovanth. I was worried about you. After everything you and Anshira have fought to build... I simply feared that seeing the woman you once planned to marry in such a state might have provoked you. I feared you might have done something rash.”
Rovanth dropped his arms, his posture softening slightly as he registered the genuine, maternal terror beneath his grandmother’s abrasive exterior.
They had spent the last several months watching him painstakingly repair the damage of his marriage; they were terrified he had somehow broken it again.
Rovanth stepped closer to the two women, his expression shifting into a mask of absolute, unshakeable devotion.
“Listen to me,” Rovanth said firmly, ensuring there was no room for misinterpretation.
“I am deeply, irrevocably in love with my wife. The past is dead. There is nothing in this world—not a ghost, not a scandal, and certainly not an intoxicated ex-fiancée—that could ever make me do anything to hurt Anshira. My only concern last night was shielding her.”
As the words left his mouth, the door to the master bedroom creaked open a few more inches.
Anshira wandered out into the sitting area. She was still half-asleep, her dark hair a beautiful, tangled mess over her shoulders. She was wearing one of Rovanth’s oversized, crisp white dress shirts, the hem falling to her mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled haphazardly past her wrists.
“Rovanth?” she mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Rovanth abandoned the conversation instantly. He crossed the room in three large strides, immediately going to her side. He wrapped a strong arm securely around her waist, pulling her flush against his side, pressing a tender kiss to her temple.
Anshira leaned her weight against him, blinking sleepily at the two older women standing in the center of the room.
“Dadi? Ma?” Anshira asked, her voice raspy and laced with endearing confusion. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
Nandini and Ishwari stared at the young woman.
The sight of her—swallowed in her husband’s shirt, her face bare of makeup, radiating a serene, unbothered warmth, and looking so clearly, unequivocally loved—was a balm to their frantic nerves.
There was no tension in her shoulders. There was no lingering fear in her eyes.
She was utterly at ease in Rovanth’s arms.
It was enough to visibly, completely reassure both women that nothing untoward had occurred in the suite last night. The marriage was a fortress.
“Everything is perfectly fine, beta,” Nandini smiled softly, a hand resting over her heart. “We were just... passing through.”
Rovanth snorted, a dry, incredulous sound.
He looked at his grandmother, an amused smirk playing on his lips.
“Passing through the top floor of The Imperial at nine in the morning?
Tell me, Dadi, how did you even find out about Ananya being here in the first place?
I ordered Vikram to maintain absolute discretion. It wasn't logged on the official grid.”
Ishwari Dhen straightened her spine, adjusting the silk drape of her saree with immaculate, aristocratic poise. She looked at her grandson, a wicked, unapologetic teasing glint returning to her sharp eyes.
“I have built an empire, Rovanth,” the matriarch replied smoothly, a self-satisfied smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I make it my business to know absolutely everything happening in your life. Security clearance is a suggestion, not a rule.”
Anshira burst into a sudden, bright fit of laughter, burying her face in Rovanth’s chest. Rovanth couldn't help it; he threw his head back and joined her, his deep, rumbling laughter echoing off the gilded walls of the suite.
Even Nandini let out a startled, joyful chuckle at the sheer audacity of the older woman.
For a long, beautiful moment, the Presidential Suite was filled with the sound of a family—equal parts amused, exasperated, and finally, undeniably whole.