Her Heartless Husband (Unlikely Lover Series, #1)

Chapter 1

The brass bell chimed softly as Akriti struck it three times, the sound echoing through the empty marble temple room. Dawn light filtered through the latticed windows, casting geometric shadows across the floor where she knelt, her cream-colored saree pooling around her like spilled milk.

She closed her eyes, inhaling the sharp sweetness of incense—sandalwood and jasmine, the same fragrance she'd burned every morning for three years. Three years of solitary prayers. Three years of lighting diyas for a husband who didn't know the color of her eyes.

The marigold garland she'd woven herself lay draped across the small marble deity of Lord Shiva. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed them together in supplication, lips moving in silent prayer.

Keep him safe. Wherever he is. Whatever he's doing. Keep him safe.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She prayed for a man who'd forgotten her existence the moment he'd walked out of their wedding chamber.

The memory surfaced unbidden, sharp as broken glass.

*

Three years ago,

The bridal chamber had been suffocating with the scent of roses. Too many roses. They'd covered every surface—the bed, the side tables, scattered across the floor in a path leading from the door. Someone had thought it romantic.

Akriti had sat on the edge of the bed, her heavily embroidered red lehenga weighing her down like chains. The intricate gold work pressed into her skin beneath layers of silk. Her hands, decorated with deep red mehendi, lay folded in her lap. Waiting.

The door had opened at midnight.

Raghav Singhania had entered like a storm given human form—tall, broad-shouldered, his wedding sherwani abandoned somewhere, leaving him in just the white kurta beneath. Even disheveled, he'd been devastatingly handsome. Sharp jawline, darker eyes that seemed to look through her rather than at her.

She'd stood, her veil slipping slightly. Her heart had hammered so loudly she'd been certain he could hear it.

"Sit," he'd said, his voice clipped. Not cruel, but not kind either. Just... absent.

She'd lowered herself back onto the bed, watching as he'd poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter on the bureau. Whiskey. She could smell it from across the room.

"This marriage," he'd started, downing the amber liquid in one swallow, "was a business arrangement. You understand that, don't you?"

Akriti's throat had constricted. "I... yes. Our families—"

"Our families needed the alliance," he'd interrupted, turning to face her. His eyes had been cold, distant. "I needed my father to stop threatening to disown me if I didn't marry. You needed..." He'd waved his hand dismissively. "Whatever it is women from good families need. Security. Status."

Each word had landed like a blow.

"I leave for London tomorrow morning," he'd continued, setting down his glass with a sharp clink. "There's work to be done. Empire to build. I'll be gone for... a while."

"How long?" The question had slipped out before she could stop it.

He'd looked at her then, really looked at her for the first time. But there'd been no warmth in his gaze. Only the cool assessment of a businessman evaluating an asset.

"Does it matter?"

She'd dropped her eyes to her hands, to the bridal mehendi that was supposed to darken with her husband's love. "No, I suppose it doesn't."

"You'll want for nothing. My mother will take care of you. The family will—"

"What about you?" Her voice had been barely a whisper. "Will you take care of me?"

The silence that followed had been crushing.

"I'll fulfill my duties as your husband," he'd replied finally, mechanically. "You'll have my name, my protection, access to resources. But don't expect—" He'd stopped, jaw tightening. "Don't expect what isn't there to give."

He'd moved toward the door then, and panic had flared in her chest.

"You're leaving? Now?"

"I have calls to make. Preparations for tomorrow." He'd paused at the threshold, his back to her. "The bed is yours. I'll sleep in my study."

"But this is our wedding night—"

"This is a contract signing," he'd said, his voice hard as stone. "Nothing more. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

The door had closed behind him with a soft click that had sounded like a death knell.

Akriti had sat there until dawn, her bridal finery growing heavier with each passing hour, the roses wilting around her, their sweet scent turning cloying and sick.

She hadn't cried. Not then. She'd learned early that tears were a luxury she couldn't afford.

*

The temple bell chimed again, pulling her back to the present. Akriti opened her eyes, reaching for the small brass plate of offerings—coconut, flowers, a few grains of rice. The same offerings she'd made every morning, asking the same silent questions.

When will he come home? Will he ever see me? Does he think of me at all?

The marble floor was cold beneath her knees as she completed her prayers, her movements practiced and precise. This ritual was hers. In a house full of people, in a life full of obligations, these moments belonged to her alone.

She rose gracefully, adjusting her pallu over her shoulder, and turned to leave—

"Still praying for him?"

Akriti froze. Priya Singhania leaned against the doorframe, her silk robe artfully disheveled, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against the carved wood.

Raghav's cousin was beautiful in that careless, effortless way that came from never having wanted for anything.

Her hair fell in glossy waves, her skin glowed from expensive treatments, and her eyes held the particular cruelty of someone who'd never known real suffering.

"Good morning, Priya," Akriti said quietly, moving toward the door.

Priya didn't shift, blocking her exit. "You didn't answer my question. Still praying for a husband who doesn't know you exist?"

The words landed exactly where they were meant to. Akriti kept her expression neutral, years of practice smoothing away any visible reaction.

"Excuse me," she murmured. "I need to prepare breakfast."

"Oh, right. Your duties." Priya's laugh was sharp and brittle. "Tell me, Akriti, does it ever get exhausting? Playing house for a man who hasn't called you once in three years? Who hasn't even bothered to ask how you're doing?"

Akriti's fingers tightened around the edge of her pallu, but her voice remained steady. "My marriage is between my husband and me."

"Marriage?" Priya's eyebrows arched in mock surprise.

"Is that what you call this? I call it a joke.

A very sad, very pathetic joke." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Everyone knows he married you because Vikram Uncle forced him to.

Everyone knows he ran the very next day. And everyone knows—"

"That's enough, Priya."

Both women turned. Savitri Singhania stood in the hallway, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a simple bun, her cotton saree crisp despite the early hour. She looked between them with dark eyes that missed nothing.

Priya straightened immediately. "I was just—"

"I heard what you were doing," Savitri interrupted, her tone cool. "Go. Now."

Priya shot Akriti a venomous look before sweeping past, her robe trailing behind her like a threat.

Silence settled over the corridor.

"Come," Savitri said softly, gesturing for Akriti to follow. "Walk with me."

They moved through the mansion's corridors in comfortable silence.

The Singhania estate was a sprawling monument to wealth and power—marble floors so polished you could see your reflection, hand-carved pillars rising to vaulted ceilings, windows that stretched from floor to ceiling offering views of manicured gardens.

It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

"You completed your prayers?" Savitri asked as they descended the grand staircase.

"Yes, Maa."

Savitri's lips quirked at the title. She'd told Akriti to call her that on the wedding day itself. You're my daughter now, she'd said. Whether my son remembers it or not.

They reached the ground floor, where servants were already moving about their morning tasks. The staff nodded respectfully as they passed. They liked Akriti, she knew. She treated them with kindness, helped when she could, never raised her voice or made unreasonable demands.

If only the family showed her the same courtesy.

"Priya is cruel because she's insecure," Savitri said finally, pausing near the window overlooking the garden. Morning light caught the silver in her hair. "She knows her beauty and her charm are her only assets. You threaten her."

"I threaten no one," Akriti replied quietly. "I'm just—"

"The daughter-in-law of this house. The wife of my son." Savitri turned to face her fully. "Don't let them make you forget that."

But Akriti could see the pity in her mother-in-law's eyes. The same pity she saw everywhere. Poor Akriti. Married but abandoned. A wife in name only.

"I should start breakfast," she murmured, stepping back. "Papa Ji likes his chai by seven."

"Akriti—"

"It's fine, Maa. Really. I'm fine."

She wasn't fine. She hadn't been fine in three years. But saying so wouldn't change anything.

*

The kitchen was her domain in the mornings. The cook, Lakshmi, had learned to let Akriti take over the first meal of the day. It gave her purpose, something to do with her hands while her mind wandered to places it shouldn't go.

She moved through the familiar motions—heating milk for chai, adding cardamom and ginger, the spices releasing their sharp fragrance into the air. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables for upma became meditative. Curry leaves sizzled in hot oil, their distinct aroma filling the kitchen.

"Smells good, beti," Lakshmi said, entering with fresh flowers for the dining table vases. "You should eat something too. You're getting too thin."

Akriti smiled but didn't respond. She wasn't hungry. She was rarely hungry anymore.