Chapter 3
The morning after Raghav's visit to her room, Akriti woke with swollen eyes and a hollow ache in her chest. She'd cried herself to sleep—something she hadn't allowed herself to do in months. But his coldness, his casual cruelty, had broken something inside her that she'd carefully kept intact.
She went through her morning routine mechanically. The puja felt empty today, the prayers sticking in her throat. Even God seemed distant.
Downstairs, the household was already buzzing with activity. Alina had requested a tour of the mansion's art collection, and somehow—predictably—the task had fallen to Akriti.
"She specifically asked for you," Savitri had said apologetically. "Said she wanted to get to know the family better."
What Savitri meant was: Raghav had ordered it, and Alina was following through.
Akriti found Alina in the breakfast room, looking effortlessly elegant in tailored trousers and a silk blouse. She was sitting in Akriti's usual chair—the one by the window where morning light fell just right—sipping coffee from the china that had been part of Akriti's wedding trousseau.
Small things. Insignificant things.
But they accumulated like stones in her chest.
"Good morning," Alina said brightly. "I hope I'm not inconveniencing you. Raghav mentioned you'd be willing to show me around."
"Of course," Akriti replied, her voice carefully neutral. "Whenever you're ready."
"Wonderful. He speaks so highly of your... hospitality."
The pause before 'hospitality' was deliberate. Everything Alina did was deliberate.
They spent the next two hours walking through the mansion.
Akriti pointed out the Mughal miniatures in the east gallery, the colonial-era furniture in the sitting room, the collection of first-edition books in the library.
Alina made appropriate sounds of appreciation, asked intelligent questions, and somehow managed to make Akriti feel like a museum guide rather than the lady of the house.
"It must be so different from what you're used to," Alina commented as they stood before a particularly ornate piece—a carved sandalwood screen inlaid with ivory. "All this tradition. These old customs."
"Different from what?" Akriti asked quietly.
"From modern life. Career, independence, travel." Alina's smile was sympathetic. "Though I suppose some women prefer the domestic sphere. Nothing wrong with that, of course."
"Of course," Akriti echoed.
"Raghav is so forward-thinking," Alina continued, trailing her fingers along the carved wood.
"He appreciates women who can match him intellectually.
Who understand the complexities of international business, who can navigate multiple cultures...
" She glanced at Akriti. "It must be challenging for you, trying to relate to his world. "
Akriti's hands clenched in her saree. "I manage."
"I'm sure you do. In your own way." Alina moved toward the window, her heels clicking against marble. "He works so hard, you know. The expansion—it consumed him. Eighteen-hour days, constant travel, negotiations that would break lesser men. He needed someone who could keep pace with him."
Someone like you, the unspoken words hung in the air.
"He's very dedicated," Akriti said softly.
"Dedicated doesn't begin to cover it." Alina turned, her expression earnest now. "I've never met anyone with his drive, his vision. He's going to transform the Singhania empire into something unprecedented. Global. Powerful beyond imagination."
"That's wonderful."
"It is. Though it requires sacrifice, of course. Personal sacrifice. He's had to put aside... distractions."
Akriti met her gaze steadily. "I wouldn't want to distract him from his important work."
Something flickered in Alina's eyes—frustration, perhaps, that her barbs weren't landing as intended.
"Well," she said after a moment, "shall we continue the tour?"
*
In Vikram's study, Ranveer was planting seeds of doubt with surgical precision.
"I'm simply saying," he told the assembled group of senior family members, "that Raghav's priorities seem...
unclear. He spends three years building foreign operations while domestic threats grow.
The Kapoors have been systematically eroding our territory, and where was our heir?
In Singapore. In London. Anywhere but here. "
"The foreign expansion was necessary," Vikram replied, but his tone lacked conviction.
"Was it? Or was it convenient?" Ranveer leaned forward. "An excuse to avoid responsibilities here? To avoid his marriage, his family, the messy business of actually leading?"
"That's unfair," Savitri snapped. "He's secured new revenue streams—"
"At what cost?" Ranveer interrupted. "He returns with a foreign woman, installs her in our home, and treats his actual wife like hired help. What message does that send? To the family? To our allies? To our enemies?"
Several heads nodded around the room.
"The boy's distracted," one uncle muttered. "Always has been. Too modern. Too Western."
"He's not a boy," Vikram said sharply. "He's built an empire."
"An empire abroad," Ranveer countered smoothly. "While the foundation here crumbles. The Kapoors sense weakness. They're recruiting our people, buying our partners, testing our boundaries. And what does Raghav do? Holds meetings. Makes plans. But where's the action? Where's the strength we need?"
"What are you suggesting?" Savitri's voice was cold.
"I'm suggesting nothing." Ranveer spread his hands innocently. "I'm merely observing. Leadership requires presence. Commitment. A man who abandons his wife for three years—what else might he abandon when things become difficult?"
The room fell silent, the implication settling like poison.
"Raghav is Vikram's heir," Savitri stated firmly. "That's not changing."
"Of course not," Ranveer agreed quickly. Too quickly. "I would never suggest otherwise. I'm simply... concerned. As we all should be."
But his eyes held a different message. And several people in that room heard it clearly.
The faction lines were being drawn. Traditional versus modern. Domestic versus international. Ranveer versus Raghav.
And the empire was fracturing.
*
The family function that evening was an elaborate affair—a reception for business associates and allied families, ostensibly to celebrate Raghav's return. The mansion's grand ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and carefully curated luxury.
Akriti had dressed carefully in a deep blue silk saree, paired with the diamond set from the Singhania family collection as Raghav had ordered. Her hair was styled traditionally, her makeup subtle. She looked every inch the proper daughter-in-law.
But inside, she felt hollow.
She stood near the entrance, greeting guests as they arrived, offering namaste and polite conversation. Several people asked about Raghav, about the expansion, about his plans. No one asked about her.
Alina arrived in a stunning red gown—modern, backless, showing off her flawless skin. She looked like she belonged in a magazine spread. Diamond earrings caught the light as she laughed at something Priya said.
"She's so sophisticated," Meera whispered to another aunt. "So worldly. No wonder Raghav—" She stopped, glancing at Akriti. "Well. You know."
Akriti pretended she hadn't heard.
Raghav entered fashionably late, commanding immediate attention in a tailored black suit. His presence shifted the energy in the room—conversations paused, people straightened, eyes followed his movement.
He was power personified.
His gaze swept across the ballroom and landed on Akriti for the briefest moment. No acknowledgment. No warmth. Just that cold assessment before he moved on to greet business associates.
Alina gravitated to his side naturally, seamlessly, like a satellite finding its orbit. They stood together, discussing something, her hand occasionally touching his arm for emphasis. They looked perfect together—matched, equal, powerful.
Everything Akriti wasn't.
"Excuse me." A middle-aged man in an expensive suit approached Akriti. "Could you get me a whiskey? Neat, please."
She blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"A whiskey," he repeated impatiently. "The staff seems busy. You don't mind, do you?"
He thought she was a servant.
The realization burned through her.
"I'm not—" she started.
"There you are!" A woman joined the man, dripping in jewelry. "I've been looking everywhere. Oh, good, you found someone. I'll have a gin and tonic, dear."
Akriti stood frozen, humiliation crawling up her spine. Around them, several family members had noticed. Priya was smirking. Meera looked away, embarrassed but unwilling to intervene.
"Actually," Akriti said quietly, "I'm—"
"Is there a problem?" Raghav's voice cut through the moment.
He'd appeared beside them, his expression unreadable. The business associates turned, suddenly nervous.
"Mr. Singhania! No, no problem. We were just—"
"Asking my wife to serve you drinks?" Raghav's tone was flat.
The man paled. "Your... we didn't realize... she wasn't wearing any name tag or—"
"She's wearing family jewelry," Raghav said coldly. "She's standing in the receiving line. What exactly made you think she was staff?"
Because I was standing alone, Akriti thought bitterly. Because I look insignificant. Because even my own husband doesn't acknowledge me.
"We apologize profusely," the woman stammered. "A terrible mistake—"
"Indeed." Raghav gestured to an actual waiter. "They'll help you with drinks. Enjoy the evening."
It was a dismissal. The couple hurried away, mortified.
Raghav turned to Akriti. "You should circulate. Mingle. Make conversation."
That was it. That was his response to her humiliation. A perfunctory correction followed by instructions.
Not: Are you alright?
Not: I'm sorry that happened.
Just: Make conversation.
Something inside Akriti cracked. Not broke—that would be too clean. It cracked, jagged and painful, like ice splintering under pressure.
"Of course," she heard herself say. "Whatever you need."