Chapter 3 #2
She walked away from him, her movements controlled, her face expressionless. She made small talk with various guests, smiled at appropriate moments, played her role perfectly.
All while fury built inside her like a storm.
*
The function lasted four hours. Four hours of watching Alina and Raghav together. Four hours of fielding pitying looks and condescending comments. Four hours of being invisible in her own home.
By the time the last guests departed, Akriti felt like she was vibrating with suppressed rage.
"That went well," Vikram commented, loosening his tie.
"Did it?" Savitri's voice was sharp. "Did you see what happened? How those people treated Akriti? How Raghav barely acknowledged her?"
"He corrected them," Vikram replied.
"He corrected them like a manager reprimanding employees for a mistake," Savitri snapped. "Not like a husband defending his wife."
"What do you want from me?" Raghav interjected, his patience clearly worn thin. "I handled it."
"You handled it?" Savitri turned on him, her eyes blazing. "She's your wife, Raghav. Your wife. Not a servant. Not an inconvenience. Not a prop for your business dealings. She's a person who deserves basic respect and consideration."
"I never said she wasn't—"
"You don't have to say it. Your actions speak clearly enough.
" Savitri's voice trembled with fury. "Three years.
Three years she's lived in this house, enduring humiliation, waiting for you to show even a shred of humanity.
And tonight—tonight you stood there and watched strangers mistake her for staff before bothering to intervene. "
"I intervened," Raghav said coldly.
"Eventually. Reluctantly. Minimally." Savitri stepped closer. "This marriage was arranged, yes. But that doesn't give you the right to treat her like she's disposable."
"It was a business arrangement," Raghav replied, his voice hard as stone. "Nothing more. She knew that. Everyone knew that."
The words fell into the room like shattered glass.
Akriti stood in the doorway, still in her blue saree, the diamonds at her throat catching the light. She'd heard everything. Her face was pale but composed.
"Akriti—" Savitri started.
"It's fine, Maa," Akriti interrupted softly. "He's right. It was a business arrangement. I should stop expecting anything else."
She turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the silent hallway.
Savitri rounded on her son. "You're a fool. A brilliant, successful, absolute fool."
"Maa—"
"That girl has stood by this family with more grace and dignity than you've shown in your entire life. And one day, you're going to realize what you've lost. I just hope it won't be too late."
She swept from the room, leaving Raghav standing alone with his father.
"She's not wrong," Vikram said quietly.
"This isn't about right or wrong," Raghav replied. "This is about maintaining order. Managing expectations. I can't manufacture feelings that aren't there."
"No one's asking you to love her," Vikram said. "But you could try not to destroy her."
He left as well.
Raghav stood in the empty ballroom, surrounded by the debris of the evening—discarded napkins, empty glasses, wilted flowers.
He felt nothing. No guilt. No regret.
Only a vague irritation that everyone kept making this about emotions when it was clearly a practical matter.
His wife understood her role. He'd made it clear from the beginning.
If she was unhappy, well—that wasn't his responsibility.
*
Akriti didn't go to her room. She couldn't be in that space, with its journals and books and violin—all the things she used to pretend she had a life worth living.
Instead, she walked through the mansion's corridors, down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the back entrance.
The garage was separate from the main house, a massive structure that held the family's collection of luxury vehicles. Security was present but minimal—who would dare steal from the Singhanias?
Akriti moved past the Range Rovers, the BMWs, the Audis. Her eyes found what she was looking for in the far corner.
Raghav's favorite car. A midnight blue Aston Martin, custom-made, shipped from England. He'd bought it four years ago, and the family had talked about it fondly. It was his prize possession.
His baby.
She stared at it for a long moment, feeling nothing. The numbness had spread through her entire body, cold and absolute.
Then she moved with purpose.
The garage kept spare fuel for maintenance. She found the canister easily, her hands steady as she unscrewed the cap. The sharp chemical smell filled her nostrils as she doused the car—the leather seats, the dashboard, the hood.
She pulled matches from her pocket. When had she picked those up? She couldn't remember.
The first match didn't light. Her hands were shaking now.
The second one caught.
She stood there, the tiny flame reflecting in her eyes, and felt the first crack of something breaking through the numbness.
Rage. Pure, incandescent rage.
For three years, she'd been patient. Understanding. Accommodating.
For three years, she'd made excuses for him. For his absence. For his coldness. For his cruelty.
For three years, she'd dimmed herself, made herself smaller, tried to be whatever he needed her to be.
And it hadn't mattered. None of it had mattered.
Akriti dropped the match.
The car ignited with a soft whoosh, flames spreading quickly across the fuel-soaked interior. Within seconds, it was engulfed, orange and red and yellow dancing against the darkness.
She stood there and watched it burn.
Watched three years of humiliation burn.
Watched her expectations burn.
Watched her foolish, stubborn hope burn.
The heat was intense, making her skin prickle. Smoke billowed upward, acrid and choking. Somewhere in the distance, she heard shouts—security had noticed.
But Akriti didn't move.
She stood there, watching the expensive car bubble and blacken and destroy itself, and felt absolutely nothing.
The numbness was complete now. Total.
She'd finally stopped feeling.
*
By the time security reached the garage, the Aston Martin was a charred skeleton. They'd pulled Akriti away, called Vikram, called Raghav, contained the fire before it could spread to other vehicles.
Now she sat in the security office, wrapped in a blanket despite the warm night, staring at nothing.
Raghav burst through the door, his face a mask of fury. "What the hell happened?"
The head of security shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, we're not entirely sure. The fire started suddenly—"
"Where's my car?"
"Destroyed, sir. Completely destroyed."
Raghav's hands clenched. That car had cost him nearly three crores. Custom-made. Irreplaceable.
"How did this happen?"
"We're investigating. There's evidence of... accelerant. Gasoline."
"Sabotage?" Raghav's voice dropped to something dangerous. "Who would dare—"
"Sir." The security guard's voice was barely a whisper. "We found Mrs. Singhania at the scene."
Raghav's gaze snapped to Akriti, sitting there wrapped in her blanket, still in her blue saree, her face empty of expression.
"What?"
"She was standing there when we arrived. Just... watching it burn."
Silence fell like a hammer.
"Leave us," Raghav ordered.
The security staff fled gratefully.
Raghav moved toward Akriti slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. "Did you do this?"
She looked at him then. Really looked at him. Her eyes were dry, clear, completely calm.
"Yes."
The simple admission shocked him more than anything else could have.
"You destroyed my car."
"Yes."
"Do you understand what that car was worth?"
"Three crores," she replied evenly. "Custom Aston Martin. Midnight blue. Leather interior. You bought it four years ago. Savitra Maa told me."
Her voice was so calm. So rational. It was terrifying.
"Why?" Raghav demanded. "Why would you—"
"Because it was yours," Akriti interrupted. "Because you loved it. Because it mattered to you."
Understanding crashed over him. "This is about tonight. About those people—"
"This is about three years," she said softly. "About being invisible. About being nothing. About watching you care more about a car than you've ever cared about me. A living, breathing human."
"That's insane—"
"Is it?" She stood, the blanket falling away. "Tell me, Raghav. In three years, have you ever asked how I was? If I was happy? If I needed anything? Have you ever looked at me the way you looked at that car—with pride, with possession, with actual feeling?"
He had no answer.
"I didn't think so." She moved toward the door. "The car is gone. Just like I've been gone to you since the day we married. At least now we're even."
"You're not leaving this room—"
"Or what?" She turned back, and there was something wild in her eyes now. "You'll punish me? Ignore me? Send me away? You've already done all of those things. What more can you possibly do to me that you haven't already done?"
Raghav stared at this woman—his wife—and realized he didn't know her at all. The quiet, demure girl who'd sat in the bridal chamber three years ago was gone. In her place was someone harder. Someone who'd just committed arson without blinking.
Someone he'd created.
"Akriti—"
"I'm tired," she said, her voice returning to that calm, empty tone. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight."
She walked out, leaving him standing there surrounded by the smell of smoke and the ashes of his possessions.
And for the first time in three years, Raghav Singhania felt something toward his wife.
Fear.
*
The next morning, chaos erupted. One of the Singhania warehouses in Navi Mumbai had been hit. The Kapoor syndicate had sent a clear message—twenty men, armed, had stormed the facility in the pre-dawn hours. Three guards were dead. Two million rupees worth of goods destroyed.
War was coming.
Raghav spent the entire day in emergency meetings, coordinating responses, shoring up defenses. The car was forgotten. Akriti was forgotten.
Everything was forgotten except survival.