Chapter 6
The master bedroom was a revelation. Akriti had never been inside this space—Raghav's private sanctuary.
It was masculine and elegant, all dark woods and rich fabrics.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the gardens, letting in streams of natural light.
The bed was massive, draped in charcoal silk sheets that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary.
It was also, she realized with a flutter of panic, where she'd be spending the next several weeks.
With him.
"The bed's adjustable," Raghav explained as the hospital staff helped settle her in. "The physiotherapist said you'd need elevation for your leg. And the bathroom's been fitted with support bars—the contractor installed them yesterday."
Akriti stared at him. "You renovated your bathroom for me?"
"Our bathroom," he corrected quietly. "And yes."
She didn't know what to say to that.
The medical team finished their setup—monitors by the bedside, medications organized in the adjoining dressing room, emergency contacts programmed into the house phone. A nurse would visit twice daily to help with bandage changes and physiotherapy.
"But I'll handle everything else," Raghav had insisted.
The head nurse had looked skeptical. "Mr. Singhania, caring for a patient requires—"
"I'm aware." His tone had left no room for argument. "I'll call if we need assistance. Otherwise, I'm handling her care personally."
Now, as the medical staff filed out and the door closed behind them, Akriti found herself alone with her husband in his bedroom for the first time in three years of marriage.
The silence was deafening.
"Are you hungry?" Raghav asked, moving to adjust the pillows behind her back. "Lunch should be ready soon."
"I'm fine." Her voice came out smaller than intended.
"You barely ate breakfast." His hand brushed her shoulder as he arranged the pillows, and she flinched—not from pain, but from the unfamiliarity of his touch. He noticed, his jaw tightening. "Sorry. Did I hurt you?"
"No. I'm just—" She gestured helplessly around the room. "This is strange. Being here. With you."
"I know." He sat on the edge of the bed—his bed, their bed—and for a moment looked as lost as she felt. "But you need rest and care, and this is the best place for both."
"Your family must think—"
"I don't care what they think." His voice hardened. "Let them gossip. Let them judge. You're my wife. You belong here."
The possessiveness in his tone sent an unexpected shiver through her. When had he started sounding like that? Like she was his to claim, to protect, to keep?
A knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Savitri entered carrying a tray.
"I made khichdi," she announced, setting it on the bedside table. "Light, easy to digest. You need to eat, beta."
"Thank you, Maa." Akriti tried to sit up straighter and winced as pain shot through her ribs.
Raghav was there instantly, his hands careful as he helped her adjust. "Slow. Don't push yourself."
Savitri watched them with barely concealed hope in her eyes. "I'll leave you two alone. Call if you need anything."
Once she'd left, Raghav picked up the bowl and spoon. "Open."
Akriti blinked. "What?"
"You can barely move without pain. I'm feeding you."
"I can feed myself—"
"Akriti." His voice dropped lower, taking on that dark edge she was beginning to recognize. Not cruel, but absolutely certain. "Open your mouth."
Something in his tone made her comply. The spoon touched her lips, and she opened, accepting the bite. The khichdi was perfect—warm, mild, soothing.
"Good?" he asked.
She nodded, unable to speak around the food and the strange intimacy of being fed by him.
They continued in silence. Each bite was careful, measured. He watched her face for signs of discomfort, adjusted the portions, wiped the corner of her mouth with a gentleness that felt at odds with everything she knew about him.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked finally. "You have staff. Nurses. People who are trained—"
"I'm your husband." He set down the bowl, his eyes intense. "This is my responsibility. My privilege."
"Since when?"
"Since I almost lost you." His hand found hers, engulfing it completely. "Since I realized what a fool I'd been."
She wanted to pull away. Wanted to protect herself from the inevitable disappointment. But his hand was warm and solid and anchoring, and she was so tired of being alone.
So she let him hold her hand while exhaustion pulled her toward sleep.
"Rest," he murmured. "I'll be here when you wake up."
And for the first time in three years, she believed him.
*
The days developed a rhythm. Mornings began with Raghav helping her sit up, supporting her weight as pain radiated through her healing body. The first few times, nurses were present, showing him proper technique for changing bandages, checking surgical sites, managing her medications.
But he learned quickly. His hands, which had built an empire and probably ended lives, became gentle when they touched her. Careful. Almost reverent.
"Does this hurt?" he'd ask, cleaning the long incision on her thigh where they'd repaired her femur.
"A little."
"Tell me if it's too much."
It was never too much. Somehow, he always knew exactly how much pressure to apply, when to pause, when to continue.
The intimacy of it was overwhelming. His hands on her skin. Her body exposed to his gaze—not sexually, not yet, but vulnerably. Scars and stitches and bruises in various stages of healing.
She should have been embarrassed. Should have insisted the nurses continue handling her care.
But there was something in his eyes when he tended to her. Something that looked almost like wonder. Like he was discovering something precious he hadn't known existed.
After bandages came breakfast. He'd learned her preferences quickly—chai with exactly the right amount of cardamom, toast with just a hint of butter, fruit cut into small pieces she could manage easily.
"How did you know I like mangoes?" she'd asked one morning.
"I asked the kitchen staff what you usually requested." He'd set the plate in front of her with what might have been embarrassment. "I should have known myself. But I'm learning."
It was such a simple thing. Such a small gesture. But it cracked something inside her chest.
Then came physiotherapy. The physiotherapist—a stern woman named Dr. Malhotra—put Akriti through exercises that left her trembling and sweating.
"Good," Dr. Malhotra would say as Akriti struggled to lift her injured leg. "Feel the burn. That's healing."
Raghav stayed for every session, his presence a dark, solid force in the corner. When Akriti's strength failed and tears of frustration filled her eyes, he'd appear beside her.
"You're doing beautifully," he'd murmur, his hand on her shoulder. "Just a little more."
And somehow, she'd find the strength to continue.
Afternoons were quieter. Rest periods where she'd doze fitfully, still plagued by nightmares. Raghav worked from the bedroom, his laptop set up at the desk by the window, always within sight, always available if she needed him.
Sometimes she'd wake and find him watching her, his expression unreadable.
"What?" she'd ask, her voice rough with sleep.
"Nothing. Go back to sleep."
But it wasn't nothing. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his focus. Like she was a puzzle he was determined to solve.
Evenings brought a new ritual—he'd read to her.
The first time, she'd been shocked. "You want to read to me?"
"You love poetry." He'd held up a volume of Ghalib's verses. "I thought—if you'd like—"
"You remember that I love poetry." The words came out wondering.
Something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. "I read it in your journals. But yes, I should have known before. I should have known everything about you."
He'd settled into the chair beside the bed and begun to read. His voice was different when he read poetry—softer, more measured. The Urdu verses rolled off his tongue with surprising fluency, the words of longing and love filling the quiet bedroom.
Akriti had closed her eyes and let the poetry wash over her, let herself pretend that this was real, that this wasn't just guilt motivating him, that maybe—maybe—there was hope.
*
But doubt crept in during the quiet moments.
This is guilt, her mind whispered. Pity. Obligation. It'll pass once you're healed, once he's absolved his conscience.
She caught herself watching him, looking for signs of impatience, of boredom, of the cold indifference she was so familiar with.
Instead, she found attentiveness. Care. An intensity that both thrilled and terrified her.
Was this real? Or was she setting herself up for another devastating fall?
The physical awareness didn't help.
It started innocuously enough. He'd help her to the bathroom, his arm supporting her weight as she hobbled on her healing leg. Her body would press against his side, and she'd become hyperaware of his strength, his warmth, the solid muscle beneath his shirt.
He smelled of sandalwood and something darker, something purely masculine that made her breath catch.
"Alright?" he'd ask, his face close to hers.
"Fine," she'd manage, though she was anything but fine.
One evening, as he helped her back from the bathroom, her leg buckled. He caught her instantly, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her against his chest to keep her from falling.
They froze.
His hands burned through the thin fabric of her nightgown. She could feel every finger, every point of contact. His breath stirred her hair. His body was a wall of heat against her back.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice rougher than usual.
She was intensely aware of him—of the rise and fall of his chest against her shoulders, of the strength in his hands, of the way her body fit against his like it had been designed for this exact purpose.
"Akriti." Her name on his lips sounded different. Deeper. Almost hungry.