Chapter 6 #2
She turned her head slightly and found his face inches from hers. His eyes had darkened, his jaw was tight, and there was something in his expression that made her heart race.
Want.
Raw, undisguised want.
"We should—" she started.
"Yes." But he didn't move. Neither did she.
The moment stretched, taut with tension. Then, slowly, carefully, he helped her back to bed, his hands never leaving her waist until she was safely seated.
"Rest," he said, his voice strained. Then he disappeared into the bathroom, and she heard water running.
Cold water, probably.
Akriti lay back against the pillows, her body thrumming with awareness, her mind reeling.
He wanted her.
After three years of indifference, Raghav Singhania wanted his wife.
The realization was intoxicating. Terrifying. Dangerous.
Because she wanted him too. Despite everything. Despite the years of neglect and the fresh wounds of rejection.
She wanted him.
God help her.
*
The first real crack in her resolve came three days later.
Alina appeared. Fired, but refusing to leave. Apparently, that day she came to drop the work papers she was working on before Akriti’s accident.
Akriti was alone in the bedroom—Raghav had stepped out to take a business call—when she heard the commotion downstairs. Raised voices. Savitri's sharp tone. Then footsteps on the stairs.
The bedroom door opened without a knock.
Alina stood in the doorway, designer briefcase in hand, her expression tight with frustration. "I need to see Raghav."
"He's not here." Akriti pulled the sheets higher, suddenly feeling exposed in her nightgown.
"Where is he?"
"Taking a call. In his study, I think."
"Of course. Always working." Alina stepped into the room uninvited, her heels clicking against the hardwood. Her gaze swept over Akriti in the bed, taking in the healing bruises, the elevated leg, the obvious weakness. "How are you feeling?"
"Better, thank you."
"Good. That's good." Alina set her briefcase on the dresser. "I brought some documents that need Raghav's signature. Urgent matters from the Singapore office. They can't wait."
"I'll let him know you're here."
"No need. I'll wait." Alina settled into the chair—Raghav's chair, where he sat to read to her—and crossed her legs. "How much longer will you be... incapacitated?"
The word stung. "The doctors estimate another six weeks before I can walk normally. Longer before I'm fully recovered."
"Six weeks." Alina's smile was thin. "That's quite a commitment. I'm sure Raghav is being very... attentive."
There was something in her tone. Something sharp beneath the pleasant words.
"He's been helpful," Akriti replied carefully.
"I'm sure. Playing nurse. How noble of him." Alina's eyes glittered with barely concealed malice. "Though I have to wonder how long this guilt phase will last."
The words hit like a slap.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, don't misunderstand. I think it's admirable, really. The way he's dedicating himself to your recovery." Alina leaned forward slightly. "But Raghav is a businessman. Driven by goals, by results, by achievement. Caring for an invalid—that's not exactly his natural state."
"I'm not an invalid—"
"Of course not. Poor choice of words." Alina's apology was anything but sincere.
"I just mean that once you're healed, once the guilt of the accident fades, things will return to normal.
He'll go back to his work, his empire, his real passions.
And you'll go back to... whatever it was you did before. "
"Alina." Raghav's voice cut through the room like a blade. He stood in the doorway, his expression thunderous. "What are you doing here?"
She stood quickly. "I brought documents. The Singapore contracts—"
"I told you I'd review them remotely."
"They need wet signatures. It's urgent—"
"Then leave them and go." His voice dropped to something dangerous. "You're not welcome here."
"Raghav, I'm trying to help—"
"By telling my wife this is a 'guilt phase' that will pass?" He moved into the room, and Alina actually took a step back. "By suggesting I'm playing nurse? By implying that once she's healed I'll abandon her again?"
Alina's face flushed. "You misheard—"
"I heard perfectly." He picked up her briefcase and thrust it into her hands. "Leave the documents with my assistant. Don't come to my home again."
"This is business—"
"This is my life." He gestured to Akriti. "She's my life. And you don't get to come into my bedroom and poison her against me because you can't accept that you were never more than a colleague."
The silence that followed was crushing.
Alina's face had gone white, then red. "You're making a mistake."
"The only mistake I made was bringing you into my family's home in the first place." Raghav opened the door wider. "Get out. You're fired. Again. And this time, it's permanent."
She left, her heels striking the floor like gunshots, her dignity shattered.
Raghav closed the door and turned to Akriti. "How much did you hear?"
"Enough."
He moved to the bed, sitting on the edge, his face grave. "She's wrong."
"Is she?" Akriti couldn't keep the doubt from her voice. "Is this temporary? Once I'm healed, once you're not consumed by guilt, will you go back to forgetting I exist?"
"No." The word was absolute.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because—" He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. "Because I can't stop thinking about you. About your journals. About the charity you built. About the way you play violin. About three years I wasted being blind and stupid."
"That's guilt—"
"It's more than guilt." He reached for her hand, his touch gentle despite the intensity in his eyes.
"I'm fascinated by you, Akriti. By your strength.
Your compassion. Your intelligence. You've survived three years of my neglect and emerged stronger.
You've helped hundreds of women while I was off building an empire I suddenly don't give a damn about. "
"You don't mean that—"
"I do." His thumb traced circles on her palm, the touch sending sparks up her arm. "An empire means nothing if you're not part of it. Success means nothing if I can't share it with you. I've spent three years chasing things that don't matter, and nearly lost the one thing that does."
"Pretty words," she whispered, even as her heart raced.
"Then let me prove it with actions." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that felt like a brand. "Let me show you this isn't temporary. Let me earn your trust."
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to so badly it hurt.
But trust was earned, not given. And he had three years of neglect to overcome.
"Prove it, then," she challenged, pulling her hand away despite the way her skin burned where he'd kissed it. "Show me this is real."
His eyes darkened with something that looked like determination. "I will."
*
Raghav started with small things. Her favorite foods appeared at every meal. He'd clearly interrogated the kitchen staff, the household servants, anyone who might know her preferences.
Jalebi from that specific sweet shop in Chembur. The kind of paratha her mother used to make, perfectly crispy and layered. Chai steeped for exactly four minutes, no more, no less.
Books appeared on her bedside table—new releases by authors she loved, volumes of poetry she'd mentioned once in passing in her journals.
"How did you know about this one?" she asked, holding up a newly released novel she'd been wanting to read.
"You wrote about it. In your journal from six months ago. You saw a review and wanted to read it."
He'd remembered. Paid attention to details from entries written before he'd even known her.
The thought made her chest ache.
Then came the movie nights.
"I can't take you to a cinema yet," he said one evening, setting up his laptop on the bed beside her. "But I can bring the cinema to you."
He'd downloaded a classic film she'd mentioned loving as a teenager. They watched it together, his shoulder warm against hers, their hands sharing the bowl of popcorn he'd made himself.
Halfway through, she'd laughed at a joke, and he'd gone still.
"What?" she'd asked.
"I've never heard you laugh before." His voice was quiet, wondering. "It's beautiful."
The compliment had stolen her breath.
Another evening, she'd mentioned a childhood memory—riding her bicycle through monsoon puddles, her mother scolding her for getting soaked, her father laughing at her joy.
"You were happy," Raghav had observed.
"I was young. Before responsibilities. Before—" She'd stopped.
"Before me."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He'd been quiet for a moment. "Tell me another story. About before."
So she had. Carefully at first, then with growing confidence as he listened—really listened—to her childhood tales. The vacations to her grandmother's village. The Diwali celebrations. The small rebellions and innocent adventures.
He absorbed every word like they were precious gifts.
And slowly, inexorably, her walls began to crack.
*
A few days later,
Akriti had been struggling to brush her hair—the long, thick waves that fell past her shoulders. Her injured arm couldn't manage the task, and she'd been trying awkwardly with her other hand when Raghav appeared.
"Let me."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He sat behind her on the bed, gathering her hair in his hands. "Tell me if I pull too hard."
The first stroke of the brush through her hair sent tingles down her spine. His touch was careful, gentle, working through the tangles with patient care.
"Your hair is beautiful," he murmured. "Like silk."
"It's too much. Too heavy." She'd always kept it long because her mother insisted, but she'd considered cutting it a thousand times.
"Don't cut it." His voice held an edge of command. "I like it long."
The possessiveness in his tone shouldn't have thrilled her. But it did.
He brushed in silence for several minutes, the rhythmic strokes soothing and intimate. His fingers would occasionally graze her neck, sending shivers through her body.
"Raghav?"
"Hmm?"