CHAPTER 1
One Year Later
The cursor blinked mockingly on the blank page.
Nimisha stared at her laptop screen, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
She was supposed to be writing the climactic love confession for her latest romance novel, but the words wouldn't come.
How was she supposed to write about love when she was living in its complete absence?
The irony wasn't lost on her.
Her readers devoured her books, praised her for the emotional depth, the raw passion, the believable romance.
If only they knew that the woman behind those words went to bed alone every night, that her husband barely acknowledged her existence outside of mandatory public appearances and their... physical arrangements.
Don't think about that.
She forced her fingers to type.
"I've loved you since the moment I saw you," Armaan whispered, his hand cupping Meera's face. "Every breath, every heartbeat, every moment—all of it belongs to you."
Nimisha's throat tightened. She deleted the paragraph.
A knock on her study door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Come in," she called, grateful for the distraction.
One of the household staff entered—Radha, a young woman who'd been with the Ranawats for years. She didn't meet Nimisha's eyes.
"Madam, would you like some tea?"
"Yes, please. Thank you, Radha."
The woman nodded and started to leave.
"Could you also bring some of those biscuits from the kitchen? The butter ones?" Nimisha asked, trying to keep her voice light and friendly.
"I'll check if there are any left, madam."
"Left?" Nimisha glanced at the clock. It was barely eleven in the morning.
Radha shifted uncomfortably. "Kritika ma'am mentioned she wanted them with her tea. I prepared a fresh batch for her."
Of course she did.
"That's fine," Nimisha said, her smile not wavering. "Regular tea is perfect."
Radha scurried out, and Nimisha turned back to her screen.
She was used to it by now—the servants' clear preference for Kritika, who visited the Ranawat mansion almost daily.
Saroj's beloved adopted daughter, Samarth's childhood friend.
The woman who should have been sitting in this study if fate had been kinder.
The woman the entire family wished had married their precious eldest son instead of the stranger forced upon him.
Nimisha saved her document and closed her laptop. Writing was impossible today.
She stood, stretching her stiff shoulders, and walked to the window. Her private study overlooked the gardens, and from here, she could see—
Her breath caught.
Bruno.
The massive black Cane Corso stood at the edge of the garden, his dark eyes fixed on her window. Four years old, a hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle and menace, Bruno was Samarth's most loyal companion. His "lethal shadow," as the staff called him.
Everyone in the house feared him. Even Raghbir gave the dog a wide berth.
But Nimisha and Bruno had a secret.
She glanced toward her closed door, then moved quickly to her desk drawer. Pulling out the small container of treats she kept hidden there, she opened her study's French doors that led to a private balcony.
Bruno was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
"Hello, Boo Berry," she whispered, descending the steps.
The dog's tail didn't wag—Bruno didn't do cute—but his ears perked up slightly, and he sat with dignified patience as she approached.
She extended her hand with the treat. Bruno took it with surprising gentleness, his dark eyes never leaving hers.
"Good boy," she murmured, running her hand over his massive head. His fur was soft despite his intimidating appearance.
This had started six months into her marriage. She'd been crying in the garden—a rare moment when she'd allowed herself to break—and Bruno had appeared. He hadn't tried to comfort her in the typical dog way. He'd simply sat beside her, a solid presence in her loneliness.
Since then, they'd formed an understanding. In the privacy of shadows and stolen moments, Bruno was her friend. Her only friend in this house.
But they were never seen together. She couldn't explain why, but instinct told her to keep their bond secret. Maybe because Bruno was Samarth's, and she was already taking up too much space in a life where she wasn't wanted.
"Mrs. Ranawat."
Nimisha spun around, her heart lurching.
Samarth stood in the garden doorway, still wearing his suit from whatever "business" he'd conducted that morning. His dark eyes tracked from her to Bruno and back again.
She swallowed hard, waiting for his reaction.
But he simply looked at her with that familiar indifference, as though catching his wife with his dog was of no consequence whatsoever.
"Your mother is here to see you," he said, his voice flat.
"I'll be right there."
He nodded and turned to leave, then paused. "Bruno. Here."
The dog looked at Nimisha, and she could have sworn she saw apology in those ancient eyes. Then Bruno rose and trotted to his master's side, obedient as always.
Samarth walked away without another word, Bruno at his heels.
Nimisha stood alone in the garden, her hand still warm from where she'd touched the dog's fur.
Even Bruno had to choose him.
She returned to her study, washed her hands, and composed herself. By the time Radha returned with tea—no biscuits—Nimisha was seated at her desk, her expression serene.
"Madam, Saroj ma'am is waiting in the main sitting room."
"Thank you, Radha."
Nimisha took a sip of tea, set it down, and prepared herself for another round of passive-aggressive commentary disguised as motherly concern.
Saroj Ranawat sat in the main sitting room like a queen on her throne, her silk saree perfectly draped, her jewelry understated but expensive. At fifty-eight, she was still beautiful, her skin well-maintained, her posture impeccable.
Kritika sat beside her, looking fresh and lovely in a simple cotton kurta, her long hair in a braid. She smiled at Nimisha as she entered.
"Nimisha! We were just talking about you," Kritika said warmly.
"Nothing bad, I hope," Nimisha replied with a polite smile, taking a seat across from them.
"Of course not." Saroj's tone suggested otherwise. "I was just telling Kritika how quiet the house has been. I barely see you anymore."
"I've been working on my book. The deadline is approaching."
"Your book." Saroj said it like it was a hobby rather than Nimisha's actual published work. "Still writing those romance stories?"
"Yes."
"Must be quite the imagination you have, beta," Kritika said, her voice sweet. "Creating all that passion and love out of thin air."
The barb was subtle but there. Nimisha's fingers tightened on her teacup.
"Imagination is part of the craft," she replied evenly.
"I suppose." Saroj waved a dismissive hand. "Although, a wife should focus on her household duties. Kritika here was just showing me how to reorganize the prayer room. She has such a good eye for these things."
"That's wonderful."
"She knows this house inside and out," Saroj continued. "After all, she's been part of this family since childhood. Knows exactly what we need, when we need it."
Unlike you. The words hung unspoken but clear.
"Maa, you're embarrassing me." Kritika's laugh was light, musical. "I'm sure Nimisha has her own way of doing things."
"Of course," Saroj said, though her expression suggested Nimisha's ways were inadequate. "But there's the right way and the Ranawat way. Tradition matters in this family."
Nimisha nodded, sipping her tea, letting the words wash over her. She'd learned early that arguing with Saroj was pointless. The woman had already decided Nimisha was a disappointment. Nothing would change that.
The door opened, and Shaurya entered, his face lighting up when he saw Nimisha.
"Bhabhi!" He crossed the room and touched her feet in respect before she could stop him.
"Shaurya, please, you don't need to—"
"Respect is respect," he said with a grin, settling beside her. At twenty-seven, Shaurya was everything his older brother wasn't—warm, open, genuinely kind. "How's the book coming?"
"Slowly."
"Writer's block?"
"Something like that."
Saroj's expression soured at the easy rapport between them. "Shaurya, shouldn't you be at the office?"
"Took the afternoon off. Figured I'd spend some time at home." He glanced at Nimisha. "Want to grab lunch later, bhabhi? There's a new place that opened in Bandra. Best biryani in the city, supposedly."
Before Nimisha could answer, Saroj interrupted. "Nimisha needs to help Kritika with the prayer room organization. It's been neglected."
"I don't mind doing it alone," Kritika said quickly. "Really, Maa, Nimisha should spend time with Shaurya if she wants—"
"The prayer room is important," Saroj insisted. "Family tradition takes precedence."
Nimisha recognized the trap. If she refused, she'd be disrespecting tradition. If she agreed, she'd be admitting she'd neglected her duties.
"I'll help with the prayer room," she said quietly. "Shaurya, perhaps another time?"
His jaw tightened, frustration flickering across his face, but he nodded. "Sure, bhabhi. Another time."
The conversation continued around her—Saroj and Kritika discussing the household, Shaurya trying and failing to draw Nimisha in. She responded when addressed, smiled when expected, and felt absolutely nothing.
This was her life. Sitting in rooms where she was tolerated but not wanted, smiling through thinly veiled insults, being compared to a woman who fit this family in ways she never would.
An hour later, when Saroj and Kritika finally left to examine the prayer room, Shaurya lingered.
"She's harder on you than she should be, bhabhi," he said quietly.
"She wants what's best for her son."
"You are what's best for him." Shaurya's voice was fierce. "If he were smart enough to see it."
Nimisha's throat tightened with unexpected emotion. "I'm fine, Shaurya. I'm always fine."
He studied her for a long moment, and she knew he didn't believe her. But he was kind enough not to push.
"You know where to find me if you need anything," he said finally. "Anything at all."