CHAPTER 5
Evening - The Back Gardens
The back gardens of the Ranawat estate were Bruno's domain—a sprawling area of manicured lawns and strategic shadows where the dog could patrol without being disturbed. It was also, Nimisha had discovered, the perfect place to hide when the walls of the house became too suffocating.
She sat cross-legged on the grass, a paper bag from her favorite street vendor beside her, the smell of pani puri and chaat making her mouth water.
"Don't judge me," she told Bruno, who sat watching her with his typical regal disdain. "I needed this."
The dog's expression suggested she needed many things, and street food was low on the list.
"I know it's not sophisticated," she continued, pulling out a pani puri and popping it whole into her mouth. The explosion of tangy, spicy flavors made her close her eyes in bliss. "But it reminds me of home. Before all... this."
Bruno's tail swished once—his version of sympathy.
She pulled out another puri, this time carefully removing the spicy water and offering the hollow shell to Bruno. "Here. Try it. Just the puri, no spice."
The dog sniffed it suspiciously, then delicately took it from her fingers. He crunched it thoughtfully, then looked at her as if to say: I've had better.
"You're impossible," she laughed, reaching for another. "Nothing pleases you."
"I wasn't aware my dog had developed such refined tastes."
Nimisha's head whipped around.
Samarth stood at the edge of the garden, still in his work clothes—crisp white shirt, dark trousers, the top button undone. His tie was missing, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing those forearms that did illegal things to her pulse.
Behind him stood Abhay and Armaan, both looking vaguely amused.
Nimisha scrambled to her feet, brushing grass from her simple cotton salwar. "I didn't hear you come out."
"Clearly." His dark eyes swept over the scene—his wife, his dog, and what appeared to be a street food picnic. "What are you doing?"
"Eating dinner."
"In the grass."
"It's pleasant out here."
"The dining room exists for a reason."
"The dining room has your mother and Kritika discussing flower arrangements. This has fresh air and no passive-aggressive commentary about my inadequacies."
Abhay coughed to cover what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Samarth's jaw tightened. "You shouldn't be eating street food. You don't know what they put in it."
"I've been eating street food my entire life. I think I'll survive."
"That was before you were a Ranawat."
The words hung in the air, sharp and cutting.
Before you were mine, he didn't say. Before you belonged to me.
"Would you like one?" Nimisha asked, her voice carefully neutral as she held out a puri. "They're quite good."
Samarth's eyes narrowed. "I don't eat street food."
"Of course you don't." She should have known better than to offer.
"Bhai, you're missing out," a cheerful voice called.
Tanisha appeared from another entrance to the garden, Kritika beside her. Both women were dressed for an evening out—designer dresses, perfect makeup, expensive jewelry.
Nimisha suddenly felt very underdressed in her simple cotton clothes, sitting in the grass like a child.
"What's going on?" Tanisha asked, her gaze taking in the scene with undisguised curiosity.
"Nimisha's having a picnic," Samarth said, his tone making it sound like she was doing something vaguely scandalous.
"How fun!" Tanisha said, though her expression suggested it was anything but. "Very... bohemian."
"We were just heading to dinner," Kritika added, her smile warm. "You should come, Nimisha. Both of you," she glanced at Samarth. "It's that new place in Bandra. They have amazing Continental food."
"I've already eaten," Nimisha said, gesturing to her street food.
Kritika's smile faltered slightly. "Oh. Well, maybe next time."
"Rey, you'll come though, won't you?" She turned to Samarth, her hand touching his arm with casual familiarity. "You've been working so hard. You need a break."
Nimisha watched the interaction, that familiar twist of resentment coiling in her stomach. The easy touching, the intimate nickname, the way Kritika looked at him like he hung the moon.
And the way he didn't pull away from her touch.
"I have work to finish," Samarth said, but his tone was gentler with Kritika than it ever was with Nimisha.
"You always have work," Kritika protested. "Come on. Just for an hour."
"Kritika—"
"Please? For me?"
The manipulation was subtle but there. And it worked.
"Fine. One hour."
Kritika beamed. "Perfect! Tanisha, let's take my car."
As they started to leave, Samarth glanced back at Nimisha. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and she saw something flicker in his gaze—guilt, maybe, or irritation that she was sitting there watching him choose Kritika over her.
Again.
She looked away first, reaching for another puri.
"Bhabhi—" Shaurya's voice made her look up. He'd appeared from somewhere, probably drawn by the commotion. "Want some company?"
"I'm fine, Shaurya. Go enjoy your evening."
He hesitated, clearly torn between staying and following his family. Finally, he squeezed her shoulder briefly and left.
Leaving her alone with Bruno and her street food.
She picked up a puri, held it out toward where Samarth had been standing. "Would you like one?" she asked the empty air, her voice mocking her own stupidity.
Then she rolled her eyes at herself and popped it in her mouth. "See, Boo? Not poisoned. Just delicious."
Bruno snorted.
The sound was so perfectly timed, so utterly judgmental, that Nimisha started laughing. Real laughter that shook her shoulders and brought tears to her eyes.
"Oh god," she gasped. "I'm sitting in the grass, eating street food, being judged by a dog while my husband goes out with another woman. This is my life."
Bruno's expression suggested: Yes. And whose fault is that?
"Shut up," she told him, but she was still smiling as she offered him another plain puri. "Here. Since you're the only male in this house who doesn't make me feel invisible."
The dog took the offering with surprising gentleness, crunched it, and then rested his massive head on her knee.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
11:43 PM - Secluded Hallway, East Wing
Nimisha had finished her street food, cleaned up the evidence, and retreated to her room hours ago. She'd showered, changed into her comfortable cotton pajama set—loose pants and a simple button-down top—and had been trying to write when her stomach started hurting.
Too much spicy food on an empty stomach before it. Rookie mistake.
She'd gone to the kitchen for some antacid, found it, and was now making her way back through the quiet hallways of the estate. Most of the family had retired for the night. The house was dark except for strategic lighting along the corridors.
She was passing through the east wing—a rarely used section that connected the main house to Samarth's private office—when a hand shot out from the shadows and grabbed her wrist.
She gasped, spinning around.
Samarth.
He'd changed out of his dinner clothes into dark jeans and a black t-shirt that clung to his muscled frame. His hair was slightly disheveled, his eyes burning with something dark and possessive.
"Where have you been?" His voice was rough, edged with something she couldn't identify.
"The kitchen. I needed—"
He didn't let her finish. He backed her against the wall, his body caging hers, one hand still wrapped around her wrist while the other came up to brace against the wall beside her head.
The position was dominant, overwhelming, and her pulse skyrocketed.
"Samarth, what—"
"Did you enjoy your little picnic?" he asked, his voice a dark purr that sent shivers down her spine. "Sitting in the grass, feeding my dog, looking so fucking innocent in your simple clothes?"
She swallowed hard. "I was just eating dinner."
"Street food." His free hand came down to trace her jawline with one finger. "Like you used to before you married me."
"I still am who I was before—"
"No." His thumb pressed against her lower lip, silencing her. "You're Mrs. Samarth Ranawat now. You're mine."
The possessiveness in his tone made her stomach clench. "You didn't seem to remember that when you went to dinner with Kritika."
His eyes flashed. "Jealous?"
"No."
"Liar." He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "You were sitting there, watching me leave with her, and you wanted to say something. Wanted to tell me to stay."
Her breathing had gone shallow. "You would have gone anyway."
"Probably." His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "But I would have liked to hear you ask."
"I don't beg."
"Don't you?" His hand slid down from her jaw to her throat, not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. "I think you'd beg very prettily if I pushed the right buttons."
Heat flooded through her. This was different from their usual encounters. There was something raw in his voice, something desperate in the way he was touching her.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
"Because someone sent you a gift today. An expensive gift." His hand tightened slightly on her throat. "Diamond bracelet. Worth a fortune."
She blinked, confused. "I didn't receive any—"
"My men intercepted it. Which means someone is thinking about you. Someone is trying to court my wife."
The fury in his voice was palpable.
"I don't know anything about that."
"I know." His thumb stroked over her pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. "But it doesn't change the fact that someone out there is watching you. Wanting you. Thinking they can take what's mine."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His mouth crashed down on hers, brutal and claiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, dominating, possessing, marking her in the most primal way.
She gasped against his lips, her hands coming up to grip his t-shirt, not sure if she wanted to pull him closer or push him away.
He made the decision for her, pressing his body fully against hers, letting her feel every hard inch of him. The evidence of his arousal pressed against her stomach, thick and demanding.