CHAPTER 7
The car pulled up to the estate just after six in the morning. Nimisha sat in the driver's seat, her hands gripping the steering wheel, steeling herself for whatever awaited inside.
She'd kept her promise. She was back.
But something had shifted inside her during that night alone in her brother's penthouse. Some fragile thing that had been bending for a year had finally snapped.
She couldn't keep living like this—invisible, unwanted, tolerated at best.
Taking a deep breath, she exited the car and walked toward the main entrance. The early morning air was cool, the estate quiet except for the sounds of staff beginning their daily routines.
She pushed open the front door.
And walked directly into an ambush.
Saroj sat in the main living area, still in her silk robe, her face tight with displeasure. Beside her, Kritika perched on the edge of the sofa, dressed already despite the early hour, concern etched on her pretty features.
They'd been waiting for her.
"So you finally decided to return," Saroj said, her voice cold.
Nimisha closed the door behind her, setting down her small bag. "Good morning to you too."
"Good morning?" Saroj stood, her posture rigid. "You disappear for an entire night, turn off your phone, worry the entire family, and you greet me with 'good morning'?"
"I told Samarth I'd be back this morning. I kept my word."
"That's not the point." Saroj moved closer, her eyes flashing with anger. "You are a Ranawat daughter-in-law. You have responsibilities. You don't just vanish without explanation."
"I needed some time alone."
"Time alone?" Saroj's laugh was bitter. "You have an entire wing of this house to yourself. You have a study, a private sitting room, access to the gardens. What more space do you need?"
Space from you, Nimisha thought but didn't say. Space from the constant reminders that I don't belong here.
"Nimisha, we were worried," Kritika interjected gently. "When you didn't answer your phone, we thought something had happened. Samarth was—"
"Samarth was what?" Nimisha interrupted, looking at Kritika directly. "Concerned? Worried? Or just annoyed that his possession had wandered off?"
Kritika blinked, taken aback. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Nimisha's voice was quiet, but something sharp edged each word.
"Tell me, Kritika, in the year you've known me, has my husband ever shown genuine concern for my wellbeing?
Has he ever asked about my day, my interests, my feelings?
Or does he only acknowledge my existence when he needs something from me? "
"Nimisha—"
"You don't get to defend him to me," Nimisha said, her composure cracking slightly. "You, who gets his smiles, his gentleness, his time. You, who he actually talks to like a person instead of an obligation."
"That's enough," Saroj snapped. "You're being disrespectful."
"Disrespectful?" Nimisha turned to her mother-in-law, and for the first time in a year, she didn't force herself to swallow her words.
"Disrespectful is being treated like a guest in my own home.
Disrespectful is having the servants ignore my requests to cater to Kritika.
Disrespectful is being told repeatedly that I'm inadequate, that I'm not good enough, that Kritika would have been better. "
Saroj's face paled slightly. "I never said—"
"You didn't have to say it outright. The implication has been clear since day one.
" Nimisha's hands clenched at her sides.
"I have tried. God knows I've tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law.
I've followed every rule, attended every function, smiled through every insult disguised as constructive criticism.
And what have I gotten in return? Nothing. Not even basic respect."
"You haven't earned respect," Saroj said coldly. "Respect is earned through dedication to this family, through understanding our traditions, through—"
"Through being Kritika?" Nimisha finished. "Through being the daughter you wanted instead of the one you got?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Kritika stood, her expression troubled. "Nimisha, I think you should rest. You're obviously tired and emotional—"
"Don't." Nimisha held up a hand. "Don't patronize me. I'm not tired or emotional. I'm done."
"Done with what?" a deep voice asked from the hallway.
Nimisha's heart lurched.
Samarth stood in the archway, still in last night's clothes, looking like he hadn't slept. His dark eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to step back.
She didn't.
"Done being treated like I don't matter," she said, meeting his gaze. "Done pretending that this arrangement works for anyone except the people who forced it on us."
His jaw tightened. "We need to talk. Privately."
"No. I'm tired of private conversations where you dictate the terms and I'm expected to accept them." She was trembling now, but she couldn't stop. "I'm tired of being told what I should want, how I should feel, what my place is in this family."
"Nimisha, you're being dramatic," Saroj interjected.
"Dramatic?" Nimisha laughed, the sound edged with hysteria.
"Convenient, isn't it? You want me to play the doting, obedient bahu to perfection all the damn time, but I won't even get basic respect in return.
I'm supposed to smile when I'm ignored, accept being second best, pretend I don't notice when my own husband can't stand to be in the same room with me except when he needs—"
She cut herself off, too aware of the audience.
Samarth's expression had gone dangerously cold. "Upstairs. Now."
"Why? So you can remind me of the rules? Tell me again that this is just duty, nothing more?" She shook her head. "I'm done with that conversation."
"Nimisha—"
"You shouldn't have married me when you already had an almost-wife." The words came out sharp, bitter, aimed directly at Kritika. "You should have fought harder against the arrangement. Because this? This half-life where I exist in the margins of your world? It's not fair to either of us."
Kritika's face crumpled. "Nimisha, I never wanted to—"
"I know." And that was the worst part. "I know you're not trying to hurt me. But you are. Every time you bring him his favorite sweets, every time you finish his sentences, every time you share memories I'll never be part of—it hurts. And I can't keep pretending it doesn't."
She turned to Samarth, forcing herself to look at him even though it felt like her heart was shattering. "I needed one night. One night to remember who I was before I became the unwanted Mrs. Ranawat. Before I started measuring my worth by how little space I could take up in your life."
"You're not unwanted," Samarth said, his voice rough.
"Aren't I?" She smiled sadly. "Then why does it feel like I'm fighting for scraps of your attention? Why does Kritika get your kindness while I get your cold indifference? Why do you touch me in the dark but can't look at me in the daylight?"
He had no answer.
Of course he didn't.
"I'm going to my room," she said quietly. "I'm going to shower and change and pretend for one more day that this is sustainable. Because I made vows, and unlike some people, I take them seriously."
She walked past him, her shoulder brushing his, and headed for the stairs.
"Nimisha," he called after her.
She paused but didn't turn around. "What?"
"Where were you last night?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere I could breathe without feeling like I was suffocating." She glanced back at him. "Don't worry. I was alone. Your possession remains untouched by other men."
She continued up the stairs, leaving three shocked people in her wake.
When she reached their bedroom, she closed the door, locked it, and finally let herself break.
10:23 AM - The Library
After showering and changing into comfortable clothes, Nimisha had retreated to the one place in the estate that felt semi-private—the library.
It was a beautiful room, two stories of books lining dark wood shelves, with comfortable reading nooks and large windows that let in natural light.
Most of the family never used it. Raghbir preferred his study, Saroj didn't read for pleasure, and Samarth...
well, Samarth had his own private library in his wing.
This space was functionally hers by default.
She'd set up her laptop at her favorite spot—a window seat overlooking the back gardens—and was trying to write. The words weren't flowing, her mind too chaotic, but the routine of it helped.
A soft sound at the door made her look up.
Bruno.
The massive dog stood in the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on her with that uncanny intelligence that always made her feel like he understood far more than a dog should.
Despite everything, she smiled. "Hello, Boo."
He approached slowly, deliberately, and dropped something at her feet.
A dead bird.
Nimisha stared at it for a long moment, then looked at the dog. "Is this... a gift?"
Bruno's expression—if dogs could have expressions—radiated pride.
I'm a hunter. This is how we show affection.
"I appreciate the thought, Boo, but maybe next time... flowers?" She carefully picked up the bird using tissues and set it aside to dispose of later. "Dead things aren't really my style."
Bruno huffed, clearly indignant that his offering wasn't properly appreciated.
"Don't be offended," she said, scratching behind his ears. "It's the thought that counts."
She settled back into her window seat, and Bruno positioned himself at her feet, his massive head resting on her thigh.
This had become their routine. Their secret.
Flashback - Three Months Into Marriage
The gardens were dark, the estate quiet except for the distant sounds of traffic beyond the walls. Nimisha sat on a stone bench near the fountain, her face in her hands, finally allowing herself to cry.
Three months of marriage. Three months of being invisible, unwanted, tolerated.
Three months of sleeping beside a man who touched her body but refused to touch her heart.