CHAPTER 8
Nimisha woke up alone. The space beside her was cold, the sheets undisturbed. Samarth hadn't come to bed last night. After their confrontation in the library yesterday, she hadn't expected him to.
Today marked exactly one year since their wedding.
Three hundred and sixty-five days of being Mrs. Samarth Ranawat.
She stared at the ceiling, her chest tight with an emotion she couldn't name. Grief, maybe. For the marriage that never was. For the love she'd foolishly given to a man incapable of returning it.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from her brother Abhay.
Happy Anniversary, choti. I hope he's treating you better than I fear he is. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.
Tears pricked her eyes. At least someone remembered. At least someone cared.
She typed a response: Thank you, bhai. I'm fine. Don't worry.
Lies came easier via text.
She got up, showered, dressed in a simple salwar kameez. No point in dressing up. No point in pretending today was special.
It was just another day.
Family Breakfast - 8:15 AM
The breakfast room was full when Nimisha arrived. Raghbir sat at the head of the table, reading the newspaper. Saroj was discussing something with Kritika. Shaurya was on his phone, grinning at something. Tanisha was describing her latest shopping trip to her mother.
Normal family morning.
No acknowledgment that today was different.
Nimisha took her seat quietly, accepting tea from the servant who'd actually acknowledged her presence this morning. Small mercies.
"Good morning, bhabhi," Shaurya said with his usual warmth.
"Good morning."
"You look tired. Everything okay?"
"Fine. Just didn't sleep well."
Samarth entered then, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, looking like he'd gotten even less sleep than she had. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his jaw was tight with tension.
Their eyes met briefly across the table.
He looked away first.
"Samarth, finally," Saroj said. "We need to discuss the final preparations for the gala. It's this Saturday."
"I'm aware."
"Kritika has prepared the final guest list. We're expecting—"
"Maa, I don't have time for this now. I have meetings all day."
"But—"
"Later." His tone brooked no argument.
He grabbed a cup of coffee, didn't eat, and left without another word.
Without acknowledging Nimisha.
Without remembering.
She stared at her plate, forcing herself to eat even though everything tasted like ash.
"Nimisha, after breakfast, we need to finalize the seating arrangements," Kritika said. "I've made some changes based on the new RSVPs."
"Of course."
"Oh, Maa!" Kritika suddenly brightened, reaching for a bouquet Nimisha hadn't noticed on the sideboard. "I brought these for you. To say thank you for being like a mother to me all these years."
The flowers were beautiful—expensive white roses and lilies arranged perfectly.
Saroj's face softened. "Beta, you didn't have to."
"I wanted to. You've always been there for me. Supported me. Loved me." Kritika's eyes glistened with genuine emotion. "I don't know what I would have done without you."
"You're like a daughter to me," Saroj said, taking the flowers. "More so than—" She caught herself, glancing at Nimisha.
More so than the daughter-in-law who'd been forced on the family.
The unspoken words hung in the air.
Nimisha set down her fork carefully. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
"But we need to discuss the seating—" Kritika started.
"Later. Send me your changes. I'll review them."
She left before anyone could protest. Before she could break down in front of them.
Today should mean something. Her wedding anniversary should warrant at least acknowledgment.
But it didn't.
To them, she was still just the girl who'd been traded for political alliance. The wife who didn't matter.
Nimisha's Study - 3:42 PM
Nimisha had spent the day trying to write. Failing. Trying again.
The words wouldn't come. Her mind kept drifting to Samarth. To the anniversary he'd forgotten. To the love she'd stupidly confessed.
Does it matter? Would it change anything?
She knew the answer. Had always known.
Her phone rang. Aisha, her best friend from college who'd slowly drifted away after the marriage—not through malice, just through the natural distance that formed when one person's life became unrecognizable.
"Happy anniversary, Nimisha!"
At least someone else remembered.
"Thanks, Ash."
"Big plans tonight? Something romantic? Please tell me Samarth is taking you somewhere special."
Nimisha's laugh was hollow. "No. No plans."
A pause. "Nimisha... is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine."
"You're lying. I can always tell when you're lying."
"I'm just tired."
"Tired or unhappy?"
Both, Nimisha thought. "I should go. Thank you for calling."
"Nimisha—"
"I'll talk to you soon, Ash. I promise."
She ended the call before her friend could push further.
The afternoon stretched into evening. Still no word from Samarth.
At seven PM, Nimisha made a decision.
If this anniversary meant nothing to him, she'd at least try to make it mean something to herself.
She showered, styled her hair, applied subtle makeup. From the back of her closet, she pulled out the silk nightgown she'd bought months ago but never worn—deep emerald green, delicate lace straps, falling to mid-thigh.
She felt ridiculous. Like she was trying to seduce her own husband on their anniversary.
But she lit candles anyway. Put on soft music. Made their bedroom into something almost romantic.
Then she waited.
10:53 PM - Master Bedroom
Samarth had been in the basement of one of his warehouses when he'd gotten the call about the Malhotra problem.
Vikram Malhotra's son—a punk who thought having a rich father made him untouchable—had been running his mouth about the Ranawats. Making threats. Showing disrespect.
Samarth had dealt with it personally.
The memory of blood under his fingernails was still fresh as he entered the estate through the side entrance. He'd showered at the warehouse, changed clothes, but he could still feel the violence on his skin.
It was past eleven when he reached his bedroom.
He pushed open the door and stopped.
Candles. Music. And Nimisha.
She sat on the edge of their bed in a green silk nightgown that made his mouth go dry. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She'd made an effort.
For him.
"What is this?" His voice came out harsher than intended.
She stood, her smile nervous. "Our anniversary. I thought we could... I wanted to make it special."
Anniversary.
The word hit him like a punch to the gut.
Fuck.
He'd forgotten.
"Nimisha—"
"It's okay if you forgot," she said quickly, reading his expression. "I know you were busy. I just thought maybe we could spend tonight together. Really together. Not just... you know."
Not just fucking. She meant talking. Being. Existing as more than bodies in darkness.
He should agree. Should give her this one night. It was the least he could do after everything.
But the violence still sang in his veins. The blood was still fresh under his nails. And she stood there looking soft and hopeful and breakable—
Everything he'd taught himself not to need.
"It's a date on a calendar," he said, his voice cold. "Nothing more."
Her face fell. He saw the exact moment her hope died.
Good. Better that than letting her believe this could be something it wasn't.
"Right," she whispered. "Of course. How silly of me."
She moved to blow out the candles, and he should let her. Should leave. Retreat to his office like he always did.
But his feet wouldn't move.
"I've followed every rule, Samarth," she said quietly, her back to him.
"Every single one. I don't question your business.
I don't embarrass you publicly. I attend every function.
I stay out of your office. I don't expect emotional intimacy.
I'm available whenever you need me." She turned to face him. "What more do you want from me?"
"I want you to stop expecting something I can't give."
"Love?" She laughed bitterly. "Don't worry. I've learned that lesson well enough."
"Good. That's what wives do. They accept reality."
"Reality." She wrapped her arms around herself. "You want to know what my reality is? It's being married to a man who touches me in the dark but can't look at me in the daylight. It's living in a house where everyone wishes I was someone else. It's loving someone who—"
She cut herself off.
But he'd heard.
Loving someone.
"Don't," he said. "Don't say that word."
"Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable? Because it complicates your neat little arrangement?"
"Because it's a lie. You don't love me. You love the idea of being loved."
Her expression hardened. "You're right. How could I possibly love you? The man who treats me like I'm invisible except when he wants to fuck me. The man who lets his family humiliate me. The man who—"
"Enough."
"No, not enough! Do you want to know what really bothers me? It's not that you don't love me. It's that you won't even try." Her voice broke. "It's watching you be kind to Kritika. Watching you smile at her. Watching you give her all the things you refuse to give me."
"Kritika is—"
"What about her, Samarth?"
His eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"The access she has to you. The way she's always here, bringing you things, calling you Rey, finishing your sentences. If another man had that kind of access to me—if I smiled at him the way she smiles at you, if I brought him gifts, if I spent evenings in his study—would you be okay with it?"
The question detonated in his chest like a bomb.
The image of Nimisha smiling at another man. Bringing him gifts. Spending time alone with him.
Rage flooded through Samarth so fast and violent he saw red.
"She's family," he bit out.
"I'm your wife!"
"In name only!"
The words hung between them, sharp and cutting.
Nimisha laughed, but the sound was broken. "Would you accept it? If another man had that access to me? If I smiled at him the way she smiles at you?"
Samarth went very, very still.