CHAPTER 12
Samarth was reviewing the updated surveillance reports on Kabir when his office door opened without a knock.
Kritika.
She entered carrying a tiffin box, her smile bright and familiar. "I brought you lunch. You always forget to eat when you're working."
He looked up, irritation flickering across his face. "I'm busy."
"Which is exactly why I brought food." She set the tiffin on his desk, moving around his space with an ease that suddenly felt intrusive. "Your favorite—kadhi chawal and aloo paratha. Just like when we were kids."
She opened the containers, the smell of home-cooked food filling his office. Normally, he'd appreciate the gesture. Kritika had been doing things like this for years—bringing him food, checking on him, acting as a buffer between him and his mother's expectations.
But today, watching her move around his office like she owned it, something felt wrong.
"Remember when we used to study together?" Kritika asked, settling into the chair across from him. "You'd be so focused on your books, and I'd have to force you to eat."
"I remember."
"We spent so many evenings in your father's library. You teaching me calculus, me helping you with literature." Her smile was nostalgic, warm. "I always knew exactly how you liked your tea. Two sugars, no milk. Still the same?"
"Yes."
She'd already prepared it, he realized. Had brought a thermos with tea made exactly how he liked it.
The gesture should have been thoughtful.
Instead, it made him uncomfortable.
He watched as she poured the tea, arranged the food, made herself at home in his space with a comfort he'd never allowed anyone else.
Except he had allowed it. For years. Had let Kritika into spaces that were supposed to be private. Had accepted her care and attention as his due.
Had never questioned the access she had to his life.
Would you accept it? If another man had that access to me?
Nimisha's words from their anniversary night echoed in his head.
"Kritika—"
The door opened again. Saroj entered, her face lighting up when she saw Kritika.
"There you are, beta! I should have known you'd be taking care of my son." She moved to stand beside Kritika, the two of them presenting a united front of warmth and familiarity. "Samarth never eats properly unless someone forces him."
"I was just telling him that," Kritika said with a laugh.
They continued talking—about the food, about Samarth's health, about upcoming family events. Planning around him like he wasn't there.
Like this was their domain, and he was the beneficiary of their care.
And suddenly, he couldn't breathe.
This was what Nimisha lived with every day. Being talked around, planned for, managed by people who thought they knew better.
The difference was, Nimisha had never been welcomed into these intimate moments. Had never been allowed to bring him lunch or move through his space with easy familiarity.
She'd been kept firmly outside the circle that Kritika occupied with such confidence.
"I need to go," he said abruptly, standing.
Both women looked at him in surprise.
"But you haven't eaten—" Saroj started.
"I'll eat later." He grabbed his jacket. "I have a meeting."
He didn't. But he needed out of that office, away from the sudden suffocating realization of what he'd been doing.
He'd been giving Kritika everything he refused to give his wife.
Library - 2:15 PM
Samarth found Nimisha exactly where he expected—curled in her window seat, laptop balanced on her knees, completely absorbed in whatever she was writing.
He stood in the doorway, watching her.
Her brow was furrowed in concentration. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, pausing occasionally as she searched for the right word. When she found it, a small smile would cross her face before she dove back in.
She was beautiful like this. Unguarded. Lost in a world she was creating.
A world where love existed. Where heroes cherished their heroines. Where happy endings were possible.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
She sensed his presence, her typing slowing. She looked up, wariness flickering across her features when she saw him.
"Do you need something?" she asked.
"No."
But he didn't leave.
She waited, confused, before returning her attention to her laptop.
He moved closer, unable to help himself. "What are you working on?"
She glanced at him again, surprised by the question. "My next book."
"What's it about?"
"It's... a romance. Like all my books."
"I know that. I'm asking about the plot."
She studied him for a long moment, clearly trying to figure out his angle. "It's about a woman who's trapped in a loveless arrangement. And the man who slowly realizes she's the best thing that ever happened to him. Before it's too late."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"Is it good?" he asked, his voice rougher than intended. "Your writing."
"Some people think so."
"Let me read one."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"Your books. I want to read one."
"Why?"
"Because you're my wife." He moved closer to the window seat. "I should know what you do. What you're good at. What matters to you."
She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You've never asked before."
"I'm asking now."
She bit her lip, clearly torn. Finally, she reached for her bag and pulled out a paperback—well-worn, with a romantic cover depicting a couple in an embrace.
"This one. It's my latest." She handed it to him. "But you don't have to read it if you're just being polite—"
"I'm never polite." He took the book, examining the cover. The Distance Between Us by T. Shah. "You use your maiden name."
"I started publishing before we married. Seemed easier to keep it."
He nodded, tucking the book under his arm. "I'll read it."
"Samarth—" She stopped, unsure what to say.
"What?"
"Nothing. I just... thank you. For asking."
The gratitude in her voice made his chest tight.
He should say something. Explain why he was suddenly interested in her life, her work, her world.
But he didn't know how to put it into words.
So he simply nodded and left, the book clutched in his hand like a lifeline.
That Night - Samarth's Study, 11:34 PM
Samarth sat in his leather chair, whiskey beside him, reading his wife's book.
He'd intended to skim it. Get a general sense of her writing and move on.
Instead, he was on page 127, completely absorbed.
The story was about a woman named Aanya who'd been married to a cold, distant man named Vihaan. An arranged marriage born of family obligation. The hero kept the heroine at arm's length, convinced he was protecting her by not letting her in.
But slowly, inevitably, he fell.
It was in the small moments. The way Aanya made tea exactly how he liked it without being asked. The way she waited up for him even though he never acknowledged it. The way she loved him silently, asking for nothing, giving everything.
And Vihaan—the bastard—was too blind to see it until almost too late.
Samarth read the climactic scene where Vihaan finally broke down, finally admitted that his distance hadn't been protection—it had been fear.
"I was terrified," Vihaan whispered against her hair. "Terrified that if I let you in, you'd see the monster beneath. That you'd realize you deserved better than a man who's forgotten how to be gentle. How to be good."
"I don't want gentle," Aanya said fiercely. "I don't want good. I want you. All of you. The broken pieces and the sharp edges. The darkness and the light. I want the real you."
"You already have it," he said, his voice breaking. "You've had it since the beginning. I was just too much of a coward to admit it."
Samarth set the book down, his hand shaking slightly.
She'd written their story.
Every painful, beautiful, devastating moment of it.
Except in her version, the hero found his courage. Chose love over fear. Gave the heroine the happy ending she deserved.
In real life, Samarth was still locked behind his walls, too terrified to reach for what he wanted.
And his wife—brilliant, talented, heartbreakingly hopeful—was writing the love story she'd never have.
He picked up the book again, turning to the dedication page he'd skipped earlier.
For the one who taught me that love isn't always loud. Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes it's patient. Sometimes it's simply showing up, day after day, even when you're not sure you're wanted. This is for you.
The words blurred.
He closed the book carefully and set it on his desk.
Then he poured another whiskey and tried to forget the ache in his chest.
Failed spectacularly.
Next Morning - Breakfast Room, 8:47 AM
Nimisha was surprised to find Samarth at the breakfast table when she came down. He was usually gone by now, already at the office or handling "business."
He looked up when she entered, their eyes meeting briefly before she looked away.
"Good morning," she said quietly, taking her seat.
"Morning."
Saroj and Kritika were discussing the charity gala, their voices a pleasant backdrop to the awkward silence between husband and wife.
Samarth's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then at Nimisha.
"I finished your book."
She froze, her tea halfway to her lips. "Oh?"
"It was good."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really." He stood, grabbing his jacket. "The hero was an idiot, though."
"Most heroes are," she said softly. "Until they're not."
Their gazes locked, something passing between them that neither could name.
Then he left, and Nimisha sat there, her heart racing, wondering if maybe—just maybe—her husband was starting to see her.
Really see her.
It was a dangerous hope.
But she couldn't quite crush it.