CHAPTER 15
Three Days After the Gala
Something had changed.
Nimisha noticed it the morning after the gala, when she came down to breakfast and found Samarth already at the table. Not leaving. Not buried in his phone. Actually sitting there, waiting.
"Good morning," she said carefully, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thing had shifted between them.
"Morning." He poured her tea without being asked. Two sugars, the way she liked it.
She sat beside him—not across, not at the far end. Beside.
They ate in silence, but it was different from their usual silence. Less like cold distance and more like the comfortable quiet of two people who didn't need to fill every moment with noise.
"How's the manuscript?" he asked eventually.
She looked at him, startled. "Better. I broke through the block."
"What was blocking you?"
"I couldn't figure out why my hero kept pulling away." She focused on her toast. "I think I understand him better now."
She felt his gaze on her profile, steady and warm.
"Good," he said simply.
That was all.
But he stayed for the entire breakfast. And when he left, his hand brushed her shoulder—brief, light, almost accidental.
It wasn't accidental.
The Days That Followed
The change was subtle at first. Easy to dismiss as coincidence if she hadn't been paying attention.
But Nimisha had always paid attention to Samarth. Had catalogued every small gesture, every expression, every shift in his carefully controlled demeanor.
So she noticed.
The way his hand found her hip when he passed her in the hallway—just a brief, warm pressure before he continued walking.
The way his fingers brushed through her hair when she was writing, like he couldn't walk past without touching.
The box of pastries from her favorite bakery that appeared on her desk one morning, no note, no explanation.
The Nutella jar, already opened, waiting beside her laptop when she came to her study.
Small things. Insignificant things.
Devastating things.
The family noticed too.
Saroj watched her son's behavior with an expression Nimisha couldn't quite read. Confusion, certainly. Something that looked uncomfortably like guilt.
Kritika was quieter than usual. Subdued. She still came to the estate, still helped with household tasks, still brought Samarth his favorite foods.
But something in her eyes had changed.
Understanding, maybe. The kind that hurt.
Shaurya, predictably, was insufferable about the whole thing.
"Bhabhi," he said one afternoon, dropping into the chair across from her in the library with a grin that could have lit up a stadium. "My brother told me to bring you these."
He set a small package of Belgian chocolates on the table.
"He sent you to deliver chocolates?" Nimisha asked.
"He was in a meeting. Couldn't come himself." Shaurya's grin widened. "He actually called me during the meeting to ask if I could bring them to you. His exact words were: 'Shaurya, stop whatever you're doing and take these to Nimisha. She likes Belgian chocolates.' And then he hung up."
Nimisha stared at the chocolates.
"I've never seen him call me from a meeting for anything except emergencies," Shaurya continued. "You are apparently an emergency-level priority now. This is the best day of my life."
"Stop enjoying this so much."
"I absolutely will not." He leaned forward. "He also asked me, and I quote, 'Does she seem happy? Is she eating properly?' Bhabhi. He asked about your eating habits."
Heat crept up her neck. "He's just—"
"In love with you? Yes. Deeply, catastrophically, and completely without knowing what to do about it." Shaurya sat back with satisfaction. "It's beautiful to watch."
"He's not—"
"He called me from a meeting about chocolates." Shaurya raised an eyebrow. "What would you call it?"
She had no answer for that.
That Evening - Samarth's Office, 8:47 PM
Nimisha had noticed the light under Samarth's office door when she passed, and the absence of any sounds from the kitchen suggested dinner had been cleared away without him eating.
She shouldn't care. It wasn't her responsibility.
She cared anyway.
She knocked once before pushing the door open.
Samarth sat behind his desk, surrounded by files and his laptop, tie loosened, reading glasses she'd never seen him wear before perched on his nose.
He looked up, startled.
"You haven't eaten," she said.
"I had—"
"I asked the cook. You haven't." She crossed to the desk, setting down the plate she'd brought from the kitchen. "Eat."
He looked at the food, then at her, something shifting in his expression.
"Sit down, Nimisha."
"I just came to bring you—"
"Sit."
She sat in the chair across from his desk.
He stood, rounding the desk, and before she could process what was happening, his hands were on her waist, lifting her out of the chair.
"Samarth—"
He sat in the chair himself and settled her on his lap.
"There," he said, reaching for the plate. "Better."
She went still, hyperaware of his chest against her back, his arm around her waist, the solid warmth of him.
"What are you doing?"
"Having dinner." He picked up a piece of roti, tearing off a small piece. "Open."
She stared at him. "I'm not—"
"Open your mouth, Nimisha."
The quiet authority in his voice made her obey before she'd consciously decided to.
He fed her, then took a bite himself. Back and forth, easy and unhurried, like they'd done this a thousand times.
Like this was normal.
"You need to eat too," he said when she tried to redirect the food entirely to him.
"I already ate."
"Then you can eat again." His arm tightened around her waist. "You're too thin."
"I'm exactly the same size I've always been."
"You've been too thin since the beginning. I just never paid enough attention." His jaw tightened slightly, as if the admission cost him something. "I'm paying attention now."
Her throat tightened.
They ate in comfortable silence—or she thought it was silence until she realized she was humming quietly, a habit she had when she was relaxed.
She stopped immediately.
"Don't," he said. "I like it."
She looked at him over her shoulder. "You like my humming?"
"I like all the sounds you make." His eyes were dark, warm. "The humming. The little laugh you do when something genuinely surprises you. The way you talk to Bruno like he's going to argue back." He paused. "The sounds you make when I'm inside you."
Heat flooded through her. "Samarth—"
"Read to me," he said.
"What?"
"Your writing." His hand moved to her back, fingers spreading warm and possessive. "Read to me. Whatever you're working on."
"You want me to read you my romance novel while sitting on your lap?"
"Yes."
"That's—"
"I want to hear your voice." The admission was quiet, vulnerable in a way that made her chest ache. "I want to hear what you sound like when you're reading something you love."
She should say no. Should protect herself from this slow, devastating tenderness that was far more dangerous than his cold indifference had ever been.
She reached for her phone, where she had the latest chapter saved.
"It's not finished," she warned.
"I don't care."
She began to read.
Her voice was soft at first, self-conscious. But as the words flowed, she forgot herself. She forgot she was sitting on her husband's lap in his office. She forgot to be careful and guarded and fine.
She just read.
The chapter was an emotional one—the hero finally admitting to himself that the woman he'd pushed away had become indispensable. The quiet devastation of realizing you've been destroying the best thing in your life with your own two hands.
Samarth went very still behind her.
His hand on her back moved in slow, unconscious circles.
When she reached the end of the chapter, she stopped.
Silence.
"It's beautiful," he said, his voice rough.
"Really?" She turned slightly to see his face, startled by the rawness in his expression.
"You're talented." His hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "The way you write about love—it's not naive. It's not the kind that ignores pain. It sees the pain and chooses love anyway. That's rare."
"How would you know what's rare in love?" she asked softly.
"Because I've spent my entire adult life avoiding it." His eyes met hers. "I recognize its absence well enough to know what it looks like when it's present."
Her heart was pounding. "And what does it look like?"
"Like you," he said simply. "It looks exactly like you."
She couldn't breathe.
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. Then he kissed her—soft, slow, deliberate. The kind of kiss that had nothing to do with hunger or possession and everything to do with something she was afraid to name.
When he pulled back, his eyes were open and unguarded in a way she'd never seen.
Terrified of what he felt. Feeling it anyway.
"I want you here," he murmured, his hands sliding to her waist. "In my office. In my space." His lips brushed her jaw, her throat. "I want you everywhere. Everywhere in my life."
"Samarth—"
He lifted her, turning her toward his desk, and swept the papers and files aside with one arm.
She barely registered the sound of them hitting the floor.
He laid her down on the surface, stepping between her legs, and the look on his face—
Hunger, yes. Always that.
But underneath it, something raw and aching and new.
Desk - 9:23 PM
"Look at me," he said, settling over her.
She did, her eyes meeting his without flinching.
He entered her slowly, inch by inch, giving her time to feel every moment of it.
She gasped, her hands gripping the edge of the desk.
"Still looking at me," he commanded softly.
She forced her eyes back to his.
It was different like this. No darkness to hide in. No shadows to make it easier. Just the bright light of his office and his eyes on her face, watching every expression, every reaction, missing nothing.
Vulnerable. Completely exposed.
"Don't look away," he murmured, beginning to move. "I want to see you."
She'd always avoided his gaze during sex—some self-protective instinct that kept her from being too seen. But now, with his eyes holding hers with an intensity that felt like a conversation, she couldn't look away.
He moved slowly, deeply, each thrust deliberate and measured. Taking his time. Tasting every moment.
His hands cradled her like she was breakable. Like she mattered.
"You feel—" he started, then stopped.
"What?" she breathed.
"Like you were made for me," he said, his voice rough. "Exactly for me."
Something passed between them in that moment—wordless, electric, terrifying in its depth.
His pace was slow, devastating, building her pleasure with excruciating patience.
"Samarth—" Her voice broke on his name.
"I know." His forehead dropped to hers, their breath mingling. "I know."
When she came, it was quiet and overwhelming, rolling through her in waves rather than crashing. She kept her eyes on his face and watched something break open in his expression.
He followed her with her name on his lips—not a command, not possession.
Just her name. Like it was the only word that mattered.
He stayed where he was afterward, his weight braced on his arms, looking at her face.
"What just happened?" she whispered.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I don't want it to stop."
He helped her up carefully, and she expected him to pull away, to rebuild the distance.
Instead, he led her to the large leather couch in the corner of his office and settled onto it, pulling her against his chest.
"Stay here tonight," he said. "With me."
"In your office?"
"I have a blanket. And you fit perfectly here." His arms tightened. "Stay."
"Samarth—"
"Please, Nimisha."
The please undid her completely.
She settled against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her ear, steady and sure.
"Okay," she whispered.
He pressed his lips to the top of her head. Just that.
And somehow, it was everything.