Chapter Four #2
"Sounds reasonable to me," Rishabh said, his lips twitching.
"Of course you'd take her side," Nisha snapped. "You think everything she does is amusing."
"I think," Rishabh said, pushing off the doorframe, "that you're picking fights for the sake of it. Advika's right—if you want tea, get it yourself or ring for staff. She's not your servant."
Nisha's face flushed red, but before she could respond, Rishabh had already left, shooting Advika a quick wink on his way out.
Score one for the illegitimate daughter.
Advika smiled at Nisha and her stunned friends. "Enjoy your afternoon, ladies. I'll be in the library if anyone needs me. For legitimate reasons."
She walked out, her head high, satisfaction warming her chest.
It was a small victory. But lately, she'd learned to treasure the small ones.
The gala was the kind of event Advika had only read about in magazines—Mumbai's elite gathered in a five-star hotel ballroom dripping with crystal and gold. Politicians, business tycoons, Bollywood celebrities, and various members of the underworld elite all mingling under the guise of charity.
Advika had been dressed by a team of stylists Sidharth had sent to the house. They'd debated over three different gowns before settling on an emerald green number that hugged every curve before flowing to the floor in a cascade of silk.
When she'd walked down the stairs, she'd caught Sidharth staring. Just for a moment, his careful mask had slipped, and she'd seen something hot and hungry flash in his amber eyes.
Then it was gone, replaced by his usual indifference.
"Ready?" he'd asked, offering his arm.
"As I'll ever be."
Now, three hours into the gala, Advika was exhausted from smiling and making small talk with people who looked at her with varying degrees of curiosity, judgment, and calculation. She was the new Mrs. Singhania, the treaty bride, the Pradhan daughter who'd secured peace.
Everyone wanted to know her secrets. Wanted to figure out where her loyalties lay.
If only they knew she had no secrets. She was exactly what she appeared to be—a woman trapped in a marriage she didn't want, trying to survive.
Sidharth had been by her side for the first hour, his hand a constant presence on her lower back, proprietary and impersonal. He'd introduced her to what felt like a thousand people, each introduction the same: "My wife, Advika."
Never her name alone. Always my wife, like a title. Like ownership.
Then he'd been pulled away by business associates, leaving her to fend for herself.
She'd gravitated toward the bar, nursing a glass of champagne she wasn't really drinking, when a man approached.
"You must be the famous Advika Singhania," he said, his smile a little too wide, a little too interested. He was in his forties, handsome in an over-groomed way, wearing a suit that screamed money. "Vikram Malhotra. I do business with your husband."
"Nice to meet you," Advika said politely, though alarm bells were already ringing.
"The pleasure is mine." His eyes raked over her in a way that made her skin crawl. "Sidharth is a lucky man. Very lucky."
"I'll be sure to tell him you said so."
"You're from the Pradhan family, yes? That must be interesting. Two powerful families united." He moved closer, invading her personal space. "Tell me, how does someone like you end up in an arranged marriage? I would have thought you'd have men lining up."
"Mr. Malhotra—"
"Vikram, please." His hand landed on her bare arm, fingers trailing up toward her shoulder. "We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, after all. No need for formalities."
Advika stepped back, but he followed, his touch becoming more insistent. She was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his familiarity when a hand clamped down on Vikram's wrist.
"Remove your hand." Sidharth's voice was arctic. "Now."
Vikram paled, stumbling back. "Sidharth! I was just—"
"Touching my wife." Sidharth moved between them, his body a wall of controlled fury. His hand settled on Advika's waist, pulling her against his side with unmistakable possession. "She's my wife."
The way he said it—low, dangerous, absolutely lethal—sent shivers down Advika's spine. This wasn't the cold, indifferent husband she'd gotten used to. This was the mafia king, the man who ruled the underworld with fear and blood.
"I didn't mean any disrespect," Vikram said quickly, hands raised in surrender. "I was just being friendly—"
"You were being inappropriate." Sidharth's amber eyes were cold as death. "Do it again, and we'll have a different kind of conversation. The kind that ends with you regretting you ever looked at her."
Vikram fled, disappearing into the crowd with the survival instinct of a prey animal.
Advika's heart was racing, adrenaline and something else—something hot and confusing—coursing through her veins. Sidharth's hand was still on her waist, his body still pressed against hers, and she was hyperaware of every point of contact.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice still carrying that dangerous edge.
"I'm fine. I could have handled him."
"I'm sure you could have." But his hand didn't move. If anything, his grip tightened. "But you shouldn't have to."
People were staring. Whispers rippled through the crowd. The ruthless Sidharth Singhania, showing public possessiveness over his wife. This would be tomorrow's gossip.
"We should go," he said abruptly. "I've had enough of this circus."
Advika didn't argue. She let him guide her out of the ballroom, his hand never leaving her waist, burning through the silk of her dress.
The car ride home was silent but charged with something electric. Sidharth had loosened his tie, undone the top button of his shirt. She caught him looking at her twice, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.
When they arrived at the estate, he opened her car door himself—unusual. His hand found her waist again as they walked inside, and Advika's skin felt too tight, her breath too shallow.
They made it to their bedroom. Sidharth closed the door, and the click of the lock sounded impossibly loud.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asked, his back still to her.
"Enjoy what?"
He turned, and the look on his face made her stomach flip. "The attention. Every man in that room was watching you. Wanting you."
"I didn't ask for their attention."
"But you got it." He moved closer, predatory. "In that dress, looking like..." He shook his head. "Do you have any idea what it did to me, watching them look at you?"
"You were barely around," Advika shot back, anger rising to meet whatever this was. "You left me alone for two hours. If you cared so much about men looking at me, maybe you should have stayed."
"I had business—"
"You always have business! I'm just your wife, right? The treaty bride. Why would you waste your precious time on me?"
"That's not—"
"Would you even care if I did enjoy the attention?" The words burst out of her, raw and honest. "Would you even care, Sidharth? You barely remember you have a wife most days!"
Something in him snapped. She saw it happen—the careful control he always maintained fracturing like glass.
He closed the distance between them in two strides, his hands coming up to cup her face. "You think I don't remember I have a wife?" His voice was rough, strained. "You think I don't lie awake every night, separated by those goddamn pillows, painfully aware that you're right there but I can't—"
"Can't what?" Advika's heart hammered against her ribs. "Can't what, Sidharth?"
Instead of answering, he kissed her.
It wasn't like their wedding—that brief, cold press of lips. This was fire and fury and months of tension finally exploding. His mouth was hot and demanding, one hand tangling in her hair while the other pulled her flush against him.
Advika gasped, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss until she was dizzy with it. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, then slid up to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands.
He tasted like whiskey—he'd been drinking at the gala, something he rarely did. It made him less controlled, more raw, and God help her, she wanted this. Wanted him.
Sidharth walked her backward until her back hit the door. His mouth left hers to trail hot kisses down her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making her whimper.
"Do you have any idea," he growled against her throat, "how hard it's been? Sharing a bed with you, smelling your shampoo, feeling you move in your sleep, and not being able to touch you?"
"Then touch me," Advika breathed, beyond caring about pride or self-preservation. "Touch me."
He groaned, a sound of pure need, and his hands found the zipper of her dress. He pulled it down in one smooth motion, and the emerald silk pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but delicate lace underwear and heels.
"Fuck," he breathed, his eyes raking over her like fire. "You're perfect."
Then his mouth was on hers again, hungry and demanding. His hands mapped her body—her waist, her hips, the curve of her breast through lace. Each touch sent sparks of pleasure racing through her.
Advika's fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He helped her, shrugging out of the expensive fabric and tossing it aside. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the warmth of his skin.
"Sidharth," she gasped as his mouth found her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her breast.
"Say it again," he demanded, his voice rough. "Say my name."
"Sidharth."
He lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carried her to the bed. The pillow wall was swept aside with one angry motion, forgotten.
He laid her down, his body covering hers, and the weight of him was intoxicating. His hands were everywhere—sliding up her thighs, teasing the edge of her lace panties, skimming over her ribs to cup her breasts through her bra.