Chapter Nine
It started with a scratchy throat.
Advika had noticed it two days ago but ignored it. She couldn't afford to be weak, not now. Not when she was barely holding things together as it was. So she pushed through—the aching muscles, the persistent headache, the way sounds seemed too loud and lights too bright.
By day three, she knew she was in trouble.
"You look terrible," Rishabh said the moment he saw her.
"Thanks. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear." Advika's voice came out rough, her throat protesting every word.
"No, seriously. Are you sick?" He stood, coming around the table to press his hand to her forehead. "Advika, you're burning up."
"I'm fine." She pulled away, pouring herself coffee with shaking hands. "Just tired."
"That's not just tired—"
"I said I'm fine." The words came out sharper than intended. She softened her tone. "I'll rest after breakfast."
Rishabh didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. Nisha, who'd been watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement, said nothing. Of course she didn't. Advika being sick was probably the highlight of her day.
Advika made it through breakfast by sheer force of will, though the toast tasted like cardboard and the coffee made her nauseous. She excused herself, planning to go back to bed and sleep this off.
She made it halfway up the stairs before the world tilted.
Dinner was a mistake.
Advika knew it the moment she sat down at the table, but she'd spent all day in bed and couldn't bear the thought of another evening alone in that room. So she'd dragged herself downstairs, dressed in a simple salwar kameez, her hair pulled back in a messy bun.
The fever hadn't broken. If anything, it had gotten worse. Her skin felt too tight, her bones ached, and there was a persistent ringing in her ears that made concentration nearly impossible.
But she sat. She smiled when appropriate. She pushed food around her plate and pretended to listen to the conversation flowing around her.
"—the Malhotra deal should close by Friday," Sidharth was saying. He'd been talking business with Rishabh, barely acknowledging her presence. Par for the course, these days.
"Advika, you're not eating," Rishabh observed, his voice concerned.
"Not very hungry." The words felt thick in her mouth. Why was it so hard to talk?
"You should eat something," he pressed. "You've barely touched your food all day—"
"I said I'm not hungry." She reached for her water glass, but her hand was shaking so badly the glass slipped.
It shattered on the floor, ice and water spreading across the marble.
"Sorry," she mumbled, starting to stand. "I'll clean—"
The room spun. The lights were too bright, sounds too loud, and suddenly her legs weren't working properly. She felt herself falling, heard Rishabh shout her name—
Strong arms caught her before she hit the ground.
"Advika!" Sidharth's voice, sharp with panic. "Advika, open your eyes."
She tried. Everything was fuzzy, distant. She was so hot, burning from the inside out.
"She's burning up," Rishabh's voice, from somewhere above. "We need to get her to a doctor—"
"I've got her." Sidharth's arms tightened around her. She felt herself being lifted, cradled against a broad chest. "Call Dr. Sharma. Tell him to get here now."
"Sidharth—" Nisha's voice, uncertain.
"Not now." His voice was hard, brooking no argument.
Advika tried to focus on his face as he carried her through the house, up the stairs. His jaw was tight, his amber eyes darker than usual, focused entirely on her.
"'m fine," she mumbled. "Just tired."
"You collapsed. That's not fine." His grip shifted, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. "Why didn't you tell someone you were sick?"
"Didn't want... to be weak."
Something flickered across his face—an emotion she couldn't quite read in her current state. "You're not weak. You're stubborn."
He laid her on their bed—their bed, the one they shared but never really shared. His hand pressed against her forehead, and even through the fever, she could feel how cool his skin was against her burning one.
"Christ, you're on fire." He moved to the bathroom, and she heard water running. He came back with a damp cloth, pressing it gently to her forehead. "The doctor's on his way."
"Don't need... a doctor." The room was spinning again. She closed her eyes against the vertigo.
"Yes, you do." His voice was firm but gentle. His hand found hers, squeezing. "Just rest. I've got you."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made her want to cry. When had he last said something like that to her? When had he last touched her with tenderness instead of passion or possession?
"Sidharth?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm here."
"Why... why do you hate me?"
The question hung in the air. Advika wasn't even sure why she'd asked it—the fever was making her fuzzy, loosening the careful control she usually maintained around him.
For a long moment, he didn't answer. His hand stilled in hers.
Then, so quietly she almost missed it: "I don't."
But she was already slipping into feverish darkness, his words following her down.
The next three days passed in a blur of fever dreams and moments of lucidity.
Dr. Sharma came—she remembered that. His cool hands checking her pulse, his voice grave as he prescribed antibiotics and bed rest. "Severe flu, probably picked up from somewhere with poor ventilation.
She needs to stay in bed, take these medications, and someone should monitor her temperature regularly. "
What Advika didn't expect was for that someone to be Sidharth.
He stayed. Not just in the room, but actively present. He was there every time she woke—checking her temperature with gentle hands, helping her sit up to take medicine, holding a glass of water to her lips when her hands shook too badly to manage it herself.
"Drink," he'd murmur, one hand supporting the back of her head. "You need to stay hydrated."
On the second day, when her fever spiked again, he'd carried her to the bathroom, run a lukewarm bath, and sat on the edge of the tub fully clothed while she soaked, his hand supporting her so she wouldn't slip under the water.
"This is... embarrassing," she'd mumbled, barely coherent.
"It's necessary." His voice was matter-of-fact, but his touch remained gentle. "Your fever needs to come down."
He'd dried her off with the same clinical efficiency, dressed her in a fresh nightgown, and carried her back to bed like she weighed nothing.
He brought her soup that the kitchen staff had made, feeding her small spoonfuls when she was too weak to hold the spoon herself.
"I can do it," she'd protested weakly.
"You're too stubborn to ask for help," he'd replied, but there was no heat in the words. Almost... fondness? "So I'm not giving you a choice."
He changed the cold compresses on her forehead every hour.
He made sure she took her medications on schedule.
He even read to her once, when she was too feverish to sleep but too exhausted to stay fully awake—his deep voice rumbling through some thriller novel, the words washing over her in a soothing wave.
And through it all, he barely left the room. She'd wake at odd hours—2 AM, 4 AM—to find him in the chair beside the bed, laptop open, working while keeping watch over her.
"You should sleep," she'd whispered once, her throat raw.
"I will." He'd looked up from his screen, his amber eyes soft in the lamplight. "When I know you're okay."
On the third morning, Advika woke to find the fever had finally broken. Her skin was damp with sweat, but cool. The aching in her muscles had subsided to a dull throb. Her head felt clearer than it had in days.
She turned her head slowly, carefully, and found Sidharth in the chair beside the bed. He was asleep, still fully dressed, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. And his hand...
His hand was holding hers. Their fingers were intertwined, his thumb resting against her pulse point.
Advika's breath caught. In sleep, all the harsh lines of his face had softened. He looked younger, less burdened. Almost... peaceful.
This man had spent three days taking care of her. Had barely left her side. Had touched her with a tenderness she'd never experienced from him before.
She squeezed his hand gently, and his eyes fluttered open. For just a moment—before full consciousness returned—he smiled at her. A real, genuine smile that transformed his face.
"Hey," he said softly. "Fever broke?"
"Yeah." Her voice was still rough, but clearer. "I feel better."
"Good." He started to pull his hand away, awareness creeping back in. The walls were going back up—she could see it happening in real-time.
"Wait." Advika tightened her grip before he could fully withdraw. "Thank you. For... for everything. You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did." His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."
"That's never mattered before."
The words hung between them, accusatory but true. His expression shifted—guilt, maybe, or regret.
"It's always mattered," he said finally, so quietly she almost missed it. "I've just been shit at showing it."
Before she could respond, he pulled his hand free and stood. "I should let you rest. Dr. Sharma said—"
"Don't." The word came out more desperate than she'd intended. "Don't do this. Don't go back to being cold and distant after... after what you just did for me."
He paused at the bathroom door, his back to her. "Advika—"
"You took care of me. For three days. You barely left this room." Her voice was getting stronger, even if her body was still weak. "That means something. Tell me it means something."
"Of course it means something." He turned, frustration evident in every line of his body. "But I don't know how to—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to do this. How to be what you need."
"I need you to be honest." She struggled to sit up, her arms shaking with the effort. "I need you to stop hiding behind walls and just... just be real with me."
"You want honesty?" He moved back toward the bed, something dangerous in his eyes.
"Fine. When you collapsed at dinner, when I caught you and felt how hot your skin was, I was terrified.
Actually terrified. And I couldn't let anyone else touch you.
Couldn't let anyone else take care of you. It had to be me."
"Why?"
"Because you're mine." The words were torn from him.
"Because the thought of losing you makes me insane.
Because watching you be sick, be vulnerable, be human—it reminded me that you're not just the treaty bride or the Pradhan daughter or any of the labels I've been using to keep distance between us. "
Advika's heart was racing. "Then what am I?"
He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that she could feel his body heat. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone.
"You're the woman who bakes at 2 AM when she can't sleep.
Who stands up to my sister even when it costs her.
Who risks my anger to visit her bakery because she needs to feel like herself again.
" His voice was rough with emotion. "You're brave and stubborn and talented and you drive me absolutely crazy. "
"That's not an answer," she whispered, even as she leaned into his touch.
"It's the only answer I have right now." He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. "I don't know what we are, Advika. I don't know how to name this thing between us. But I know I can't keep pretending it doesn't exist."
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know." His breath was warm against her lips. "But maybe we figure it out together?"
It was the most vulnerable he'd ever been with her. The most honest. And it wasn't enough—not nearly enough—but it was something.
"Okay," she said softly. "Together."
He kissed her then—soft and gentle, so different from the desperate claiming they usually shared. It was a kiss that held promise instead of possession, tenderness instead of heat.
When he pulled back, she was smiling despite everything.
"You need to rest," he said, helping her lie back down. "Get your strength back."
"Will you stay?"
He hesitated, and for a moment, she thought he'd retreat back into himself. But then he nodded, settling back into the chair beside the bed.
"Yeah," he said, reaching for her hand again. "I'll stay."
And for the first time since their wedding, Advika fell asleep holding her husband's hand, hope blooming fragile but real in her chest.
Over the next few days, as Advika slowly recovered, something shifted between them.
Sidharth still maintained some distance—old habits were hard to break—but the walls were lower. He ate meals with her in their room, telling her about his day, actually listening when she talked about wanting to return to her bakery eventually.
"Maybe we can work something out," he said one evening, helping her to the bathroom—her legs were still shaky after days in bed. "Once security protocols are better established. A compromise."
"Really?" She looked at him, surprised.
"Really." He steadied her at the sink. "I understand it's important to you. And I've been... unreasonable about a lot of things."
It was as close to an apology as she'd gotten from him, and she'd take it.
One afternoon, she woke from a nap to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, just watching her sleep. When their eyes met, instead of looking away in embarrassment, he smiled.
"You snore," he said.
"I do not!"
"Just a little. It's..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "It's cute."
The casual intimacy of the moment—him teasing her, her blushing, both of them smiling—felt monumental.
Another evening, as she was finally strong enough to shower by herself, she emerged to find he'd changed the sheets and laid out fresh pajamas for her.
"Lakshmi would have done that," she said.
"I wanted to." He shrugged. "Get dressed. I had the kitchen make your favorite soup."
These small gestures—the care, the attention, the actual presence—meant more than any grand romantic declaration could have.
But Advika remained wary. She'd been hurt too many times to fully trust this version of Sidharth. Was this real, or would he retreat the moment she was fully recovered?
She didn't know. But she was willing to find out.
One step at a time.
Together.