Chapter Fourteen
The house was quiet when they entered. Late enough that most of the staff had retired. Sidharth led her upstairs, his hand warm and solid in hers.
But when they reached the bedroom, Advika stopped short.
It had changed.
Her things—the items she'd hastily packed—were back in the closet, but arranged more prominently now.
Not shoved to the side, but taking up equal space with his.
The dresser that had been bare on her side now held a framed photo of her mother, one Advika had kept hidden in a drawer.
Other photos were scattered around the room—Advika at her bakery, laughing.
Advika and Rishabh in the garden. Even one of her and Sidharth from their wedding, but instead of the formal portrait, it was a candid shot of them during the reception, her mid-laugh at something he'd said.
"When did you—"
"This morning. After I realized what an idiot I'd been." He moved to stand behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist. "I wanted you to know this is your space too. Not just mine that you're borrowing. Ours."
Advika's throat tightened. "You put up a photo of my mother."
"She was important to you. That makes her important to me." His lips brushed her temple. "There's more. Come."
He led her down the hall to a room she'd barely noticed before—one of the many guest rooms. But when he opened the door, it wasn't a guest room anymore.
It was a sitting room, decorated in soft creams and warm woods. A comfortable couch faced a wall of bookshelves already filled with her favorite titles. A desk sat by the window, perfectly positioned to catch the morning light. And in the corner, a small table with a French press and various teas.
"Your space," Sidharth said quietly. "For when you need time alone, or somewhere to read, or just somewhere that's entirely yours. I know the bedroom is shared, and sometimes you need space that's just for you."
Advika turned to him, tears streaming down her face. "You did all this today?"
"I had help. Rishabh, mostly. And Lakshmi." He wiped her tears with his thumbs. "I wanted you to come home to a place that felt like it was truly yours. Not just somewhere you were allowed to exist."
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." He pulled her close, holding her like she was precious. "Just stay. Be here. Be mine. That's all I need."
They stood like that for a long moment, just holding each other. Then Advika pulled back.
"We should shower. Get out of these wet clothes. You've been in the rain for hours."
"Together?" His eyes darkened with heat.
"Together," she confirmed.
The bathroom was steamy and warm. They undressed each other slowly, carefully, like they were unwrapping something fragile. When Advika saw the full extent of his body—shivering, covered in goosebumps from standing in the cold rain—her heart clenched.
"You're an idiot," she said softly, running her hands over his arms, trying to warm him.
"For you, yes." He stepped into the shower, pulling her with him. "Completely and utterly."
The hot water was bliss. Sidharth groaned as it hit his cold skin, and Advika found herself pressing against him, trying to share her warmth.
"Better?" she asked.
"Much." His hands slid down her back, pulling her closer. "Though I think I might need more warming up."
"Is that so?"
Instead of answering with words, he kissed her. Slow and deep, pouring everything into it—apology and promise and love. So much love it made her dizzy.
"I love you," he murmured against her lips. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I love you too," she whispered back. "Even when you're an idiot."
"Especially when I'm an idiot." His smile was self-deprecating. "Because my idiocy led to you."
They washed each other with tender care—her shampooing his hair, him soaping her back, both of them taking time to just touch, to reconnect. There was heat, yes—there was always heat between them—but this was different. Softer. More intimate than any of their previous encounters.
When they finally left the shower, Sidharth dried her off with gentle hands, then carried her to the bed despite her protests that she could walk.
"Let me take care of you," he said, laying her down on the soft sheets. "Let me show you what you mean to me."
He started at her feet, kissing and caressing every inch of skin as he worked his way up. Behind her knees, the inside of her thighs, her hip bones. Each touch was reverent, worshipful.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her stomach. "I don't tell you that enough. How beautiful you are. How perfect."
"I'm not perfect—"
"You are to me." He moved higher, his mouth finding her breast, tongue circling her nipple until she gasped. "Every inch of you is perfect to me."
He took his time, learning her body like it was the first time. Finding every spot that made her sigh, every touch that made her arch. And through it all, he talked—whispered words of love and devotion and apology against her skin.
"I'm sorry I hurt you. Sorry I made you doubt how I feel. Sorry I was too afraid to say what you deserved to hear."
"Sidharth—"
"I love you," he said again, his eyes meeting hers as his fingers slid through her wetness. "I love the way you moan when I touch you here." He circled her clit, making her hips buck. "I love the way you look when you're about to come. I love the sounds you make. I love everything about you."
"Show me," she gasped. "Stop talking and show me."
He smiled—that devastating smile that was all hers—and settled between her thighs. His mouth on her was heaven, his tongue working her with the same focused precision he applied to everything else. But there was tenderness there too, care in every movement.
When she came, crying out his name, he kissed his way back up her body, his lips shining with her pleasure.
"I love watching you come apart," he said, positioning himself at her entrance. "Love knowing I'm the one who makes you feel this good."
He entered her slowly, giving her time to adjust, his eyes locked on hers. The connection was intense, overwhelming. She could see everything in his eyes—love and need and vulnerability.
"I love you," he said as he began to move. "I love you so much, Advika."
"I love you too," she gasped, her hands sliding into his hair, pulling him down for a kiss.
They moved together, slow and deliberate, building the pleasure gradually. His hand found hers, fingers intertwining, pinning it beside her head. The other hand slid beneath her, tilting her hips to change the angle.
"Look at me," he commanded gently. "Keep your eyes on me."
She did, even when it became almost too much. Watching him above her, his face taut with pleasure and emotion, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You're mine," he said, his thrusts becoming deeper. "And I'm yours. Completely. Forever."
"Forever," she agreed, feeling her orgasm building again.
"Come with me," he urged, his hand sliding between them to find her clit. "Let me feel you come around me. Please, Advika."
The combination of his words, his touch, the look in his eyes—it sent her over the edge. She came with a cry, her back arching, inner walls clenching around him.
He followed seconds later, her name a prayer on his lips as he emptied himself inside her.
They stayed locked together for a long moment, breathing hard, their hearts racing in tandem. Then he rolled them onto their sides, still joined, pulling her close.
"I'm not done with you yet," he murmured against her hair.
"Oh?"
"I have months of being an emotionally constipated idiot to make up for." His hand skimmed down her side. "And I plan to be very thorough about it."
He made love to her twice more through the night—once with her on top, riding him while he worshipped her with his hands and words, and once more in the early morning hours, spooned behind her, his movements lazy and tender as dawn broke.
Each time, he told her he loved her. Whispered it, groaned it, said it with his body when words failed.
And each time, she said it back.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, too exhausted to move, too content to care.
"We should sleep," Advika mumbled against his chest.
"In a minute." His arms tightened around her. "I'm not ready to let go yet."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know. I just... I need to hold you. To know this is real."
They talked as the sun rose, sharing things they'd never said before.
Sidharth told her about his fears, his insecurities, his nightmares about losing her the way he'd lost his parents.
Advika told him about growing up invisible, about the loneliness of being unwanted, about the fear that she'd never be enough for anyone.
"You're enough," he said fiercely. "You're more than enough. You're everything."
"So are you," she replied. "Broken edges and all."
They fell asleep as the sun climbed higher, wrapped around each other, finally at peace.
Two Weeks Later
The change in the household was palpable.
Nisha had apologized—stiffly, uncomfortably, but genuinely. "I was wrong. About you. About us. About... everything. I'm sorry."
It wasn't perfect. They'd probably never be best friends. But it was a start.
Rishabh had pulled Advika into a tight hug the first time he saw her after she'd returned. "Thank God. He was unbearable without you."
And Sidharth... Sidharth was different.
He still worked long hours, still commanded his empire with an iron fist. But he made time for her. Came home for dinner. Attended events at her bakery. Held her hand in public without hesitation.
And he'd started including her in business meetings.
"Your wife has a mind for strategy," one of his associates noted after Advika suggested a solution to a logistics problem they'd been wrestling with. "You should use it."
Sidharth had smiled—that proud, possessive smile that said I know. She's incredible. "I intend to."