Chapter 13
Meera
I stand before the mirror, locking eyes with the woman who is now married.
Yet the more I look, the more I realise that nothing about me says I am married.
No sindoor on my hairline. No mangalsutra around my neck.
Nothing that marks me as someone’s wife.
Even my peach salwar suit feels far too plain for a bride’s first morning.
But then again, I am not a blessed bride who left her home with blessings or truckloads of wedding trousseau.
I swallow, remembering that if it weren’t for Sonia, I would’ve still been in the same outfit I was brought here in.
After Dev left to bail his brother out, I had called her and told her everything, including how I was blackmailed into marriage.
The guilt hit her so hard she could barely speak, her words tumbling out as she kept blaming herself, apologising over and over again.
After what felt like an eternity of pulling her out of her guilt and reminding her that she would’ve done the same in my place, she finally asked if I needed anything.
That was when I asked her to go to my house and bring me some clothes, which, of course, she did.
Pulling in a deep breath, I take in the room through the mirror.
Even the sunlight can’t soften the dark charcoal walls, the sharp edges of the heavy wooden furniture, or the massive king-sized bed that looks more like a power statement than a place for resting.
The sleek black wardrobe and the matching nightstands only add to the cold, imposing aura of the space.
I feel so out of place here.
And the worst part? This is where I’ll have to live.
My reflection blurs, and I blink, refusing to let the tears fall.
I will not cry. I will not fall apart. If Dev thinks he can break me, bend me into the life he wants…
he’s sorely mistaken. I may have been forced into this marriage, but I am not the woman who gives up easily.
He may try to destroy my happiness, but the day isn’t far when he’ll be on his knees, begging for his own peace and sanity.
“Are you thinking of me, Mrs. Rathore?”
My eyes lock onto Dev in the mirror. He stands behind me, clad in dark track pants and a sleeveless vest, his skin glistening with sweat as though he has just returned from a workout. Damp strands of hair cling to his forehead, sticking slightly to his skin, making him look dangerously attractive.
And suddenly, my mouth goes dry.
No. No. No, Meera. Don’t you dare look at him like that. You hate him. You don’t get to feel anything when it comes to him.
But the silent chiding doesn’t help. Instead, my traitorous pulse betrays me, pounding faster as my eyes trace the lines of his muscular arms and the way the sweat clings to them.
No. Hate. Focus. Control, I try again.
He smirks, catching the tiniest flicker of foolishness in me, the part that’s betraying my own anger.
My hands ball into fists at my sides. God, I was lucky to wake up without seeing his face, so why did you have to ruin it? Couldn’t you have kept him away?
“Are you checking me out, Mrs. Rathore?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.
I turn around, forcing air back into my lungs. I refuse to let him see the slightest effect he’s managed to have on me.
“Yup, just imagining how your face will look when that smug smirk finally disappears and defeat takes its place.”
“Adorable… but that smug smirk isn’t going anywhere.”
I cross my arms over my chest, steadying myself against his confidence. “Keep telling yourself that. You’ll be eating those words sooner than you think. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
I brush past him without waiting for a response, my shoulder grazing his arm. The contact is brief but annoyingly distracting. I ignore the spark that shoots up my spine and stride out of the bedroom before he can stop me or throw another one of his lines my way.
He’s the last person I should be reacting to, I tell myself firmly as I step out.
As I walk through the living room, the morning light glides over every polished surface, making the place look even more like a luxury showroom than a home.
The floor-to-ceiling glass gleams under the sunlight, reflecting off the sharp lines of the black leather couches arranged with almost military precision.
Each piece of décor is minimal, expensive, and sits exactly where it’s meant to.
When I step into the kitchen, an array of staff moves efficiently.
One person is chopping, another is arranging fruit, and a third is wiping down an already-clean black marble counter.
My eyes take in the espresso cabinets, blending seamlessly into the walls to give the room an understated elegance, while the steel appliances gleam in perfect alignment, every detail radiating polished, effortless luxury.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen is stunning but soulless.
“Good morning, Ma’am,” one of them says politely, pausing mid-task as he sets a dish down.
“Good morning,” I reply, offering a small smile as I stop in front of the counter, my eyes scanning the spread. “So, what have you made for breakfast?”
“Eggs, toast, fresh fruit, and tea, Ma’am,” he replies. “There are also parathas, aloo sabzi, poha, idlis with chutney, and fresh juice. And the chef has prepared pancakes as well, in case Sir prefers something continental.”
“This is what they usually eat?” I ask.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he nods respectfully. “This is what is prepared every day.”
A small smirk tugs at my lips.
“But today, we’re not serving this,” I say calmly.
His eyes widen, worry written all over their faces. “Ma’am… but they always want their usual.”
I roll up my sleeves. “You can distribute all of this among the staff. I’ll make breakfast today.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Are you sure, Ma’am?”
“Yes,” I say, stepping towards the stove. “It’s my first day here, and I want to cook something special.”
He exchanges hesitant glances with the other staff members, but I ignore them and ask, “Is there anything they don’t like?”
He blinks at me, then begins listing things one by one. I nod, storing each detail in my mind, a mischievous smile tugging at my lips as I plan to cook exactly what they hate. Then, I dive in.
Once the food is ready, I turn to the staff.
“Plate these and serve them at the table,” I say, watching their worried reactions.
“But Ma’am—” one of them begins, hesitation clear in his voice.
“I said go and serve,” I cut him off firmly.
He swallows, then nods, signalling the other staff, and together, they begin carrying the dishes towards the dining table, exchanging uneasy glances as they go.
Grinning, I step back and lean against the counter.
A few seconds later, I hear Dev’s dad’s angry voice carrying from the dining table into the kitchen.
“What the hell is this?”
Straightening, I lift the bowl of bitter gourd halwa and step out of the kitchen.
“How’s breakfast, Papaji? I made it especially for you all,” I say, stepping up to the dining table.
Dev’s dad sits at the head of the table, while Dev and Veer are seated on either side of him, each wearing an expression that clearly screams annoyance.
“Why did you have to cook?” Dev replies, irritation clear in his voice.
I notice he’s freshly showered and dressed impeccably in his three-piece suit, while Veer, on the other hand, lounges casually in a T-shirt and jeans.
“Come on, hubby,” I say playfully. The word hubby tastes strange on my tongue, equal parts truth and denial, but I shove the awkwardness aside and focus on the task at hand.
“It’s my first day here, and it’s my duty to make something in the kitchen.
But you wouldn’t know much about that. The Rathores don’t seem to care much for rituals or traditions.
” I look at Dev’s dad before adding. “That’s why I didn’t touch your feet for blessings, Papaji.
But now that I am here, I’ll make sure you’re all well-versed in the ways of our culture.
For now, though, please have breakfast,” I say, standing between Dev’s chair and his father’s.
Dev’s father scoffs, eyeing the spread of puri, aloo kachori, samosas, and lassi. “We don’t eat this. Tell the staff to serve my usual.”
“Well, I’ve already distributed your usual to the staff as part of our wedding celebration.
I am sorry, Papaji, but this is all you get.
” I set the bowl of halwa right in front of him.
“In fact, I made this especially for you, Papaji. I know you Rathores don’t like anything sweet, given how bitter you all are, so I thought this would be perfect. ”
“Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?” Dev’s father snaps, his voice rising enough to make a staff member flinch in the corner.
“Your daughter-in-law, Papaji. Did you forget?” I shrug lightly. “Oh, I understand. These things do happen with age.” I grin as though I am offering genuine help. “Tell you what, starting tomorrow, I’ll soak five almonds for you. That should help sharpen your memory.”
Dev’s father glares at me, then shoots a sharp look at Dev. “Will you say something, or will you just let your wife insult me like this?”
I meet Dev’s eyes, letting the faintest smirk play on my lips. Oh, this is fun.
But before Dev can reply, a bright, chirpy voice greets.
“Hello, everyone!”
I glance up and see a model-like girl, looking straight out of a fashion magazine. She’s tall and is dressed in a short, form-fitting red dress. Her long, glossy hair cascades over her shoulders, and her eyes sweep over me, scanning me from head to toe as if measuring me.
“So this is the lucky girl… Dev’s wife?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply curtly.
Veer rises from his chair and comes to stand beside me. He leans in, just enough for me to hear. “Maybe we Rathores don’t know the rituals, but be sure, we do know how to give a shock.”
I turn and glare at him, and a look of mock innocence spreads across his face.
“I mean… surprise, Bhabhi. Meet Esha Khanna, your darling husband’s girlfriend.”
Girlfriend?