Chapter Twelve The Serenity of Pune
For Anshira, the city of Pune was not just a geographic location on a map; it was an exhalation of breath she had been holding for two agonizing years.
She ended up staying for three full weeks.
Stripped of the stifling silks and the crushing expectations of the Kalresh-Dhen empire, she slipped back into her old life with the ease of water returning to a riverbed.
It turned out to be the most peaceful, serene stretch of time she had experienced since the day she had first walked into the glass-and-steel headquarters of KDG.
The mornings began with the familiar call of the neighborhood vegetable vendor, the smell of roasted cumin, and the damp, earthy scent of the monsoon rains washing the streets clean.
Anshira spent her days revisiting all her favorite childhood haunts.
she walked through the chaotic, vibrant lanes of the old city, spent hours browsing the dusty, towering shelves of her favorite secondhand bookstores in Camp, and drank sweet, milky tea from chipped ceramic cups at local stalls.
She also reconnected with her old friends—people disconnected from her life in Delhi, women who knew nothing about corporate takeovers, high-society galas, or the terrifying power of a conglomerate’s PR machine.
To them, she was not the disgraced, isolated wife of the undisputed heir.
She was just Anu. The same chaotic, kind-hearted girl who always had her nose buried in a paperback, who laughed too loudly at bad jokes, and who invariably spilled coffee on her notes.
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, during her second week, Anshira sat in a bustling, warmly lit bakery with her two oldest friends, Meera and Shalini. The table between them was littered with empty plates of Shrewsbury biscuits and half-finished cups of coffee.
“Okay, but seriously,” Meera said, leaning forward across the table, her eyes dancing with mischievous curiosity. “It's been two years, Anu. You’ve been living in Delhi, working for a massive conglomerate. Have you finally found him?”
Anshira paused, her coffee cup hovering inches from her lips. “Found who?”
“Your prince charming!” Shalini chimed in, laughing as she bumped Anshira’s shoulder affectionately.
“Come on, don't play dumb. We all know you practically lived inside those Mills & Boon novels in college. You were obsessed with the brooding, billionaire heroes who sweep the heroine off her feet. Have you met one yet? Is he hiding in some penthouse waiting for you?”
A sudden, quiet ache bloomed in the center of Anshira’s chest. It was a bittersweet, agonizing pang that tasted of ash and lost innocence.
She looked at her friends, their faces bright and expectant, utterly unaware of the irony of their question. She had found the billionaire hero. She had found the brooding prince of the glass tower. And he had looked at her with a contempt so profound it had nearly destroyed her soul.
Beneath the collar of her simple cotton Kurti, the gold chain of her mangalsutra rested against her collarbone.
Most of her old friends had no idea she was even married.
She had deliberately, fiercely kept that entire chapter of her life private.
Whenever she left her parents' apartment, she tucked the sacred necklace carefully out of sight, unwilling to explain or discuss any of the trauma, the false accusations, or the cold, loveless reality of her union.
Anshira set her coffee cup down and offered a gentle, slightly melancholic smile.
“Those were just stories, guys,” Anshira said, her voice soft, carrying the weight of a hard-learned truth. “Real life doesn't work that way. I promise you, all those old fantasies about billionaire heroes and sweeping romances... they turned out to be exactly that. Just fantasies.”
Meera frowned, exchanging a quick, perceptive look with Shalini. They had known Anshira their entire lives. They could sense the subtle, guarded shift in her posture, the unspoken truth lingering just beneath the surface of her calm smile.
“Are you sure?” Meera pressed gently, reaching out to touch Anshira’s hand. “You seem... different, Anu. Older. Did something happen up there?”
“I am fine,” Anshira insisted smoothly, pulling her hand back to adjust her scarf, ensuring the collar of her Kurti remained high.
She brushed off the question with practiced ease.
“My two years in Delhi have just been an intense whirlwind of experiences, that's all.
Corporate life is exhausting. I'm just happy to be home.”
Despite the secrecy, the visit itself was warm, healing, and genuinely joyful.
She spent evenings visiting old neighbors, exchanging gossip over the compound walls, and surrounded by people who had watched her grow up.
Day by day, they unknowingly reminded her of exactly who she was before Delhi had tried to overwrite her identity.
Throughout those three weeks, a strange, persistent digital tether kept her connected to the life she was trying to leave behind.
Rovanth kept texting her.
It was never anything demanding or aggressive. It was a steady, quiet rhythm of check-ins. Did you visit the bookstore today? he would ask. I hope the rain hasn't ruined your plans.
Anshira sat on her childhood bed, looking at the messages, and replied as she always had: politely, distantly, and factually. Yes, I visited the bookstore. The weather is fine.
She stayed in character, keeping him informed of her plans, her visits with friends, and the peace she seemed to be finding again.
In her mind, his texts were easily explainable.
He was a man consumed by guilt, tracking her movements to assure his own conscience that she was surviving the damage he had inflicted.
She allowed it, responding with detached courtesy, assuming it would all end the moment the divorce papers were finalized.
The Unannounced Arrival
By the end of the third week, Anshira’s open suitcase lay on her bed.
She was meticulously folding her cotton Kurtis, mentally preparing herself for the return flight to Delhi.
The plan was simple: go back, maintain the peace, and wait for Rovanth to signal that the PR environment was safe enough to file the separation papers.
The sharp chime of the front doorbell echoed through the small apartment.
“I'll get it!” Prakash called out from the living room, accompanied by the rustle of his newspaper.
Anshira continued packing, tossing a small bag of toiletries into the corner of the suitcase. A moment later, the low rumble of a deep, distinctly unfamiliar baritone voice drifted down the hallway.
Anshira frowned. The voice sent an involuntary, instinctual shiver down her spine.
She walked out of her bedroom and down the narrow hallway. As she stepped into the living room, she froze, utterly and completely stunned.
Standing in the center of her parents' modest living room, looking massively out of place beneath the slowly clicking ceiling fan, was Rovanth Kalresh-Dhen.
He was dressed in a dark, tailored blazer and an open-collared shirt, holding a leather overnight bag.
He looked exactly like what he was: a billionaire who had just stepped off a private jet.
But his dark eyes, when they locked onto Anshira, held none of their usual commanding arrogance.
They were wide, focused on her, and filled with a quiet, desperate relief.
“Rovanth?” Anshira breathed, unable to process the visual glitch in her reality. She couldn't understand why on earth he had come all this way.
“Anshira,” Rovanth said softly, taking a half-step forward.
Before the awkwardness could fully cement itself, the ingrained, automatic machinery of South Indian hospitality kicked into high gear.
Sunita emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron, her eyes widening in surprise before she instantly shifted into the role of a gracious host. He was, after all, regardless of the impending divorce, technically their son-in-law.
“Mr. Kalresh-Dhen!” Sunita exclaimed, ushering him further into the room. “What a surprise. Please, please sit down. Have you had anything to eat? Let me bring you some water.”
“Please, call me Rovanth,” he replied politely, setting his bag down and offering a respectful nod to her parents. “And thank you, but I don't want to intrude. I can book a room at a hotel nearby.”
“Nonsense,” Prakash insisted warmly, gesturing to the armchair. “You are family. You will stay here. We insist you stay for dinner, and you are welcome to the guest room for a few days.”
Anshira stared at her parents, her mind reeling. She looked at Rovanth, her brow furrowed in sheer bafflement. “Why are you here?”
Rovanth met her gaze, the truth catching in his throat. He couldn't tell her that he hadn't slept a full night since she left. He couldn't tell her that the massive estate felt like a tomb without her.
“I knew you were preparing to fly back tomorrow,” Rovanth explained simply, keeping his tone even for the benefit of her parents. “I didn't want you traveling back alone. I came to accompany you home.”
Prakash and Sunita exchanged a brief, subtle look.
Though they were a little taken aback by the sudden appearance of the man who had caused their daughter so much pain, they chose, in their inherent goodness, to give him the benefit of the doubt.
They assumed, much like Anshira did, that it was a profound guilt driving him to look after their daughter so attentively now.
“That is very thoughtful,” Sunita said kindly. “I will go prepare the tea.”
***
A few minutes later, Anshira followed her mother into the small, cramped kitchen. She pulled the kitchen door mostly shut, leaving only a crack, and turned to Sunita with a look of exasperated disbelief.
“Ma,” Anshira hissed, keeping her voice to an urgent whisper. She shot her mother a look that clearly communicated: We are getting divorced soon. He is the reason I have been miserable for a year. Why would I bother entertaining him?