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.”
