"Sounds reasonable to me," Rishabh said, his lips twitching.
"Of course you'd take her side," Nisha snapped. "You think everything she does is amusing."
"I think," Rishabh said, pushing off the doorframe, "that you're picking fights for the sake of it. Advika's right—if you want tea, get it yourself or ring for staff. She's not your servant."
Nisha's face flushed red, but before she could respond, Rishabh had already left, shooting Advika a quick wink on his way out.
Score one for the illegitimate daughter.
Advika smiled at Nisha and her stunned friends. "Enjoy your afternoon, ladies. I'll be in the library if anyone needs me. For legitimate reasons."
She walked out, her head high, satisfaction warming her chest.
It was a small victory. But lately, she'd learned to treasure the small ones.
The gala was the kind of event Advika had only read about in magazines—Mumbai's elite gathered in a five-star hotel ballroom dripping with crystal and gold. Politicians, business tycoons, Bollywood celebrities, and various members of the underworld elite all mingling under the guise of charity.
Advika had been dressed by a team of stylists Sidharth had sent to the house. They'd debated over three different gowns beforesettling on an emerald green number that hugged every curve before flowing to the floor in a cascade of silk.
When she'd walked down the stairs, she'd caught Sidharth staring. Just for a moment, his careful mask had slipped, and she'd seen something hot and hungry flash in his amber eyes.
Then it was gone, replaced by his usual indifference.
"Ready?" he'd asked, offering his arm.
"As I'll ever be."
Now, three hours into the gala, Advika was exhausted from smiling and making small talk with people who looked at her with varying degrees of curiosity, judgment, and calculation. She was the new Mrs. Singhania, the treaty bride, the Pradhan daughter who'd secured peace.
Everyone wanted to know her secrets. Wanted to figure out where her loyalties lay.
If only they knew she had no secrets. She was exactly what she appeared to be—a woman trapped in a marriage she didn't want, trying to survive.
Sidharth had been by her side for the first hour, his hand a constant presence on her lower back, proprietary and impersonal. He'd introduced her to what felt like a thousand people, each introduction the same: "My wife, Advika."
Never her name alone. Alwaysmy wife,like a title. Like ownership.
Then he'd been pulled away by business associates, leaving her to fend for herself.
She'd gravitated toward the bar, nursing a glass of champagne she wasn't really drinking, when a man approached.
"You must be the famous Advika Singhania," he said, his smile a little too wide, a little too interested. He was in his forties, handsome in an over-groomed way, wearing a suit that screamed money. "Vikram Malhotra. I do business with your husband."
"Nice to meet you," Advika said politely, though alarm bells were already ringing.
"The pleasure is mine." His eyes raked over her in a way that made her skin crawl. "Sidharth is a lucky man. Very lucky."
"I'll be sure to tell him you said so."
"You're from the Pradhan family, yes? That must be interesting. Two powerful families united." He moved closer, invading her personal space. "Tell me, how does someone like you end up in an arranged marriage? I would have thought you'd have men lining up."
"Mr. Malhotra—"
"Vikram, please." His hand landed on her bare arm, fingers trailing up toward her shoulder. "We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, after all. No need for formalities."
Advika stepped back, but he followed, his touch becoming more insistent. She was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his familiarity when a hand clamped down on Vikram's wrist.
"Remove your hand." Sidharth's voice was arctic. "Now."
