Nisha looked up from her magazine, surprised. "I've been using this library since I was a child—"
"And I use it now. So find another room." Advika crossed her arms. "The house has four libraries. Use one of those."
"You can't just claim entire rooms—"
"Watch me." Advika moved into the room, standing her ground. "You've made it very clear I don't belong here. That I'm just the treaty bride, the Pradhan spy, the unwanted addition to your perfect family. Fine. I accept that. But this room? This is mine. And I'm done sharing it with people who can't stand the sight of me."
Nisha stood, her magazine forgotten. "You're being childish—"
"I'm being honest. For the first time since I arrived, I'm being completely, brutally honest. I don't like you, Nisha. I've tried to. God knows I've tried. But you've made it impossible. So let's stop pretending. You hate me, I hate you, and we're stuck with each other because I married your brother."
"You didn't marry him. You were sold to him." The words were meant to wound.
They did, but Advika didn't let it show. "True. And yet here I am, his wife, whether you like it or not. Now get out of my library."
For a moment, she thought Nisha would fight. Would pull rank or threaten to tell Sidharth or do something.
Instead, Nisha grabbed her magazine and stormed out,muttering something about "ungrateful bitch" under her breath.
Advika sank into her favorite chair, her hands shaking with adrenaline and satisfaction.
Small victories. She was collecting them like armor.
By day seven, even the staff had noticed the change in her.
"Mrs. Singhania seems different," Advika overheard one of the housekeepers whisper to another.
"Stronger," the other replied. "About time, if you ask me. The way Miss Nisha treats her..."
Advika smiled to herself. At least someone was on her side.
But it wasn't enough. The anger and hurt that had been building for months needed an outlet beyond verbal sparring with Nisha. She needed to do something for herself. Something that reminded her she was more than just the unwanted wife.
She needed her bakery.
That night, lying alone in the empty bed, Advika made a decision.
The next morning, she waited until Sidharth left for whatever mysterious meetings he had. Nisha was out shopping. Rishabh was at the gym. The house was as empty as it ever got.
Advika pulled out her phone—the one she knew was being monitored—and called her bakery manager using the burner phone she'd bought from one of the kitchen staff for an exorbitant amount.
"Meera? It's me."
"Advika!" Meera's voice was filled with relief and concern. "Oh my God, are you okay? I've been so worried—"
"I'm fine. How's the bakery?"
A pause. Then, carefully: "It's... managing."
"Meera."
"Okay, it's struggling. Without you here to create new items, to handle the high-profile clients, to do the things that made us special..." Another pause. "We're losing customers, Advika. I'm trying, but I'm not you. I can follow your recipes, but I can't innovate like you can."
The words hit hard. Her bakery—her dream, her creation, the one thing that was completely hers—was dying without her.
"I'm coming over," Advika said, her mind made up. "Today."
"But isn't that dangerous? I thought you weren't allowed—"
