"Ah yes, your mother must have taught you. Oh wait—" Nisha's smile was poison. "She died when you were five. So who raised you? Servants? Your father's legitimate wife must have just loved that."
The mention of her mother—the cruel dismissal of Akshara's memory—made something inside Advika snap.
"My mother," she said, her voice deadly calm, "was a kind, loving woman who made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man. She spent her life being punished for that choice, and even after her death, people still use her as a weapon against me."
"I'm just stating facts—"
"You're being cruel. There's a difference." Advika stood, her hands braced on the table. "You want to insult me? Fine. Talk about my marriage, my background, my circumstances. But leave my mother out of it."
"Oh please." Nisha waved a dismissive hand, emboldened by her audience. "At least my mother was actually married to my father. At least I'm not the product of an affair. At least—"
The wine hit Nisha's face before Advika even realized she'd thrown it.
The pristine white dress was suddenly stained red. Wine dripped from Nisha's hair, down her face, onto the tablecloth. The garden went silent—thirty women frozen in shock.
"You bitch!" Nisha screeched, standing. "You threw wine on me!"
"You're lucky it was just wine," Advika said, her voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "Talk about my mother again and you'll get worse."
She turned and walked out, her head high even as her hands trembled. Behind her, she heard the explosion—Nisha's voice rising, Mihika trying to comfort her, the other women breaking into scandalized whispers.
She didn't care. Let them talk. Let them gossip. She was done playing nice with people who would never accept her anyway.
She made it to her bedroom before the adrenaline crash hit. Advika paced the room, her heart racing, replaying the scene over and over.
She'd thrown wine in Nisha's face. Assaulted her at her own luncheon, in front of thirty society women. The gossip would spread like wildfire. By tomorrow, the entire city would know.
And Sidharth... God, what would Sidharth say?
She didn't have to wait long to find out.
The door slammed open forty minutes later. Sidharth stormed in, his expression thunderous.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded.
"Hello to you too," Advika said, her own anger rising to meet his. "Did your sister call you? Or did one of her thirty friends?"
"Nisha called me hysterical. Said you assaulted her at her own event. In front of everyone!"
"I threw wine on her. That's hardly assault."
"You can't just—" He stopped, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "Do you have any idea what this looks like? What people will say?"
"I don't care what people say!" The words burst out of her. "I care that your sister stood in front of a room full of women and insulted my dead mother! I care that I've spent months being treated like garbage in my own home! I care that every time I try to defend myself, I'm the one who gets reprimanded while she gets away with it!"
"She's my sister—"
"And I'm your wife! Or does that not matter? Does that rank lower than being your sister?" Advika moved closer, fury making her reckless. "You never defend me, Sidharth. Never. She insults me, belittles me, makes my life hell, and you do nothing. You just tell me to be more understanding, more patient, more accommodating. Well, I'm done!"
"What do you want me to do?" He threw his hands up. "She's family—"
"So am I! Or am I not? Am I just the treaty bride? The convenient wife? The woman who warms your bed at night but doesn't deserve basic respect during the day?"
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what it is!" She was shouting now, past caring. "You won't stand up for me because deep down, you still see me as the Pradhan. The outsider. The woman who might betray you at any moment. So why bother defending me, right? Why risk upsetting your real family for someone who'll never truly be one of you?"
"You attacked my sister," he said through gritted teeth.
