CHAPTER 22
DAKSH
Daksh staredat the golden liquid in the crystal tumbler in front of him, the conversation between his father and brother swirling around him as he contemplated how much whiskey would make this evening bearable. There wasn’t enough in the Scottish highlands, he decided, as his father slammed his hand on his impressive office table.
“Are you listening?”
He was listening. He just didn’t like what he was hearing.
“I asked you a question, Daksh.”
Daksh took his own sweet time swallowing what was left in his glass, allowing the premium scotch to sear its way through him, burning through the inexhaustible supply of hopes and regrets that lived in him.
A paperweight slammed into the wall behind him, falling on the carpeted floor with a dull thud before rolling to a stop beside his shoe. Ashish jumped, swearing under his breath. Daksh put his glass down on the side table beside him and leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees.
If his father thought throwing a paperweight at his head was going to faze him, then he’d forgotten how much further he’d gone in the past to break Daksh to his will. He’d never succeeded.
“Did you hear what I said?” His father’s clipped voice radiated fury.
“I think even the neighbours heard you,” Daksh said mildly, watching the vein in his father’s temple pulse.
“You will do nothing that could ruin this wedding.”
Daksh shrugged. “What couldIpossibly do?”
His father eyed him, hatred simmering in his gaze. “You listen to me, you piece of shit. This alliance with the Thakkars is going to make this family’s wildest dreams come true. We have Ashish to thank for it and I won’t have you fucking it up. So, tonight,” his father leaned forward, his barrel chest resting on the table. “You shut up, speak only when spoken to, and do nothing, I meannothingthat shows them the embarrassment that you are.”
Daksh gave him a mocking nod. “Your wish is my command.”
His father shook his head. “Why couldn’t you be more like your brother? What the hell did I ever do to deserve you?”
His father probably deserved a lot more than a useless son, Daksh thought, walking over to the bar in the corner and pouring himself another two fingers of Scotch. He watched the liquid spill over the cubes of ice in the glass. His father deserved to have his empire burn to the ground.
“Dad, give it a rest,” Ashish intervened. “The Thakkars will be here soon. Let’s just have a good evening together.
The Thakkars will be here soon.
Daksh’s gut clenched, his heart galloping in an unsteady rhythm in his chest.
She will be here soon.
Prasun Mathur stood, his chair scraping against the marble flooring with a screech. He adjusted the silk kurta he was wearing and walked around the table to where Ashish stood. His big, beefy hands came up to cup Ashish’s cheeks. Daksh knew those hands well. They had been doing a lot worse than cupping his cheeks affectionately.
“I’m proud of you, my son,” he told Ashish. “By wooing this girl and marrying her, you have settled our family line for several generations.”
For some reason, the words had the colour draining out of Ashish’s face. “We were fine even before this, Dad.”
Daksh’s eyes narrowed as he watched his brother squirm under their father’s praise and affection.
“Fine?” Prasun made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Fine is not good enough. After you marry this girl, fine will be something we won’t even spit on.”
“Vedika.”
Ashish and Prasun turned to look at Daksh in surprise.
“Vedika,” he repeated. “She’s not ‘this girl’. She has a name. Vedika.” He tossed his whiskey back and met their gazes. “Use it.”
“Did I not tell you to shut up and speak only when you’re spoken to?”
