Dassani Brides

Chapter 18

For Geetanjali, the initial days were a blurred exercise in survival and dissociation. The high fever eventually left her body, but the exhaustion lingered in her marrow, a heavy weight that dictated a new, quiet rhythm to her existence. She no longer plotted. The burning fire of defiance that had blazed in her chest during those frantic days before her failed escape had been reduced to cold, grey ash. She had entered a state of absolute, unconditional capitulation, her movements slow and mechanical as she navigated the intricate expectations of her marriage.

Yet, human psychology is a fragile, adaptive thing, capable of twisting reality to make the unendurable seem bearable. Over the passing weeks, a insidious change began to take root in Geetanjali's mind. She found herself caught in the tragic, desperate coils of hope, rationalizing the terrifying duality of the man she called her husband.

At night, the universe they shared transformed. The harsh, clinical light of the day gave way to the deep, velvet shadows of their bedchamber, and in those hours, Shiv changed. He was still a man of immense power and domination, but the brutal indifference of his daytime baseline would melt into a terrifyingly seductive nighttime passion.

He would hold her with a heavy warmth, his large hands caressing her bare skin with a patient care that seemed to contradict his monstrous nature. He would check on her comfort, his low murmurs against her skin sounding almost vulnerable in the dark. In those quiet aftermaths of intimacy, when the frantic thrumming of his heart would beat violently against her spine, Geetanjali would slide into a dangerous delusion.

She began to cling to these fleeting moments of warmth. She convinced herself that the man who held her so tightly in the dark was the Shiv, and that the cold, emotionless tyrant of the morning was merely a mask forced upon him by duty and the crushing legacy of the Dassani name. She rationalized his cruelty as protection, convincing herself that if she could just be compliant enough, loyal enough, and submissive enough, this nighttime passion could someday dissolve the ice of the day and become a full-time reality. She was deeply, terrifyingly scared to believe in this future, yet she wanted to-she yearned for a family of her own, a life where her husband might truly become her sanctuary instead of her jailer.

But the morning light always brought a harsh, unyielding chill.

Every single dawn, as the sun broke through the heavy draperies, the illusion shattered cleanly. Shiv would slip back into his uncaring, emotionless baseline without a single transition. He would walk across her, his dark eyes sparing her not a single look, completely wiping away the intimacy of the night as if it were a dream that had never occurred. He would dress, strap on his watch, and walk out to conquer his empire, leaving behind a wife who felt like an invisible vase among the thousands of expensive, dead artifacts perishing in the house.

On a particularly humid night at the end of the two months, the rain finally began to fall, a steady, rhythmic patter against the balcony glass.

Inside the bedchamber, the storm outside seemed to intensify the quiet aftermath of their passion. Geetanjali lay perfectly still, her head resting gently on Shiv's broad, bare chest. The heavy wool comforter covered both of their tangled bodies, sealing them away from the rest of the world.

She closed her eyes, tilting her ear closer to his skin. She loved listening to his heartbeat in these quiet moments. It was a wild, erratic, thundering rhythm-the only part of him he could never truly control or subjugate. For Geetanjali, that frantic beating was her secret affirmation; it was a physical proof that his heart could beat for her, that he could feel something, even if it was only for a fleeting moment in the dark.

Shiv's long arm was draped across her bare back, his fingers tracing slow, idle patterns along her spine. He shifted slightly, burying his face into the crown of her head, almost rubbing his nose against her thick hair as if relishing the sweet, familiar fragrance of her soap. The gesture was so uncharacteristically tender that it plucked violently on the strings of her heart.

Gathering a fragment of the courage she had lost weeks ago, Geetanjali whispered into the darkness, "How was your day?"

Shiv was silent for a long beat, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek. "Too many meetings," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "All talk, no work. Almost wasted." He paused, his fingers stopping their movement on her back. "What about you?"

The fact that he had asked-that he had returned the question-sent a thrill of fragile hope through her veins.

"I... I don't like ordering around the servants," she confessed softly, her voice barely louder than the rain outside. "But I can't help it. I can't do everything on my own in a house this size. But whenever I want them to help, it doesn't come off as asking... it feels like ordering them around. I don't think I could ever get used to it."

Before she could finish her thought, she was suddenly cut off.

She felt his powerful arm sneak firmly around her waist. With a swift, effortless exertion of strength, Shiv pulled her lying body upward, dragging her up the mattress until they were eye-to-eye in the faded light. His dark eyes burned with an immediate, dominating intensity that stole the words straight from her throat.

He went straight in for a deep kiss.

It was not a gentle reassurance; it was a total reclamation of authority. His mouth dominated hers, his tongue demanding surrender she had no choice but to give. He held her so tightly against his chest that she couldn't breathe, her senses spinning into a vortex of heat and darkness. Her fingers clawed weakly at his forearms, holding onto his hard muscles just to find some footing in a reality that was rapidly slipping away. It was a stark, visceral reminder of just how completely she could be dominated by him, how easily he could erase her boundaries whenever he pleased.

Only when he felt she couldn't take it anymore-when her chest was heaving and her strength had entirely evaporated-did he break apart the kiss.

He hovered over her, his breathing steady, his gaze piercing through the dim light. "You are weak," he said softly.

The words hung in the warm air. Geetanjali's heart hammered against her ribs, her mind spinning. She was not sure if he meant it about her physical response to the kiss, or if he was commenting on her inability to control the large household as his wife. The ambiguity hurt, a small prick of ice in the middle of their warmth.

Desperate to change the subject and retreat to safer ground, she cleared her throat, her voice trembling slightly. "Do you... do you like badam ka halwa?"

Shiv blinked, the sudden shift in topics catching him off guard. He settled back onto his pillow, his arm loosening fractionally around her waist. "I don't really think so much about food, you know," he replied evenly. He turned his head to look at her. "But why do you ask?"

Geetanjali smiled faintly in the darkness, a genuine warmth spreading through her chest. She loved these small talks they had been having every night over the past few weeks. In the safety of the dark, away from taunts and the strict hierarchy of the house, it almost felt like they were a normal couple. He almost felt vulnerable, accessible. She knew better, of course-she had learned the hard way how illusory his warmth could be-yet she couldn't stop her heart from yearning for it.

She remembered how ugly and terrifying their first intimate night had been, a faded, fractured memory where she felt like she didn't even exist. But since that night, Shiv had been nothing but patient with her in bed. No matter how distant or cruel he was during the mornings, at night he would always check on her comfort, his actions speaking loudest as he accommodated her presence in his space.

Shiv reached out, putting a single finger under her chin, and gently raised her face to look at him.

Oh yes, the halwa, she thought, dragging her mind back from the labyrinth of her memories.

"Your mother was talking about how much you loved your Grandma's recipe of the halwa," Geetanjali said, looking into his dark eyes. "So... I thought I would try making it for you."

Shiv stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You can try," he said simply.

It wasn't a grand declaration of gratitude, nor was it an enthusiastic encouragement. It was just a yes. But to Geetanjali, who had survived years of complete disregard and icy silence, just a simple acknowledgment-a yes, a no, or even a low 'hmm' that proved she wasn't being ignored-was absolute bliss.

"Do you like sweets?" she pressed, pushing the conversation a little further.

"Not very much," he replied.

Silence settled over the room again, filled only by the rhythmic drumming of the rain. Geetanjali thought the conversation had ended, but out of nowhere, Shiv spoke again, his voice carrying a strange, contemplative note.

"Did you know your grandparents?"

Geetanjali was completely taken aback. Her breath hitched in her throat. In all the three years of their marriage, Shiv had never once asked an insightful question about her past, her family, or her life before the refugee train. She didn't expect him to have even a remote interest in her as an individual.

"Yes," she managed to say, her voice softening with old memories. "They died when I was young... very young. But I remember them. My family used to say that my grandmother was a beautiful, incomparable woman. And my grandfather... he used to grow flowers in our backyard just for her. Every single morning, he would pick the freshest bloom and place it in her hair."

"That sounds good," Shiv replied quietly.

A spark of playful recklessness, a remnant of the girl she used to be before the palace changed her, flared in Geetanjali's chest. She had never dared to joke with him before, always too terrified of how his volatile temper might react, but the darkness made her brave.

"Don't be so dry," she murmured, turning her face slightly to press her cheek against his shoulder. "You'll hurt my grandpa's feelings."

She held her breath, instantly regretting her boldness, waiting for him to stiffen or command her to watch her tongue.

Instead, a low, smooth sound escaped his chest. "How about I get flowers for his granddaughter?" Shiv replied, his voice laced with a rare, quiet amusement as he played along. "Would that make up for it?"

Geetanjali could not believe her ears. Her heart did a violent flip against her ribs, and even in the faded, shadowed light of the bedroom, she knew he could see her entire face turning a deep, burning red. She was too taken aback to respond, her mouth opening and closing in silent shock.

"Sleep," Shiv murmured.

He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss onto her flushed cheek, and relaxed his grip on her waist just enough to let her move. Geetanjali turned to the other side, her back pressing against his chest, still tucked securely under his heavy arm.

She let out a long, shuddering breath she didn't even know she had been holding. A single, silent tear fell from her eye, dampening the pillowcase. This was all she had ever wanted from her husband-a small crumb of kindness, a moment of shared humanity.

Yet, even as she clung to his warmth, a bitter ache bloomed in her soul. She knew with absolute certainty that all of this kindness, the flowers, and the soft words would disappear tomorrow morning the exact moment Shiv Dassani woke up to the morning sun. She couldn't understand him. If he was even remotely capable of this tenderness, why did he refuse to give her anything at all during the day? Why had he spent years treating her like an unwanted ghost?

She was terrified to believe in this version of Shiv, yet as darkness enveloped her, she chose to harbor the illusion, dreaming of a future where they might truly become a family.

Morning broke, and with it, Geetanjali's reality took a drastic, brutal turn.

The gray dawn crept into the room, cold and uncompromising, tearing the veil of the night away. Geetanjali woke up naked under the heavy sheets, the residual warmth of the comforter feeling apathetic against her skin. She shifted, turning her head toward the side of the bed.

There lay Shiv, in all his naked glory, entirely unbothered by her gaze.

A heavy, familiar numbness settled over Geetanjali's shoulders. She pulled a corner of her silk saree over her bare chest, wrapping herself hastily as she slipped out of the bed and found her way toward the washroom, her head bowed in silent submission.

An hour later, Geetanjali was in the kitchen. The vast, tiled room was filled with the morning bustle of the servants, but she paid them no mind. She stood before the large brass vessel, her eyes fixed on the bubbling mixture of milk, ghee, and ground almonds.

She poured her entire heart into the preparation of the halwa. She stirred the sweet dish with a desperate, frantic dedication, believing against all logic that this single meal could achieve a miracle-a miracle that three years of unwavering loyalty, dedication, belief, and holding out against cruelty had failed to accomplish. She convinced herself that when he tasted his grandmother's recipe, the ice would finally melt, and he would look at her with the warmth of the night.

And then came the moment of reckoning.

The grand breakfast table was set with its usual, suffocating symmetry. Madhu sat with her sharp, judgmental posture, and the rest of the family occupied their respective seats. Shiv sat near the head of the table, his dark eyes as black and unreadable as they had always been, focused entirely on the morning documents beside his plate. He did not spare his wife a single glance as she approached, treating her presence as if she were just another expensive, meaningless furniture among the thousands of chairs and tables.

Geetanjali's eyes were beaming with a fragile, desperate hope as she began to serve the halwa. Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the silver bowl before him.

While serving it, she paused for a fraction of a second, intentionally leaning into his line of sight. She tried to have a peek at his face, yearning to capture just that one single moment where he would look into her eyes, give a small smile, or offer a brief, quiet acknowledgment of her effort-of the deep thought and devotion that had been poured into the dish.

But he did not.

Shiv did not lift his gaze from the papers. He raised his silver spoon mechanically, scooped a portion of the halwa into his mouth, and chewed without a single change in his expression. He ate it as if it were just another ordinary dish on an endless platter of luxury. He drank a glass of water, finished his meal within minutes, got up from his chair, and left the dining room without a backward glance.

He left behind Geetanjali.

She stood frozen by the table, the serving spoon heavy in her numb fingers, a wife yearning for just a shred of acknowledgment, yearning for the burning passion of the night before, yearning for the dream that her husband could someday become her family. The illusion of the dawn had shattered, leaving her entirely alone in the cold, unyielding light of day.