"My wife is pregnant," he announced. "So I will drink for both of us tonight."
He poured champagne into the remaining glass and raised it high.
"To my wife. To new beginnings. To honesty and love and the future we will build together."
He drank the entire glass in one long swallow. Then he set it down and pulled me close.
Music started playing. A slow, romantic song.
"Dance with me," he murmured, his lips close to my ear.
"I do not want to—"
"I know you do not want to. Dance with me anyway. Show them that you are mine and I am yours."
His arm slid around my waist, his hand coming to rest possessively on my lower back. His other hand held mine firmly.
And despite everything, despite the anger and hurt and betrayal, I let him lead me in a slow dance under the fairy lights, in front of hundreds of witnesses, while the garden spun around us.
Chapter 28
Armaan
The party had gone better than I could have hoped. The announcement had been made. The secret was out. Viya was publicly recognized as my wife, and there was no going back now.
But she had left immediately after our dance. Had slipped away while I was still talking to board members and investors who wanted to congratulate me. By the time I realized she was gone, she had already retreated to our bedroom.
I stayed at the party for another hour, playing the gracious host, accepting congratulations and fielding questions about how we had met and when the wedding had taken place. I kept my answers vague but warm, painting a picture of a private love story that I hoped would one day become true.
When the last guest finally left and the garden began to be cleared, I headed inside. Mamta ji caught me in the hallway.
"Beta, Viya did not eat anything at the party. She needs to eat. The baby needs nutrition."
Guilt twisted in my gut. Of course she had not eaten. She had been too overwhelmed, too uncomfortable, too angry at being put on display like that.
"I will take care of it," I assured Mamta ji.
I went to the kitchen and prepared a plate myself. Dal, sabzi, fresh roti, rice. Simple, comforting food. I added some curd and a small bowl of kheer because I remembered she had a sweet tooth.
Carrying the plate and a glass of water, I made my way upstairs to our bedroom.
She was not inside.
But the balcony doors were open, curtains moving gently in the night breeze. I walked out and found her there, sitting in the cushioned chair she favored, staring out at the dark garden below.
She looked ethereal in the moonlight. The emerald saree she had worn to the party was still draped elegantly around her, her hair loose and flowing. One hand rested protectively on her small bump.
My wife. Carrying my child. Looking like a goddess and hating me in equal measure.
"You need to eat," I said softly, not wanting to startle her.
She did not turn to look at me.
"I am not hungry."
"The baby is hungry. And you barely ate anything all day."
"I said I am not hungry, Armaan."
