She nodded imperceptibly and followed Kritika out.
The master bedroom felt like enemy territory.
Nimisha showered quickly, changed into a fresh salwar kameez, and braided her damp hair. In the mirror, she looked composed. Put together. Fine.
She didn't look like a woman whose husband couldn't stand to sleep in the same bed with her.
When she emerged, Kritika was perched on the edge of the bed—Nimisha's bed—scrolling through her phone.
"Ready?" Kritika asked brightly.
"Yes."
They walked through the house together, and Nimisha noticed the staff's reactions. Smiles for Kritika. Polite nods for Nimisha. The difference was subtle but unmistakable.
"You know," Kritika said as they walked, "I was thinking we should plan a small puja for next month. Maa would love it."
"That sounds nice."
"I can handle most of the arrangements if you're busy with your writing. I know how important your work is to you."
The words were kind. The implication was clear: Nimisha's priorities were wrong.
"I'll help with the planning," Nimisha said evenly.
"Of course! We'll do it together." Kritika's hand touched her arm briefly. "I'm so glad we can be friends, Nimisha. When Samarth first married you, I was worried you might see me as competition."
Nimisha looked at her—really looked at her. Kritika's smile was open, honest, without guile.
She meant it. She genuinely wanted to be friends.
Which somehow made it worse.
"Why would I see you as competition?" Nimisha asked.
"Well, I've known Samarth since we were children. We're very close. Some wives might find that threatening."
"I'm not threatened."
Liar, a voice whispered in her head.
"Good! Because you have nothing to worry about. Samarth and I are just friends. We always have been." Kritika squeezed her arm gently. "Although I'll admit, there was a time when I hoped for more."
Nimisha's stomach twisted.
"But that's in the past," Kritika continued. "He made his choice when he married you."
He didn't choose me, Nimisha wanted to say. He was forced.
But she simply nodded. "I appreciate your honesty."
They reached the prayer room, where Saroj was waiting with fabric swatches and renovation plans spread across a table.
"Finally," Saroj said. "We have a lot to discuss."
The next two hours were torture.
Saroj and Kritika debated every detail—the color of the walls, the placement of the idols, the type of bells to use. They asked for Nimisha's opinion occasionally, then dismissed whatever she suggested.
