"Volatility creates opportunity," Kabir replied smoothly. "You just need to know where to look."
As the conversation flowed into business and politics, Kritika moved effortlessly between her seat and the kitchen, coordinating with the staff like the lady of the house.
"Make sure the fish curry isn't too spicy," she instructed a passing servant. "Maa prefers it mild."
"Yes, ma'am."
Nimisha watched the exchange silently. She'd tried to help with dinner preparations once, three months into her marriage. Saroj had politely but firmly redirected her to "rest" while Kritika handled everything.
The message was clear: this wasn't her domain.
"Nimisha beta, you've been so quiet," Raghbir said, his tone kind. Unlike his wife, he'd never been cruel to her. Distant, perhaps, but never cruel. "How is your writing coming along?"
"Well, thank you. The new manuscript is nearly finished."
"She's a published author, you know," Shaurya interjected, pride evident in his voice. "Her books are quite popular."
"Romance novels," Saroj said, the words somehow sounding dismissive despite the neutral tone. "Though I still think she should focus more on household responsibilities."
"Romance sells," Abhay said from his position behind Samarth's chair. The man rarely sat at family dinners, preferring to hover like a well-dressed sentinel. "Last I checked, her royalties were quite substantial."
Nimisha glanced at Samarth's right-hand man in surprise. She hadn't expected support from that quarter.
"Money isn't everything," Saroj replied. "Tradition and family come first."
"Of course, Maa," Nimisha murmured, the familiar script flowing automatically.
Kabir's eyes were on her again. She could feel his gaze like oil on her skin—slick, unwanted, persistent. When she glanced his way, he smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes.
A sound from the hallway drew everyone's attention.
The click of claws on marble. Heavy, deliberate steps.
Bruno.
The massive Cane Corso appeared in the dining room doorway, his dark coat gleaming under the chandelier light, his presence commanding immediate attention.
Conversation died.
The demon dog rarely left Samarth's private wing. His appearance at a family dinner was unprecedented.
"Bruno, come here, boy," Kritika said sweetly, pulling a small treat from her purse. She'd been trying to win the dog over for years, armed with an endless supply of expensive dog treats. "Look what I brought you."
She extended her hand, the treat balanced on her palm.
Bruno's ancient eyes fixed on her. He didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge the offering.
He simply stared through her as if she were invisible.
"Bruno?" Kritika coaxed, taking a step closer. "Remember me? We've known each other for years."
The dog's expression—if dogs could have expressions—suggested he'd never seen her before in his life.
"He'll warm up eventually, beta," Saroj said, patting Kritika's shoulder consolingly. "He's always been particular."
"Particular is putting it mildly," Armaan muttered from his position near the sideboard. "The beast barely tolerates anyone except boss."
Bruno's gaze swept the room with regal indifference, then settled on the empty chair beside Samarth—Nimisha's designated seat when she actually sat close to her husband, which was never at family dinners.
