If this anniversary meant nothing to him, she'd at least try to make it mean something to herself.
She showered, styled her hair, applied subtle makeup. From the back of her closet, she pulled out the silk nightgown she'd bought months ago but never worn—deep emerald green, delicate lace straps, falling to mid-thigh.
She felt ridiculous. Like she was trying to seduce her own husband on their anniversary.
But she lit candles anyway. Put on soft music. Made their bedroom into something almost romantic.
Then she waited.
10:53 PM - Master Bedroom
Samarth had been in the basement of one of his warehouses when he'd gotten the call about the Malhotra problem.
Vikram Malhotra's son—a punk who thought having a rich father made him untouchable—had been running his mouth about the Ranawats. Making threats. Showing disrespect.
Samarth had dealt with it personally.
The memory of blood under his fingernails was still fresh as he entered the estate through the side entrance. He'd showered at the warehouse, changed clothes, but he could still feel the violence on his skin.
It was past eleven when he reached his bedroom.
He pushed open the door and stopped.
Candles. Music. And Nimisha.
She sat on the edge of their bed in a green silk nightgown that made his mouth go dry. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She'd made an effort.
For him.
"What is this?" His voice came out harsher than intended.
She stood, her smile nervous. "Our anniversary. I thought we could... I wanted to make it special."
Anniversary.
The word hit him like a punch to the gut.
Fuck.
He'd forgotten.
"Nimisha—"
"It's okay if you forgot," she said quickly, reading his expression. "I know you were busy. I just thought maybe we could spend tonight together. Really together. Not just... you know."
Not just fucking. She meant talking. Being. Existing as more than bodies in darkness.
He should agree. Should give her this one night. It was the least he could do after everything.
But the violence still sang in his veins. The blood was still fresh under his nails. And she stood there looking soft and hopeful and breakable—
Everything he'd taught himself not to need.
"It's a date on a calendar," he said, his voice cold. "Nothing more."
Her face fell. He saw the exact moment her hope died.
Good. Better that than letting her believe this could be something it wasn't.
