The room went very, very still.
Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, were items that made Samarth see red.
Sex toys. Expensive, explicit, varied.
Vibrators. Restraints. Lubricant. Things designed for pleasure and submission.
Things someone imagined using on his wife.
The rage that flooded through him was white-hot, visceral, and barely controlled.
"Get everyone here," he said, his voice deadly calm. "Now."
Twenty Minutes Later
Samarth's inner circle assembled in his office—Abhay, Armaan, and Shaurya, who'd been summoned from a business meeting.
The box sat on Samarth's desk, its contents still visible.
"Someone sent these to Nimisha," Samarth said, his tone flat. "I want to know who."
Shaurya stared at the box, his expression darkening. "Are you sure bhabhi didn't order them? I mean, maybe she—"
"She didn't." Samarth's voice was absolute.
"How can you be certain?"
"Because I know my wife." The words came out sharper than intended. "She can barely kiss me without blushing. She didn't order sex toys to be delivered to a house full of security and family."
Abhay picked up one of the items—leather restraints, expensive and well-made. "These aren't cheap. Whoever sent them has money."
"And a death wish," Armaan added quietly.
"Someone's sending her a message," Abhay said, setting the restraints down. "Question is—what kind of message? Threat? Intimidation? Twisted courtship?"
"Or testing my reaction," Samarth said, his hand curling into a fist on his desk. "Seeing how possessive I am of something I claim doesn't matter."
The three men exchanged glances but said nothing.
"Find out who sent this," Samarth commanded. "I want a name by end of day. Check every sex shop in Mumbai. Someone purchased these recently. Find them."
"What about Mrs. Ranawat?" Armaan asked. "Does she know about the package?"
"Not yet."
"You should tell her," Shaurya said quietly. "She has a right to know someone's targeting her."
Samarth knew he was right. But the thought of showing Nimisha these items, of seeing her mortification and fear—
"I'll handle it," he said.
After they left, he sat alone with the box, staring at its contents.
Someone was thinking about his wife like this. Imagining her bound, pleasured, submissive.
The possessiveness that roared through him was irrational. Violent.
She wasn't truly his. Not in the ways that mattered.
