Page 2 of His Arranged Wife
Nimisha stood frozen, her face burning with humiliation. She was standing right there, and they were discussing her as if she were a piece of furniture. A transaction. A means to an end.
"She's a child," Samarth said dismissively.
"She's twenty-one," Devraj countered, his voice sharp. "Old enough to be a wife."
"I won't do it." Samarth turned to leave.
"Then you're not the man I raised." Raghbir's words stopped him in his tracks. "You're not the son who swore to put family above everything. You're just a selfish boy who thinks his comfort matters more than our survival."
The silence stretched, taut and suffocating.
Samarth turned slowly, his expression carved from ice. "This is about legacy, is it?"
"Legacy. Survival. Unity." Raghbir met his son's glare without flinching. "Call it whatever you want. The outcome is the same."
Saroj stepped forward, her voice strained. "Raghbir, perhaps we should discuss—"
"There's nothing to discuss, Ma." Samarth's cold gaze swept to his mother, and something flickered in his eyes. Disappointment, perhaps. Or betrayal. "If this is what the family needs, then this is what the family gets."
He looked at Nimisha for the first time, really looked at her. She was beautiful—devastatingly so, with delicate features and eyes the colour of honey. Too beautiful. Too soft. Too breakable for the world he inhabited.
"But don't expect me to play the devoted husband," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "I'll marry her. I'll give the alliance the families need. But that's all you're getting from me."
Nimisha's throat tightened, but she kept her composure. She had been raised to be strong, to endure. This was just another burden to carry.
"When?" Devraj asked, satisfaction evident in his tone.
"Soon," Raghbir replied. "Before the month ends. We'll make it grand—show the world our families are united."
Samarth didn't wait for dismissal. He turned and walked out, the door closing behind him with controlled precision that was somehow more terrifying than a slam.
Saroj's face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. She excused herself and followed her son, leaving Nimisha alone with her father and soon-to-be father-in-law.
"You'll make a good wife," Devraj said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Remember your training. Obedience, discretion, and silence."
Nimisha nodded, not trusting her voice.
She was going to marry a man who looked at her like she was a mistake.
Three weeks later
The Ranawat estate had been transformed into something out of a fairy tale. Thousands of flowers, crystal chandeliers, and enough gold to make even the wealthy guests pause in admiration. The wedding was a spectacle, a statement to the underworld and legitimate society alike: the Shahs and Ranawats were united.
Nimisha stood in the bridal suite, draped in a heavy red lehenga embroidered with gold thread. The dupatta covered her head, the weight of it pressing down like a physical manifestation of her future. Her hands were decorated with intricate mehndi, her wrists heavy with gold bangles.
She looked like a bride.
She felt like a sacrifice.
"You look beautiful, beta," her aunt said, adjusting her jewelry. "Samarth is a lucky man."
Nimisha said nothing. Luck had nothing to do with this.
The wedding ceremony was a blur of rituals and mantras. She walked around the sacred fire seven times, her hand clasped in Samarth's. His grip was firm but impersonal, as though he were completing a business transaction.
She dared to glance at him once during the pheras. His face was a mask of indifference, his jaw set, his eyes focused somewhere over her head. He was going through the motions, nothing more.
The guests watched with knowing eyes. Some pitied her—the Shah girl marrying the notorious Executioner. Others envied her—marrying into one of the most powerful families in Mumbai. None of them knew the truth.
