Page 3 of His Arranged Wife
This wasn't a marriage. It was a merger.
When it came time for the vows, Samarth spoke them like he was reading from a contract. Each word was measured, precise, empty of feeling.
"I, Samarth Ranawat, take you, Nimisha Shah, as my lawfully wedded wife."
Lawfully wedded. Not cherished. Not beloved. Lawfully wedded.
Her own vows came out as a whisper, her voice barely audible over the pandit's chanting.
Saroj sat in the front row, her expression carefully composed, but Nimisha caught the woman's gaze lingering on someone else. Kritika Mehra, Samarth's childhood friend, sat several rows back, her eyes red-rimmed, her smile forced.
Nimisha lowered her gaze. She understood now. Saroj had wanted Kritika for her son. This marriage was a disappointment to more than just the groom.
The reception was even more elaborate. Politicians, businessmen, and underworld figures mingled freely, toasting to the union that would reshape Mumbai's power structure. Nimisha sat beside Samarth on the stage, her smile plastered on, her hands folded demurely in her lap.
He didn't speak to her. Didn't even look at her unless absolutely necessary.
When well-wishers approached, he played his part—placed his hand on the small of her back, offered tight smiles, accepted congratulations with nods. The moment they walked away, he removed his hand as though her touch burned him.
"Smile," he murmured once, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "You're embarrassing us both."
She smiled wider, even as something inside her cracked.
The night stretched on endlessly. By the time the guests began to leave, Nimisha's face hurt from holding her expression, her body ached from the weight of her clothes, and her heart felt like a stone in her chest.
Shaurya, Samarth's younger brother, approached them as the crowd thinned. Unlike his brother, Shaurya's smile was genuine.
"Welcome to the family, bhabhi," he said warmly, touching her feet in respect before she could stop him.
"Thank you," she whispered, grateful for the kindness.
Samarth's expression darkened. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"
Shaurya's smile faltered, but he nodded. "Of course, bhai." He glanced at Nimisha one more time. "I hope you'll be happy here."
She hoped so too. But hope was a dangerous thing.
The master bedroom was as cold and imposing as the man who occupied it. Dark wood furniture, minimalist décor, and a massive bed that suddenly seemed far too intimate.
Nimisha stood in the center of the room, still in her bridal lehenga, unsure what to do. The door opened, and Samarth entered, already loosening his sherwani.
He looked at her briefly, then moved to his closet without a word.
"Should I—" she started, her voice small.
"Change into something comfortable," he said, not turning around. "You look ridiculous."
The words stung, but she swallowed the hurt. Moving to the attached room where her things had been placed, she found a simple cotton salwar kameez and changed quickly, her fingers fumbling with the heavy jewelry.
When she emerged, Samarth was at his desk, already absorbed in paperwork. He'd changed into casual clothes—a black t-shirt and track pants—looking more like himself than he had all day.
She stood there, uncertain, her heart pounding.
Finally, he looked up, his expression unreadable. "You can take the bed."
Her brows furrowed. "Where will you sleep?"
"My office. I have work to do."
