The first time Samarth Gupta saw you, he knew. You weren’t just beautiful, you were ethereal. Draped in a soft pastel saree, your hair braided with jasmine, you looked like you’d stepped out of a painting. Untouchable. A porcelain doll, brought to life under the soft glow of the ballroom chandeliers. You hadn’t even wanted to be at the charity gala. You’d come only out of respect for your father, lingering near the back with a polite smile, unaware that you had just captured the undivided attention of the most powerful man in the room.

Samarth didn’t waste time. The very next day, his mother approached yours with a marriage proposal, warm, eager, and insistent. Your parents assumed it was a traditional arrangement. It wasn’t. It was a precisely orchestrated plan crafted, executed, and sealed by Samarth himself. You never stood a chance. He’d decided. You were going to be his.

You’d feared marriage. Feared becoming a shadow in some man’s world, unheard and unseen. You’d heard too many horror stories of husbands who changed, of women who disappeared behind silken curtains and diamond bangles. And Samarth? Cold. Imposing. Unreadable. Everyone spoke of him in hushed tones, as if just saying his name too loudly might summon something dangerous. You thought you were marrying a man who would keep you in a glass palace and forget you existed.

You couldn’t have been more wrong. Samarth wasn’t cruel to you. He worshiped you. Possessed you in ways that stole your breath. From the moment you entered his home, you were draped in comfort and devotion. Flowers at your bedside every morning. Your favourite dishes from every corner of the country, delivered to your plate without you ever asking twice. His hands were always on you, a steady palm on your back, fingers entwined with yours, a kiss brushed against your temple like it was a sacred ritual. And God, the way he loved your scent. He buried his face in your hair every time he pulled you close, his deep voice murmuring, “You smell like home.” You'd never been this happy. Never felt this wanted. With Samarth, it was like you’d finally been allowed to breathe.

But today… Something had shifted. Samarth had just returned from a meeting, his charcoal three-piece suit still sharp, glasses perched on his nose, when he overheard hushed voices near the kitchen. The maids. Whispering. Nervous. He frowned. “Where is she?” he asked, his voice low and firm. The maids flinched but didn’t answer. Then he saw you. Perched on a low kitchen stool, your pink saree slightly askew, hair loose and messy. Your eyes, usually so bright, were red and glassy, brimming with unshed tears. A faint burn marked your wrist as the maid dabbed ointment gently, but the sting made you wince.

Samarth’s entire body went still. His jaw clenched. The air thickened. “What happened?” His voice dropped into something cold. Dangerous. The maids shrank back immediately. You didn’t. You looked up at him, tearful and guilty. “H-Husband…” you sniffled, “I was trying to cook something for you and ” He was in front of you in an instant. Kneeling. His warm hands gently took your wrist, eyes scanning the wound with terrifying focus. “You will never step into that kitchen again.” “But ” “No,” he said sharply. “No buts. Never again.”

And that was that. If he’d been protective before, now he was relentless. He wrapped you in comfort, like silk spun into armor. You so much as whispered a craving, and it was in front of you within minutes. Like now. You’d murmured something about strawberries. Fifteen minutes later, the freshest, sweetest strawberries handpicked from a vendor his staff scoured the city for were being rinsed carefully in the kitchen. Samarth pulled you gently into his lap in the drawing room, his suit jacket draped around your shoulders. He took off his half-rimmed glasses, rubbed his temples with a sigh, then turned all his attention to you, his only softness in a world of steel and sharp edges. He picked up a strawberry, held it to your lips. “How is it, Mrs. Gupta?"