The rest of the day dragged on like a relentless nightmare. True to Mrs. Verma's chilling words, I was treated less like a human being and more like a contagious disease that needed to be quarantined. I spent hours confined to the small, glass-walled conservatory at the back of the sprawling mansion. It was filled with rare, exotic orchids that bloomed in vibrant shades of purple and crimson, yet the air inside felt suffocatingly stale. I was a bird in a gilded cage, surrounded by beauty but stripped of all freedom.
My lunch—a meager portion of bland soup and dry toast—was brought in by a young maid who kept her eyes glued to the floor, terrified to even glance in my direction. When I tried to ask her name, she practically bolted from the room as if my very voice would summon the wrath of her master. That was the power Rudra held over this house. He didn't just demand respect; he ruled through absolute, paralyzing fear.
As the sun began to set, casting long, menacing shadows across the manicured lawns, a sudden shift occurred in the mansion's atmosphere. The previously silent corridors were suddenly buzzing with hushed, frantic activity. Maids rushed past the conservatory with fresh linens, the scent of expensive floor polish filled the air, and the distant clatter of silverware echoed from the main kitchen.
He was coming home.
The realization hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. My palms grew sweaty, and my heart began a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. I had spent the entire day trying to convince myself that I could handle this, that I was strong enough to survive Rudra's hatred. But the mere thought of facing those cold, merciless eyes again made my bravado crumble into dust.
At exactly eight o'clock, the heavy mahogany doors of the conservatory opened. It wasn't the timid maid this time; it was Mrs. Verma. Her face was as stony and unreadable as ever.
"Sir has requested your presence in the main dining hall," she announced, her tone implying that I was being summoned to an execution rather than a meal.
I frowned, confusion momentarily overriding my fear. "But... you said this morning that I was forbidden from using the main dining hall. You said my meals would be sent here."
"Sir changed his mind," she replied sharply, stepping aside to let me pass. "And it is not your place to question his decisions. Do not keep him waiting. He despises tardiness."
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I smoothed down the wrinkled fabric of my faded cotton suit. I had nothing else to wear, nothing to armor myself with. I walked down the long, dimly lit hallway, my bare feet making no sound on the plush Persian carpets.
The main dining hall was a cavernous room that looked like it belonged in a royal palace, not a modern home. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the frescoed ceiling, casting a cold, brilliant light over a dark oak table long enough to seat twenty people.
At the very head of the table sat Rudra.
He had discarded his suit jacket, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong, tanned column of his throat. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying forearms corded with lean muscle. He was swirling a glass of amber liquid, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the massive stone fireplace. He looked devastatingly handsome, and entirely lethal.
"Sit," he commanded, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that vibrated through the silent room. He didn't even turn his head to look at me.
I pulled out the chair furthest away from him, right at the opposite end of the ridiculously long table.
"I didn't say sit miles away, wife," he sneered, finally turning his dark, stormy eyes toward me. The word 'wife' sounded like a curse on his lips. "Sit here. To my right."
Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run, but my legs moved on their own accord. I walked the length of the table and stiffly lowered myself into the chair directly beside him. Up close, the scent of his cologne—cedarwood and danger—was intoxicating.
For ten agonizing minutes, neither of us spoke. Servants appeared like ghosts, silently placing plates of exquisite, gourmet food in front of us before vanishing back into the shadows. Rudra ate with precise, elegant movements, completely ignoring my presence. I stared at my plate, my stomach tying itself into painful knots. I couldn't have swallowed a single bite even if I tried.
"Not hungry?" he asked suddenly, placing his silver fork down with a sharp clink.
"No," I whispered, keeping my eyes glued to the expensive porcelain.
"Look at me when I speak to you." The command cracked through the air like a whip.
I slowly raised my head. His eyes were completely devoid of warmth, calculating and ruthless.
"You must be wondering why I brought you out of your little glass cage to eat with me," he said, leaning closer. The dangerous proximity made my breath hitch. "I received a phone call from your father this afternoon."
My head snapped up completely. "My father? Is he... is he okay?"
Rudra's lips curled into a cruel, mocking smile. "Oh, he is perfectly fine. In fact, he was calling to thank me. It seems the generous 'donation' I made to his failing company cleared his most immediate debts. He was practically weeping with gratitude."
A sickening feeling washed over me. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Rudra whispered softly, leaning in so close that his lips almost brushed my ear. I froze, paralyzed by a confusing mix of terror and an unwanted electric jolt at his proximity. "I wanted to see the exact moment you realized that your family didn't just sell you to a monster... they are celebrating the transaction."
He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction as a single, treacherous tear escaped my eye and rolled down my cheek.
"Eat your dinner," he commanded coldly, turning his attention back to his glass. "You're going to need your strength. The games haven't even begun."