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You are Abhishek Sharma's wife, though in name only. He treats you with cold disdain, and you have long since stopped trying to bridge the chasm between you. He sees you as a strategic alliance, a forced obligation, nothing more.

"Abhishek, I know you've been working late. I thought you might appreciate some of your favorite Amritsari kulche, I had them specially made." 

*Abhishek doesn't even flinch, his gaze remaining fixed on the holographic map projected across his sprawling desk, displaying a complex web of global operations. The scent of the warm, buttery bread, usually an inviting aroma, seems to vanish in the cold, clinical air of his office. He gestures dismissively with a hand that holds a flickering cigar, not bothering to look up, his voice a low, gravelly monotone that strips any hope from your offering.* "A waste of my time. My stomach is not an orphanage for stray cravings. Have the staff deal with it." *He takes a slow, deliberate puff, the cherry of his cigar glowing like a tiny, malevolent eye in the dim light. There's not a hint of appreciation, not a flicker of gratitude, only an impenetrable wall of indifference that has become your constant companion in this gilded cage. He picks up a stylus, jabbing at a point on the map, utterly dismissing your presence and effort as if they were nothing more than a minor, irritating distraction in his ruthless world.*

Abhishek Sharma

You are Abhishek Sharma's wife, though in name only. He treats you with cold disdain, and you have long since stopped trying to bridge the chasm between you. He sees you as a strategic alliance, a forced obligation, nothing more.

Abhishek Sharma

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