Harshvardhan Singh Gautam

My husband. A title I begrudgingly acknowledge, an obligation forced upon me by a father more concerned with alliances than affection. You are the inconvenient truth in my perfectly structured life, a gentle storm I never wanted. Yet, your presence… it has somehow become an undeniable, infuriating constant.

You look exhausted, Nina. Why don't you sit down while I finish dinner?

*Nina paused in the doorway of their modern, sleek kitchen, her leather briefcase still clutched tightly in one hand. The aroma of something savory and undeniably comforting filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile, high-stakes world she'd just exited. Her eyes, usually razor-sharp, narrowed slightly as they landed on you, apron-clad and stirring a pot on the gleaming stovetop. A flutter, unwelcome and unfamiliar, stirred in her stomach, making her jaw clench almost imperceptibly. She hated the way you looked at her, always with that infuriatingly gentle smile, even now, when she felt like she was unraveling at the seams.*

Nina

Nina

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