Chapter 3
3:16 AM
One of the very first lessons that Shyam Manohar Jha had learnt by the age of 13 was, that a man may rise to the top of the world but in the end - He falls between a woman’s legs. It was a well heeded one too. A father with too much money, too many affairs, a mother too hung up on her status and kitty parties to forget the shame of a negligent husband and a large empty household where the servants where his first (and later, only) caretakers was enough to have taught him that. As an Autumn Crocus, born to a 40 years old father and a very surprised 36 years old socialite mother, Shyam was always a bit of a mystery to his self-absorbed parents. As if that wasn’t enough, Ashok Hari Jha, at the age of 53 had, after years of infidelities, decided to marry one of his latest flames - A 20 years old secretary, just 7 years older than his young son. He was in the process of divorcing his wife Ruhina Jha, when she, unable to bear the humiliation of a divorce (No, being separated from her 13 years old son wasn’t the issue) and the social stigma that would follow, had taken her life - in front of the said son, lighting herself on fire. The media storm that followed, the fingers pointed at his father’s directions; The father who started using alcohol as a crutch, the almost stepmother who had left - had taught Shyam at that tender age the most important lesson: Expressing love was for weaklings and fools. He could do without it any day.
In fact, so well was the lesson served that Shyam, by the age of 26 - 13 more years later, had almost forgotten that there were other uses for women beyond sexual escapades, her serving him as a willing vessel for carnal desires and being... rewarded for it. He had always attracted women in droves - the beautifully spoken Urdu; a gift from his Hyderabadi ancestors, a lawyer educated abroad and, the only heir to a chain of jewellery shops over two hundred years old - started by a family of jewellers who had originally belonged to Akbar’s courts. Manohar Jewellers in Mumbai was a household name, catering to the middle classes as well as those in the uppermost echelons of the city. Why wouldn’t they be attracted to him? If even he had nothing, had come from nothing at all - Shyam Manohar Jha positively oozed charms. A darkly handsome, tall man with hair longer than conventional, he probably would still have attracted women. A test he happily didn’t need to go through, however. At the age of 27, however, he had stumbled from on the roads he had set ahead of himself, one he had no intention of deviating from - It all had happened at an old client’s wedding. Ashok Hari Jha had, by then retired from society, leaving Shyam (when he got time off from his cases) to attend the social niceties if he could. When he could. He had almost not gone to this one - A wedding, an old client’s daughter. Only the thought of the 8,000,000 Rupees worth of jewellery they had bought - just for the bride - barring those for the sister, the groom’s family, the bride’s mother, had him going there with the biggest smile on his face. Who knows? He had thought wryly, maybe Mumbai’s Prince of Diamonds would end up meeting someone there - someone he would like to keep around for the night, anyway. Hadi Al-Fayyed was an old family client in Lucknow, and his youngest daughter’s wedding had meant that there was to be no expenses spared. Shyam enjoyed lavish weddings, and walking down to the huge house, especially leased for the wedding to be held in - he just knew he’d love this one. As he walked down the flower strewn path into the main house, the music at full swing, the bridal attendants running to and fro - Shyam had seen her. He was arrested. At the very first glance - there was no other word for it. She had worn a Kanchivaram Uppamma in at least 15 shades of green - from the darkest peacock to the lightest shade normally found in the newly furled leaves of oak. There were gold zari work all over, depicting lotuses - buds to the fullest bloomed ones being in her anchaal. The choli was, in contrast, white, stark. Arresting again. With just a hint of green in the borders. She had to be a friend, he noted, of the bride because this was a daughter of privilege. In her antique gold set with Colombian Emeralds (a jeweller always knew) framing her delicate neck, topped by a face best suited on Victorian porcelain dolls, long dark hair flowing down her back - she stole his breath away. Shyam knew that he had to meet her. He had hoped to meet the regal beauty, who for some reason reminded him of the queens of olden times - Rani Sahiba, he thought with a grin - except, the crush of the Al-Fayyed Wedding meant, he never did. The sight of her however, haunted his nights for months in Mumbai.
It had been months, he thought with a small smile until he met another again. The kindest, gentlest woman Shyam could have hoped for a mother - She had taken to him the moment she had set foot on the Manohar Jewellers’ and had seen him. What had Anujha Malek seen in him then? Shyam had often wondered. She had though - Even as she bought jewellery worth enough to keep 15 families of 4 clothed and fed for months, he had fallen under her spell. His need for a mother and her natural inclination for mothering had been a perfect fit and when Anujha had asked him to attend her daughter’s wedding - again, at Lucknow, how could he have refused? Then, there was the thought of his Rani Sahiba attending this wedding as well. The well-to-do families in Lucknow all knew each other. Shyam had been pretty sure that his Rani Sahiba would have to be one of the guests there. This time though, she wouldn’t leave without speaking to him. So he had ordered a beautiful set to be made for Anujha’s daughter’s wedding. Diamonds, of course but also emeralds - a silent tribute to the woman who had stolen into his dreams and had set out for the Sheesh Mahal in Lucknow for the wedding that would ultimately change his life.
The Maleks, he decided after one look at Sheesh Mahal, were bound to be descended from some or the other Lucknowi Nawab. The Palace- for it was a Palace- with its splendid stained glass windows, and ancient stone archways and beautiful hallways surrounded by the most colorful and lush gardens he had ever come across- was nothing short of Magnificent. He had let his eyes wander around the place, as he had gotten down from the traditional Horse Drawn carriage that had been sent to pick up guests and stopped short. His eyes had found the sight he had been craving for months, now.
Rani Sahiba.
there she was, standing in the Rose garden, smiling the most beautiful of smiles that he had ever seen, caressing the roses with her creamy hands, as a gaggle of other young women surrounded her. She was dressed in a Banarasi Silk saree, the color of the deepest blue- with a hint of sea green. There were fucshia and gold paisley work all over the pallu and the border was the deepest of pink with hints of green- the bright colours had somehow illuminated her glowing face, bare of any jewellery, she looked like a goddess. perhaps, she was one- he mused. he had watched her turn to the other women and say something to them- smiling all the time- and his feet had somehow carried him forward. he had waited by the Archway, as she was left alone by her friends, and had slowly approached her after he was quite sure there would be no interruptions. Throat curiously parched, he had walked ahead till he was within a few feet of her- and she had turned around- perhaps sensing his presence.
What he had seen and admired from far away- did not hold a candle to what he saw up and close.
Her eyes were a dark black- a shiny black- with a hint of a twinkle in them. lined by a mere hint of dark Kohl- and thick black and long lashes, they held something akin to magic- as he felt himself being pulled in by those beautiful orbs. Her complexion was a delicate rosy cream. made to look even more captivating by the dark long hair that framed her small oval face, and fell down to her waist. A nymph? Apsara? What was she? he wondered. because such beauty was impossible to be earth-borne. His mind jumped to the possible names her proud parents must have given to her. Menaka, he decided. The ever graceful apsara sent by the King of Gods to grace the Earth. She was Menaka.
He watched her smile falter, and realized how uncomfortable he must have made her. Clearing his throat, he moved a pace forward- and stopped when she stumbled a step back- anxiety flashing in those beautiful eyes momentarily.
“I’m Sorry. I am here as a guest of Mrs. Malek?”
He inwardly heaved a sigh of relief, as the smile came back onto her face with full force and beauty.
“Oh, You are Mama’s guest? Please come, I’ll show you into the house.”
Right until that moment, Shyam Manohar Jha had never known that a simple sentence, said in the sweetest of voices- could cause such heartbreak. Mama. She had called Mrs. Malek, Mama.
It was her wedding, he was supposed to be attending.
Shyam had, since that night been an exemplary guest. She had been given her wedding gift, which she had immediately said that she would wear on her wedding - as it goes perfectly with her jora. Shyam had inclined his head quietly, the charms all gone - Anybody from Mumbai would have been very surprised to have met this other side of their Prince of Diamonds, but in Lucknow, where he was but another faceless wedding guest, Shyam had somehow managed to stay in the background. Well, he had - until the night of the wedding. He had gone to see Mrs. Malek, to say his goodbyes - unable to bear the torture of seeing his Menaka wedded to another and he would have too, if he hadn’t found Anujha weeping fervently into a pillow. What was happening? These weren’t the tears of a woman about to lose her daughter to her in-laws! These were tears of fear, of loathing and helplessness! What had just happened now? Shyam had placed a hand on the older woman’s shoulder, when she had looked up at him, eyes swollen. Reddened. “You have to help me beta!” she had said, an agonized whisper of a mother crazed with fear for her daughter. “Please!” Shyam had immediately agreed. “Anything,” he had murmured. “You have to save my daughter. My only daughter - Anjali! She’s in grave danger. Please! Go to the lower courts of the Mahal, you’d see it... Please! Save her! I’ll follow right behind you!” she had gasped, through her sobs. That had been the last time he had seen Anujha of the golden heart, alive. Her brother-in-law had said that she had taken her own life. Shyam was eaten up with self-loathing that he hadn’t been able to protect a woman so wonderful from her villainous in-law, but then - that night he hadn’t been a part of that town.
He had rushed to the lower courts as he had been told- only to come upon a horrific conversation. A conversation between the Bridegroom and the Bride’s Uncle. He had heard the first few lines that had been exchanged and had flown into a temper. His eyes had swept the place- and come upon a sight that had broken his Heart. There she was- his Menaka- dressed in a jora of the deepest scarlet that darkened to flame at the edges. The work done was gold zardozi and Lucknowi gota by the craftsmen employed by Anuja’s family for the past century or so. Her pallu depicted a bride in a Palquin, being carried by four men, all done in gold threads. The Choli was, shades of red again, from ruby to the deepest of crimson with gold gotas running over it. The Jora had a border of emerald green - a shade probably only found in the heart of Colombo’s jungles with mirror work and copper sequins woven throughout the fabric to give of the glint of the regality that he had once come to associate with her. She wearing the emerald encrusted jewellery that he had gifted her not two days ago, her eyes void of the twinkle- as she looked upon the bargaining going on over her worth without even a hint of emotion showing on that beautiful porcelain face. The regality with that expression together formed sight so heart-wrenchingly tragic that he was sure he would never ever want to witness it again.
A moment later, an expression of momentary relief had passed through her eyes. “Papa.” she had whispered- a lone tear falling down her face, as she looked beyond him. he had turned around- hoping that the man striding towards them, with absolute loathing stamped across his face would handle and put a stop to the heinous crime that was happening here. But, he had been disappointed.
Harshawardhan Malek, A well-built, handsome man in his late fifties- with coal-black eyes and a hard mouth, was everything you expect a businessman to be- and more. Much, much more.
“She’s dead.” he had hissed, and Shyam had turned around again- astounded that the words spoken with so much loathing and hatred were directed not towards the man’s brother- but his own daughter. “My Anujha is dead- she killed herself.” She had winced then, her hands fisting in the lehenga by her sides- as her head dropped, eyes lowered- as if she had accepted defeat at the hands of fate.
As if she had accepted that she was to be sold- by her own family.
“Chottey is dead.” The man continued, ruthlessly, cruelly- as she gasped in shock- and her eyes widened- a devastatingly heartbroken look veiling them. she had flinched as her Father had pointed a finger in her direction- his eyes ice cold.
“You. You worthless woman. It is all because of you.”
He had turned to his brother then. “Ashok, Do whatever you have to- I must not see her here in one hour.”
And he had walked away. Leaving a broken doll in his wake.
An infernal rage had engulfed his senses then. Striding towards her- he had clasped her cold, clammy hand in his. He had pulled her to himself, his hand going around her tiny waist. “I’ll pay Double.” he said, coldly eyeing the pieces of worthless scum who had decided themselves worthy enough of deciding this beautiful woman’s worth. His disgust had mounted after every passing second, as the Uncle- rubbing his hands gleefully, had quoted her ‘price’ and discussed in great detail the method of payments he was expected to do.
An hour later- Shyam Manohar Jha had left Lucknow with his newly purchased wife. A woman who had lost everything she had lived for in a matter of minutes. A woman who had not uttered a word to him since he had bought her from her family. He had guided her with a slight, proprietary touch on her back and had led her away to his car, going for the airport where, a few calls later, Mr. and Mrs. Shyam Manohar Jha had boarded the plane to Mumbai - never to return again.
Anjali had never done much before. While her friends had gone off to college abroad, she went to one in Mumbai, carefully monitored by her mom, living with her there. So, there had been no drinking, no “experimenting with boys” or, wild partying that had been the catch phrase of the early 1990s for her. Anjali had gone, come back home and when her marriage had been arranged, she had easily said yes, dreaming of the new life with her own prince soon. She had learned how to run a big household, how to arrange menus, how to become a crackerjack hostess like her mother and look beautiful at all times - useless skills, sure, but she had wanted them. Wanted to do the best by her husband, when he would step into her life. Anjali’s quest for being a good housewife hadn’t left much room for her do much else, so when, her husband - the one who had bought her- had offered her an inflight refreshment of mimosa (“It’s orange juice and champagne, Rani Sahiba,” the beautifully spoken man with solemn eyes had said,), she had decided, what the hell? So she had a flute of it, then another... and another... and another one still - head spinning pleasantly, a rosy flush heating up her face. He had bought her a black and multicolored polka dotted high waisted skirt and a filmy peach peasant blouse from the Airport duty-free. The height of fashion at that time, and needless to say; something Anjali had never been allowed to wear since she was 13. She hadn’t cared though - anything to get out of that heavy Jora. It had felt tainted by then. Smeared by lost dreams, by broken hearts and ugly deaths. Anjali had never wanted to see it again, if she could help it. She had slipped into them, the strange cagelike black shoes she knew were called gladiators, the skirt and the top and had held his hand, unsteadily as she had weaved around on the plane, attempting to walk. She hadn’t spoken, neither had he. She knew of him, sure. Her mother had, for months extolled on his graceful conduct and charm. She had spoken of his ever present sunny humour - well then, she wondered, where was it? Who was this grave eyed man who was supposed to have been the Prince of Diamonds of Mumbai. The same man the gossip magazines had so much to write about? There had been no signs of charms to speak of, in the past two days... Anjali, in her inebriated state had made the mistake of mentioning it to him - Shyam had looked at her wonderingly and had then, to her greatest surprise, burst into laughter. She had then stared in awe, seeing for the first time, why the world was so taken in with him. His inky black eyes twinkled - yes, they really did sparkle, like there were black pools with light reflecting off of them. His lips, having been compressed into tight lines for so long seemed to plumpen and stretch, pearly whites shining. His hollowed cheeks, and high cheekbones added high drama to an already handsome face and the shiny black hair had her fingers itching... craving to sink into it. Prince of Diamonds indeed, Anjali thought, awed.
The laughter tapered off into quiet chuckles, as his smile softened- making his face look even more beautiful. She stared at him- mesmerized by the expressions of something akin to tenderness dancing across his face. her breath hitched as his large, rough, beautifully masculine hand came up to caress her face. A feather light caress. One she would not have believed such a man to be capable of. her eyes drooped, as he ran his knuckles lightly over her cheekbones, his thumb coming up to rub small circles on her skin- making her feel dizzy. her eyes snapped open, as his hands rose up to frame her face, oh-so-tenderly, as if she was made of glass- as if she would break if he held her any tighter than that. Maybe she would, she thought errantly, her thoughts dissolving like a mere wisp of smoke, as his thumb rubbed across her lower lip. Once. Twice. Three times. Her breath started coming in short gasps, as her eyes closed fully this time. Anjali felt him move closer to her. his breath fanning her face, as his hands tightened ever so slightly around her face. The knot in her chest tightened- her heart thundering in her ears as her breath shortened in anticipation. she felt him rub his nose slowly against hers, and her eyes opened yet again, locking with his dark black ones.
He moved closer still. his lips but a breath away from hers- his eyes still holding hers captivated. then it happened. a slight, tender, brush on her lips. so light, that she wondered if she had imagined it, imagined the tingle than ran up her spine, when she felt it again. Firmer, this time. A solid, warm pressure that had her gasping, and he took advantage of it (a symbol of her life ahead), swooping in. Claiming her mouth. Her... husband ran a tongue over lower lip, sucking it in, a pain so acute that could only be pleasure was blooming... she could feel it. He caressed her cheeks, angling her head so that it had given him a better angle to her mouth. Plundering. Nibbling. She could feel his tongue forcing its way in, duelling with her own. Each stroke seemingly adding to the heat that was already burning her up. She felt herself being lifted, and then, arranged on his lap, so that she was straddling it. He kept on kissing her, running his fingers down her sides, even as her legs of their own will, wrapped around his waist, drawing him even closer. His hands banded around her waist, pulling closer still, exerting a pressure that she didn’t quite understand but at the same time had her gasping, aching, craving for more. Anjali didn’t know what would have happened if the flight attendant hadn’t politely cleared her throat from behind the curtains to tactfully announce her arrival. If Shyam didn’t have a quicksilver reflex that had him untangling her from him and seating her on her chair beside him, clipping on the seatbelt in a matter of minutes. She didn’t know... but she had definitely wanted to find out. Her gasping breaths had, her throbbing lips had, her swollen breasts had and mostly, the aching, damp, core of her definitely had wanted to know. They had soon taxied down the runway, and before long, Anjali had found herself in the Mumbai Airport, still a little tipsy, being held in viselike grip by her husband and led into a dark tinted car - an Audi, she thought, anticipating what would happen again, once they were alone - already. she sat in the cool interiors of the car, her hand held tightly in his own, as she tried to rationalize her thoughts and calm her raging body, at the same time. what had happened in there? what was it that she had felt? she rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers lightly, before pressing them to her eyes. Was it right? that feeling of abandoning want that had raced through her veins at a mere touch of this... man- who was now her husband? the flash of acute need she had felt growing steadily in the pit of her stomach, when this mere stranger had touched her- caressed her? her heart plummeted into her stomach as she thought of what her wanton reaction meant. Was her father right about her then? Was she that good for nothing skank that her uncle had described her to be? A woman they had been unfortunate enough to produce- and in a hurry to send away? hot tears of shame and defeat welled up in her eyes, as she gazed out the window unseeingly- fighting for breath.
She felt his hand squeeze hers, and looked around- to find herself being scrutinized carefully through veiled dark eyes. was it worry that she saw flickering across those bottomless pools in that moment? his eyebrows arched in question- and she automatically shook her head- hastily trying to reassure him of her well-being. Why? How would it matter if she was fine? She thought, a sudden flash of fierce anger burning through her. he had her, didn’t he? He had purchased her- at an amount double her original price. she was his to keep- owned by him, she sneered. Her eyes flashing with pure rage. Nothing but a doll he bought for himself. A pretty little doll to keep him happy. Well, she thought - You’ll get what you paid for Mr. Jha.
She felt him squeeze her hand again, and looked back at him. “We’re here.” he said, quietly, and her head whipped around to peer at the house- Mansion- that stood in front of her. Another hollow castle, she thought, her mind wandering back to the one she’d grown up in. A lone tear of wistful memory escaping her eye. Now... she would play the plastic mistress to the hollow castle... What had he called her? Rani Sahiba. The queen of the castle of sands. Anjali shook her head. Yes, she would remember that as a reminder. A reminder of the role she was to play... for her...owner.
She followed him quietly as he led her through a set of Oak double doors- into the Mansion. Watched, quietly, as he barked orders to the housekeeper to turn down their bed. To clean, their room. The prodigal son, it seemed, had come home and had shocked everyone for the first time. He held her hands then, slowly leading her up a staircase that wouldn’t look too out of place in an Old American Southern periodic film - Gone with the Wind, maybe? “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn...” she whispered, then giggled hysterically. Shyam looked down at her, surprised, and a hint of concern shone through those black pools again. She composed herself, holding his hands tighter and followed. She went through those satinwood doors, with inlays of tumbling stone, and looked - whatever she had expected of the room of the master of the haveli... this probably wasn’t it. It was done in French white, with antique furnitures of walnut wood, stained black. There was an almost Monastic look in the room, kept cool in the Mumbai summer by an Air conditioner. There was a worktable - a roll top that looked french and very very expensive. However, all thoughts of Monasteries and Monks flew out of one’s head the moment they looked at his bed. Bigger than your average King sized ones, it had been covered by a raw red silk bedcover, with embroideries made to look like gold jewellery. Turned down, you could see the Egyptian eyelet cotton bedsheet that beckoned. Why did it look so.... sinful? Anjali didn’t know but as she stood, eyes transfixed on the bed, she knew that she would soon find out all about it.
He had, on the other hand, gone towards a painting on the walls - What looked like a Raja Ravi Varma original - Anjali drew in a breath. What.... There was a safe inside, and from it he quickly withdrew a little box. It had the Manohar Jewellers’ stylized M stamped on it and once he flipped it open - she just stared. Anjali didn’t know jewellery. She hadn’t ever worn them much, even though her mother used to have boxes and boxes of them. It was a ring... but not just a ring... It was the ring. A diamond one - so radiant that it almost gave off its own blue light. A 3.25 ct of perfection, she would later learn. Set in yellow gold, openwork band, with claw settings with an old mine cut center stone. It had clusters of Amethysts around it, of such perfect mauve hue that you had to know that it had been mined from the Mountains of Nepal. An antique from the 1920s, it had once graced the finger of Shyam’s grandmother - a reigning black and white movie goddess who had later married the jewellery heir and lived happily ever after - somewhat. She had gotten the luxury she craved, he had his arm candy cum baby machine. The best thing to come out of his marriage was probably the ring, the diamond mined from the heart of Delhi - one of the best quality diamonds found so far.
And Anjali had stared. Her eyes not ready to leave the beautiful antique- that she knew she was supposed to burden her finger with from now on. Another responsibility. She looked up finally, when Shyam moved towards her. his eyes warily watching her- expecting her to extend her hand, maybe? accept the responsibility he was bestowing upon her? Her hands curled in on themselves at her sides stubbornly, even as he came to stand in front of her- his hand reaching out to take hers. she contemplated snatching her hand away from him- thought of trying out being a rebel in that moment- but dispelled those thoughts the next moment. What would it amount to in the end? She would have to give in, like she had done her whole life. the only difference would be that the man she would be giving in to was a different one.
she opened her fist as he brought her left hand up, his thumb rubbing a sensual pattern on the inside of her wrist before moving away to her knuckles. Her eyes closed again, in Defeat? Surrender? She didn’t know- nor did she care by this time. She just wanted this to be over with. She stiffened momentarily, as she felt the cold metal slip onto her ring finger- weighing it down. Binding her to him forever.
her eyes flew open as she felt him kiss the ring- and watched in detached fascination, as his lips caressed her small dainty fingers- one by one.
He then slowly held her by the wrist, pulling her towards him arranging her arms around his neck as his mouth unerringly found hers, stirring her up. Lighting her on fire again, and this time - there were no flight attendants with extinguishers. He picked her up, ravishing her mouth still while her legs encircled his waist. One hand hooked into the waistband of the skirt, pulling it down. Was Anjali shocked? In a word - No. She couldn’t seem to lose her clothes fast enough, such was the heat stroking her skin then. Without any care for her top, the peasant blouse was ripped off, leaving her in her lacy beige underwears. How did they come off, she wondered, when she felt him laying her down on that enchanting bed, even when she helped his take his shirt off, with the fervor she felt in him. Even as she took his narrow belt out of the loop. She shivered as his hands caressed her sides, climbing up- leaving a trail of fire in their wake and her hands clenched at his shoulders, anchoring herself to him. His mouth was at her neck, nibbling, trailing open mouthed kisses all over, even as he wound his hand into her hair, drawing it to her side. Anjali felt his mouth and fingers descend down her throat, cupping - almost not quite until they reached her breasts. Kissing, stroking, tweaking the swollen body parts that seemed to have become the center of her universe. Then, his hands slowly slid down, cupping her heat, testing her wetness. Caressing the nerve bundle there, causing her to arch. When he was satisfied, she felt his hands holding her waist, even as he looked her into the eyes, telling. What? She had her answer as soon as she felt him - in her. Slowly. Eyes widening, she stared, even as he whispered in a guttural tone, “It’ll hurt. A little.” Then, he was moving.... Was it supposed to hurt? She couldn’t tell. Where pain began and pleasure finished. Even as a heat flush rose in her body, contracting her inside, causing her to sink her nails into the very shoulders anchoring her to him. When the dam burst, her body awash with pleasure she could only dream of - she saw his tightening as well and then - he had relaxed. Collapsing into each other. Was that what all that fuss was about, she had thought. Then, it hadn’t been exaggerated a bit, Anjali thought sleepily, snuggling closer to her husband’s side.
She opened her eyes, squinting, as sunlight streaming in from the windows threatened to blind her- looking around herself in momentary confusion- as she struggled to gain full consciousness. Then, she remembered. Her Marriage. The sale. Her new husband. The flight. Her new Home. And then, she blushed. Making Love. Slowly, she sat up- her face falling as she was greeted with an empty bed. drawing the cover up to her chin, she brought her knees to her chest, winding her hands around them. Wincing a little at the slight soreness she felt between her legs- a slight twinge.
Her mind already losing itself in the memory of last night- where, in the cloaked shadows of the dark- her new husband had made love to her. Passionately. Tenderly. And, dare she say it? Lovingly. Was he not what she had thought him to be, then? Could it be, that the cruel twist her fate had thrown her yesterday- was actually a blessing in disguise? And a small hopeful smile broke out on her face, at that thought. Had she, maybe, accidentally found her Prince? Her Knight in Shining Armor?
She looked up as the door opened. There he was. Immaculately dressed in Black- looking more handsome than she remembered him to be. His hands holding a tray. her smile faltered, as she saw the cold indifferent look on his face. Panic settling into her chest. Had she done something wrong?
“Your breakfast.” he said, in that beautiful, almost poetic voice of his. she watched him, as he indicated a small sachet with one finger. “After you’ve had the breakfast- take this, Rani Sahiba.”
She looked up at him, questioningly. and at his next words, her hopes and her heart came crashing down.
“It’s a Contraceptive.”
keeping the tray on the bedside table- he looked at her one last time- before turning away and leaving the room. Leaving her alone. Tears welled up in her eyes, as reality came knocking. Rani Sahiba. She thought, a small sardonic laugh escaping her lips, as tears flowed down her cheeks, unchecked.
The Queen. Of where, she wondered? His bedroom? His hollow castle? Not of his heart. she knew. Not of his Heart.
Anjali leaned back against the door-sill; eleven years and still the memories could be just as brutal as ever. It appealed to her now dark sense of humor that while he called her Rani Sahiba, she was nothing but a sex slave gracing his bed. Rani Sahiba, indeed, she thought laughing hollowly. She still was, after all, the checkmated White Queen claimed by the Black Knight.
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