Chapter 11

Veeranshu's POV

Marriage.

I had thought it would be a straightforward arrangement—a practical partnership where we would coexist without delving too deeply into each other's lives. It wasn't that I didn't respect Tara; on the contrary, she had handled this entire situation with more grace than I could have expected. But marriage meant opening doors I had spent years keeping firmly shut.

And I wasn't sure I was ready for that.

Most nights, I stayed late at the office. Sometimes it was genuine—meetings, deals, and deadlines that couldn't wait. Other times, it was an excuse.

I dreaded coming home to the mansion, to the weight of expectations I didn't know how to meet. Tara was there, waiting, and the thought of sitting across from her at the dinner table, making small talk or even trying to connect, felt... overwhelming.

It wasn't her fault. She had done nothing wrong. But I had spent so long guarding myself, keeping my emotions locked away, that the idea of letting someone in felt foreign. Dangerous.

So, I avoided it.

But tonight, as I walked into the mansion long after the sun had set, something felt different.

As usual, the staff greeted me with polite nods and subdued "good evenings." I paused in the hallway, glancing toward the dining room, which was empty.

"Where is Mrs. Mehra?" I asked, addressing one of the maids.

"She's in her room, sir," she replied.

I nodded, turning to leave, but something in her tone made me pause. "How is she?" I asked.

There was a hesitation before she spoke. "She's... not doing very well, sir."

The words stopped me in my tracks. "What do you mean?"

"She's quiet," the maid said cautiously, clearly unsure of how much she should share. "She keeps to herself most of the time. And she waits for you every night, sir. In the dining room. She doesn't eat until very late, and even then, it's just a little. We've noticed she's reluctant to go anywhere in the house, as if she's afraid to overstep."

The image of Tara sitting alone at the massive dining table flashed through my mind. Waiting for me. Eating late because I never showed up on time. A pang of guilt hit me hard.

"What about her diet?" I asked.

"She doesn't eat much, sir," the maid admitted. "Mostly light meals, but not enough. We've tried to encourage her, but she insists she's fine."

That wasn't acceptable. "From now on, make sure her meals are nutritious," I instructed. "But don't change her preferences. Keep it vegetarian. She should have proper meals, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

As I climbed the stairs to my room, the maid's words lingered in my mind. Tara was struggling. She didn't say it, but her actions spoke volumes. She wasn't comfortable here, in this house, in this marriage, in this life.

And I couldn't blame her. the only one to blame is me I am supposed to make her comfortable and like a coward I was hiding in my office bathing in the luxury of not facing the real thing , and I took for granted the fact that I didn't had to leave my home my people like Tara had to she came here trusting me and she I led her down

I thought about the little things—the way she hesitated to speak at breakfast, the way she declined my offer to help with expenses, the way she seemed unsure of herself whenever I was around.

One day, I overheard the staff mentioning that she had wanted to use the movie room but didn't, as if she thought she wasn't allowed.

It stung. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel unwelcome in her own home.

This wasn't her fault. This was mine. I had been so consumed with my own fears, my own walls, that I hadn't considered what it must be like for her.

That night, as I sat in my study, the guilt became too much to ignore.

I had agreed to this marriage because it was practical, because it made sense. But I hadn't considered what it would mean for Tara—for her life, her happiness, her sense of belonging.

I couldn't keep avoiding her. I couldn't keep making excuses.

The decision came quietly but firmly: I would come home earlier. I would have dinner with her every night.

It wasn't just about doing what was right—it was about making sure she didn't feel like a stranger in her own life.

The next morning, I informed my assistant, Naman, that I would be adjusting my schedule.

"Cancel any late meetings," I instructed. "And move everything earlier in the day. I need to be home by dinner."

Naman raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He had worked with me long enough to know better than to question my decisions.

As the day went on, I found myself thinking about Tara more and more. She wasn't just my wife—she was a person with her own dreams, fears, and needs.

I thought about the way she carried herself, quiet but dignified. The way she had packed her own lunch for school, even though the staff had offered to do it for her. The way she had tried to maintain a sense of normalcy in a life that must have felt anything but normal.

For so long, I had kept people at a distance, afraid of what it would mean to let someone in. But Tara wasn't just anyone. She was my wife, and she deserved better than silence and avoidance.

That evening, for the first time in weeks, I left the office early. As I drove home, I felt a mixture of apprehension and determination.

When I walked into the mansion, I asked the staff if Tara was in the dining room.

"Yes, sir," they said. "She's waiting for dinner."

I made my way there, my footsteps echoing in the quiet halls. When I entered, she looked up, surprised.

"You're home early," she said softly.

"I thought we could have dinner together," I replied.

Her face lit up, just slightly, but it was enough to make the effort worthwhile.

As we sat down to dinner, the silence between us felt different—not heavy or awkward, but tentative, like the beginning of a bridge being built.

I didn't know what the future held, but I knew one thing for certain: I wouldn't let Tara feel like she didn't belong.

This was her home too.

And I would make sure she knew it.

A/N PLEASE VOTE GUYS AND COMMENT