Two weeks passed.

Then one evening, the atmosphere shifted. Staff hurried around. Sarees were brought out. Jewelry cases opened. Hairdressers arrived.

Gayatri watched silently from the corridor.

Finally, an older maid approached her. "You've been called to attend the public event tonight with sir."

Gayatri blinked. "Sir... Digvijay?"

The maid nodded. "Red saree. Jewelry has been selected."

Gayatri stood still.

Weeks of being ignored... And now suddenly... she was needed. Not as a wife. Not as a person. But as an image. Still, she didn't protest.

Because somewhere deep inside, she understood—this was her first step outside the cage.

She looked at the red sari laid before her. For the first time, she didn't feel like prey. She felt like someone preparing for battle. Quietly. Gracefully. Without noise.

Gayatri Yadav wasn't breaking down in this toxic environment. She was learning it. Understanding it. Adapting to it.

That evening, the car arrived. Digvijay was already seated inside, dressed in a sharply tailored black bandhgala, posture relaxed, and expression unreadable. The soft glow of the car's interior lights sharpened the angles of his face.

Gayatri slid in quietly, careful not to let her bangles make too much noise. He didn't look at her. Not even once.

The door shut. The car moved. Silence filled the space—thick, deliberate. Gayatri sat with her hands folded in her lap. The red saree felt heavier than before. She waited, unsure if she should speak.

He opened his phone. Scrolled. Typed. Completely indifferent to her presence.

The ride felt endless. When the car stopped, he stepped out first. Still no glance. But the moment she stepped beside him—everything changed. He turned, suddenly aware. His expression shifted instantly into something charming and controlled. He extended his arm.

Gayatri hesitated.

His fingers tightened around her wrist—not painfully, but firmly enough to leave no choice. He pulled her closer, smiling.

"Ready to play happy, Mrs. Chauhan?" he murmured without looking at her.

Before she could answer, flashes exploded around them. Cameras clicked. Reporters leaned forward.

"Sir, is this your wife?"

"She's so cute!"

"Mrs. Chauhan, how does it feel to marry the most powerful man in the region?"

Gayatri blinked against the lights. Her breath hitched. She didn't know where to look, what to say, or how to react. The flashes blurred everything, reporters shouting questions she couldn't process.

Then suddenly Digvijay's hand slid over her bare waist.

His palm settled firmly against her skin, fingers curling around her as he pulled her closer, almost abruptly. His thumb began to rub slowly over the exposed skin above her sari pleats—the gesture looking intimate, but the grip unmistakably controlling.

Gayatri stiffened. She turned to look at him, startled by the sudden closeness. Just minutes ago, he had treated her like she didn't exist. Now he was holding her as if she belonged to him. But he wasn't looking at her.

He was smiling at the cameras—confident, charming, and perfectly composed. To everyone else, it looked affectionate. Only she could feel the pressure of his fingers—not gentle, but possessive. She didn't know what expression to hold. Her lips trembled slightly.

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Smile," he muttered under his breath, still looking at the cameras. "You're not here to look confused."

She forced her lips upward.

"She's been a blessing," he said smoothly, his voice warm and polished. "A union between two families who have always been misunderstood."

The crowd murmured approvingly. Cameras flashed faster. His thumb continued its slow movement across her waist, as if he were casually affectionate. But his words near her ear were anything but that.

"Try not to embarrass me," he whispered, his tone edged with arrogance. "It's not difficult. Just stand, smile, and don't speak unless I make you."

Gayatri's throat tightened.

He leaned even closer, still smiling for the media. "And stop looking at me like that," he added quietly. "This is just for them. Don't misunderstand your importance."

Applause followed.

Gayatri smiled. Her cheeks hurt. Inside, she felt hollow.

The charity gala glittered with chandeliers and polished laughter. Crystal lights reflected off marble floors, and conversations paused the moment Digvijay entered. He didn't just walk in — he dominated the space.

People instinctively shifted, making way. Heads turned. Conversations lowered. Respect followed him like a shadow. Gayatri walked beside him, quiet and poised, her steps measured. She could feel the weight of his presence—commanding, intimidating, absolute.

Every time someone approached, his hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer—never gently. Always controlled. His fingers rested firmly, like a claim, like a warning.

"This is my wife," he introduced, his voice calm and authoritative. "She keeps me grounded."

The line was delivered with practiced warmth, but his grip tightened slightly, as if daring anyone to interpret it differently. People smiled. Nodded. Complimented.

But the moment the conversation shifted to politics or business, his hand would drop abruptly. He would turn his body away, effectively excluding her. No glance back. No acknowledgment. She followed like a shadow.

At one point, an elderly politician chuckled warmly while looking at her. "You're lucky, young man. She's graceful."

Digvijay tilted his head slightly, the hint of a smirk touching his lips.

"Yes," he replied coolly. "She photographs well."

The words sounded harmless. But Gayatri felt them cut deep. Photographs well. Not intelligent. Not capable. Not worthy of conversation. Just visually acceptable.

The elderly man shifted awkwardly, sensing the edge in his tone. Digvijay didn't care. He had already turned away.

Gayatri stepped aside near the drinks table, finally getting a moment to breathe. That's when a young industrialist approached her. Confident, charming.

"Mrs. Chauhan, right? You must be new. These events can be overwhelming."

She nodded politely. "Yes."

"You carry yourself well," he added, smiling. "Honestly, you're the most elegant person here tonight."

Gayatri hesitated, unsure how to respond. No one had spoken to her kindly all evening. Before she could answer, a strong hand wrapped around her waist.

Digvijay.

He pulled her firmly against him, the movement sudden and unmistakably possessive. His fingers pressed into her side, holding her close—not for affection, but control. His gaze fixed on the man. Calm. Cold. Dominant.

"Something you need?" he asked.

The tone was polite. The meaning wasn't there.

The industrialist straightened. "No, sir. I was just—"

"I can see that," Digvijay interrupted smoothly.

His thumb pressed once against Gayatri's waist—a silent command for her to stay still.

"She tends to attract unnecessary attention," he said casually. "It's inconvenient."

The man swallowed. "I didn't mean any disrespect."

"I know," Digvijay replied, his voice dropping slightly. "You wouldn't."

The room around them subtly quieted.

He leaned closer to Gayatri without looking at her.

"You don't wander off," he murmured coldly. "You stand where I leave you."

Her breath caught.

Then, louder, to the man—"My wife doesn't need company. She has me."

It wasn't said loudly. But it carried authority. The man nodded quickly and excused himself. Digvijay didn't release her immediately. His grip lingered—firm, almost obsessive—before he finally let go.

He glanced down at her briefly, eyes sharp. "Don't encourage conversations," he said under his breath. "You're not here to socialize."

She looked at him, confused and hurt.

He straightened, already turning back to the crowd. "And try to look less lost," he added dismissively. "It invites attention I don't have time to manage."

Then he walked away, leaving her standing there again. The contradiction hit her hard. He dismissed her. Belittled her. Treated her like an obligation.

But the moment someone else noticed her... his possessiveness surfaced—cold, dominant, absolute.

Later, Gayatri stood near the refreshments table, alone.

Across the hall, reporters gathered around Digvijay again.

"So, this marriage—love or strategy?" one asked loudly.

Digvijay laughed. Calm. Confident.

"When have I ever done anything without strategy?"

Laughter erupted.

"Even my marriage is a masterstroke."

Applause. Gayatri turned slowly. He didn't even glance at her. Didn't soften the statement. Didn't pretend.

She felt something inside her sink sink quietly. I was never a person. Never a wife. Just a move.

The drive back was silent again. No charm. No smiles. No performance. Just distance — cold and deliberate.

Gayatri stared out of the window, the heavy necklace pressing against her throat, each breath feeling tighter than the last. The city lights blurred past, but her mind remained stuck on the evening—the cameras, the smiles, the humiliation.

She hesitated before finally speaking.

"Why bring me?" she asked softly, her voice tired and almost hollow.

Digvijay didn't even turn his head. He continued scrolling through his phone, his expression indifferent.

"Because you were required," he said flatly.

She waited, hoping he would say more. He didn't.

After a moment, he added, his tone edged with arrogance, "You're useful when you smile and stay quiet. That's enough."

Gayatri's fingers tightened in her lap.

He finally glanced at her—briefly—his gaze cool, dismissive. "Don't overthink it," he continued. "You were there to complete the picture. That's all."

The words landed heavily. No warmth. No softness. Just a blunt calculation.

He leaned back, closing his eyes as if the conversation bored him. "And next time," he added lazily, "try not to look so lost. It defeats the purpose of bringing you."

Silence fell again.

Gayatri turned back to the window, the jewelry suddenly feeling like chains. To him, she wasn't a wife. Not even a partner. Just a prop.

Back in the bedroom, he removed his coat, loosened his collar, and walked toward the adjoining study.

Gayatri stood still.

"Should I...?" she began, unsure.

He stopped at the door, finally looking at her—not warmly, not cruelly. Just dismissively.

"You don't need to ask me anything," he said. "Just don't expect anything either."

Then he walked out. The door shut.

Gayatri removed her jewelry slowly. One piece at a time. The bangles. The necklace. The earrings. Each clink sounded louder in the empty room.

She looked into the mirror. For the first time, her eyes weren't wet. They were steady. He had made it very clear—she was unwanted. unnecessary. replaceable.

And strangely... that clarity stopped hurting.

Because when someone expects nothing from you... you stop seeking their approval.