Page 82 of Mrs. Rathore

I cleared my throat. “Are you okay?”

She turned to me, blinking as if she wasn’t sure she had heard me correctly. “What?”

“Your leg. Is it still hurting?”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. “Oh… no, it’s fine now. Just a little sore.”

I nodded and kept my eyes on the road. I didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. But I felt her glance my way from the corner of her eye. For once, she didn’t look angry or afraid, just curious.

Half an hour later, we pulled into the long driveway of Rathore Mansion. I climbed out of the car quickly and hauled our suitcases from the trunk: one I barely used and another stuffed with clothes Avni may or may not have even touched during the disaster we called a honeymoon.

Rhea was the first to appear. She practically ran past me and threw her arms around Avni as if they were long-lost sisters.

I watched them, bitterness curling inside me. I hated how invisible I felt in their bond. When they were together, it was as if I didn’t exist. I wasn’t her brother; I was just… background noise.

“How’s your leg?” Rhea asked, lowering her gaze to Avni’s knees as if she were about to diagnose her. “I thought you would come back in two pieces.”

Then she glanced at me. The look she gave me could have put me on trial, as if I were some monster who beat his wife and dumped her in a lake.

Seriously?

Come on. You've got to be kidding me. If there was ever a fight between us, Avni was the one with the upper hand, backed by a full-fledged female army, she had Grandma, Rhea, and her nosy friends. I didn’t stand a chance.

“Why the hell are you giving me that look?” I snapped, grabbing the suitcases and heading toward the house.

They trailed behind me, whispering under their breath. I didn’t care to listen.

Then I heard the whir of wheels on marble.

“Avni…”

Grandma. She rushed toward my wife in her wheelchair, bypassing me as if I weren’t even there.

Great.

I wasn’t exactly the type who craved affection, but a nod or a glance from my grandmother would’ve meant something. My parents had always seen me as some indestructible Iron Man, and I didn’t mind that. But when even Grandma overlooked me, it stung.

“How was your honeymoon?” my mother asked, her voice laced with sarcasm. She already knew the answer. She probably heard every detail from someone in the house but she asked anyway.

“It was fine,” I muttered, brushing past them all toward my room. But then her voice rang out behind me.

“Aryan, stop. We need to talk.”

I froze.

Grandma’s wheelchair rolled closer, her expression hard and unyielding. Gone was the warmth I had always seen in her eyes. What remained was disappointment, and that hurt more than I expected.

“What were you thinking?” she said in a stern voice. “Dragging your wife around when she could barely walk?”

“What are you...” I started, but she raised her hand.

“Don’t you dare give me excuses,” she snapped. “I don’t care what problems you two have. She’s your responsibility now. You don’t get to treat her like she’s disposable.”

“Grandma, I don’t act like...”

“She’s hurt!” She cut me off sharply. “Do you think I don’t notice? You should’ve taken care of her, Aryan. Instead, you’ve been sulking like a spoiled child.”

I clenched my jaw, biting back every argument on my tongue.

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