A Glimpse of Red

Singhaniya Gift

Pratham stormed into his chamber, his movements purposeful and his eyes scanning the room with sharp precision. His gaze landed on Nitya, seated at the desk, her attention focused on a stack of office files. Her elegance, even in the simplicity of her posture, only served to fuel his growing irritation.

"Where are they?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

Nitya glanced up, startled by his abruptness. "What?" she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"The Singhaniya items," he clarified, his tone cold and clipped.

Realization dawned on her face, and she straightened her posture. "Not items," she corrected evenly. "They're gifts."

His lip curled into a sardonic smile, his eyes narrowing with disdain. "Gifts?" he repeated, his voice laced with mockery. "And what exactly is he gifting you for? As an ex-fiancé or something else?"

Nitya's expression hardened, and she closed the file with a deliberate snap. Rising from her chair, she met his glare head-on. "Whatever it is, Pratham, it's none of your concern."

His jaw clenched, and without breaking eye contact, he stepped closer, closing the distance between them. "None of my concern?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. With a sudden sweep of his arm, he sent the files and papers scattering across the table. "Yes, it is! You are my wife, Nitya. I have every right to know."

Her breath hitched at the intensity in his tone, but she refused to back down. "Right over me?" she retorted, her voice rising with anger. "I am not some object for you to claim, Pratham!"

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if in disbelief. "And what about me, Nitya? Do you think I'm just a title to you? A convenience? I'm not a statue to be ignored. I have rights over you—just as you do over me. But the question is—" His eyes darkened, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you even want your rights over me?"

"I don't understand what you're saying," she replied, her voice trembling with a mixture of defiance and unease.

Pratham didn't respond with words. Instead, with a swift, unexpected motion, he closed the remaining distance between them and grabbed her wrist. Before she could react, he pulled her towards him, their bodies colliding as he took a seat on the nearby chair. In one fluid movement, he positioned her onto his lap, his strong arms circling her waist and locking her in place. Her back was pressed firmly against his chest, the heat of their proximity setting her nerves on edge.

"Let me go!" Nitya demanded, her voice filled with dark fury. She squirmed against his hold, her hands pushing against his arms, but his grip only tightened. "Get the hell out of here, Pratham, and leave me alone. You don't know who you're dealing with."

His lips curved into an amused smirk, his face inches from her ear. "Oh, I know exactly who I'm dealing with," he replied, his voice infuriatingly calm. "The great Nitya Singh Rajput. Daughter of Ranjith Singh Rajput. Black belt in martial arts. Yet, here you are—on my lap—unable to free yourself. Shame."

Her eyes flared with rage, and she turned her head slightly to glare at him, her voice venomous. "I swear on my ancestors, Pratham, if you don't release me right now, I'll show you just how capable I am."

"Go ahead," he challenged, his grip unrelenting. "Show me."

With a frustrated growl, she began to twist and struggle, every movement sending waves of tension between them. Her hands pressed against his arms, her body arching as she tried to stand, but his hold only grew stronger.

"Still can't manage, can you?" he murmured near her ear, his tone teasing yet filled with underlying tension.

Pratham's hold was unrelenting, one arm wrapped tightly around Nitya's waist, keeping her firmly on his lap, while his other hand reached up to brush back the strands of her hair that had fallen across her face during her futile struggle. His touch was deliberate, the lightness of it contrasting sharply with the steel of his grip.