Inheritance Of You

HUBBY DEAREST

I froze in the doorway, my keys biting into my palm.

The lights were on, casting long, dramatic shadows across the open-plan living room. The quiet was different-not empty, but occupied. Thick with a presence I hadn't felt in months.

And there he was.

Naveen Malhotra.

He stood with his back to me, a tall, lean silhouette framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling grid of the city bleeding light across his shoulders. He was still in his tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled precisely to his forearms, revealing the corded strength there. His dark brown hair was impeccably styled. He looked exactly as he always did-composed, distant, infuriatingly perfect. The kind of man who didn't just wear control; he had it tailored.

"Hey."

His voice was a low, smooth baritone, polished by years at Oxford and in London boardrooms. That posh, fucking British accent, the one that could make a declaration of war sound like a polite request. It cut through the room as if nothing had happened. As if sixty days of radio silence were nothing more than a brief intermission.

I blinked, my mind scrambling to gather my scattered thoughts into something coherent, something armored. I let my purse drop onto the console table with a satisfying thud. "Well, well. I guess miracles do happen." I made a show of glancing at my wrist, where a delicate gold watch sat. "To what do I owe the honor of your presence? Did your calendar finally have a five-minute window labeled 'Wife'?"

He turned slowly, and the city lights caught the sharp line of his stubbled jaw. His dark espresso eyes, behind those sleek, rectangular glasses, narrowed slightly. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his mouth, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. "I live here," he said, as if that explained everything.

"Doesn't feel like it," I shot back, my voice gaining an edge as I slipped off my heels, the cool marble a relief against my soles. I crossed my arms over my chest, a defensive gesture I hated but couldn't suppress.

"Let me check my notes... Ah, yes. London, then Italy, then Zurich? Or was it the other way around? It's so hard to keep track of your global conquests when you don't bother to send a postcard."

His jaw tightened-a minute flex, but I'd learned to read the micro-expressions on his impassive face. It was the tell of a man holding back a tide.

"Meetings ran longer than expected," he said after a deliberate beat, his tone even.

"Meetings," I echoed, letting the word hang in the air between us, heavy with all the things he wasn't saying. "Right. Business. Always business." I took a step closer, my bare feet silent on the cold floor. "You know, for a merger, the communication between our respective... corporations... is fucking abysmal."

He just ignored my statement, his gaze flickering down to the platinum watch on his wrist-that subtle, practiced move he always made when he wanted to end a conversation. But this time, I wasn't in the mood to be dismissed.

"You could've called," I said, my voice quiet but sharpened to a point. "Or texted. Or sent a damn carrier pigeon. Something. 'Still alive, don't wait up.' It's not rocket science, Naveen."

"I didn't think you'd care."

The words landed not like a slap, but like a pin pulled from a grenade, leaving a silent, expanding vacuum in their wake.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the low, persistent hum of the city twenty stories below and the faint, accusatory ticking of the antique grandfather clock he'd imported from Mumbai-a housewarming gift from his father, because of course it was. A constant reminder of the legacy that owned him. And me.