A week later, Mira knocked on my door with a carefully neutral expression.
"Mr. Calein's stepmother is visiting tomorrow. There's been no prior notice. He's asked that you be present."
I paused mid air. "He… wants me to meet her?"
"Yes, ma'am. Breakfast at 9 a.m."
The words felt unreal. I had almost forgotten she existed.
I'd known he had one—a woman mentioned briefly in passing when I first asked about his family. But never in depth. Never willingly.
And now, she was coming.
That night, I asked him directly.
We were seated in the sunroom, which had somehow become our unofficial neutral ground. I had my coffee. He had his ever-present black tea.
"Why now?" I asked.
He didn't pretend not to understand.
"She asked," he said. "And she rarely asks."
"Do you get along?"
A beat passed. "We coexist."
He didn't elaborate, and I didn't push.
But I noticed he didn't touch his tea that evening.
The next morning, I wore pale blue. Subtle, respectful. I tied my hair into a neat knot at the base of my neck, keeping everything tidy.
Mira laid out the breakfast—fruit, toast, soft-boiled eggs, everything perfect down to the placement of the silverware.
At 8:57, she arrived.
She walked in like she owned the place.
Tall. Regal. Not beautiful in the traditional sense, but striking. She wore a muted gray saree with an elegance that didn't need jewelry to speak for her.
Her gaze swept the room, resting on me without warmth.
"You must be Lara."
I stood and extended my hand. "Yes. It's a pleasure to meet you."
She looked at my hand like it was a paperweight and then took it with only her fingers.
"I wasn't aware the marriage had already occurred."
Richard's voice came from behind her. "It did. Three weeks ago."
She turned to him. "Without family?"
He didn't flinch. "Family was never invited."
A small smile played at the corner of her lips. "Still so sharp."
"Still so unwelcome," he said evenly.
The table was a battlefield.
She sat. I sat. He sat last.
We began to eat.
She spoke mostly to me.
Polite questions. Shallow ones.
Where I studied. Where I grew up. Who raised me.
I answered calmly, though I could feel the way her eyes assessed me—not rudely, but with a distant dissection.
"You have a quiet strength," she said at one point.
"I was taught to survive," I replied.
Her eyes flicked toward Richard for a brief moment. "He prefers the quiet kind."
"I prefer the honest kind," he said before sipping his tea.
The silence afterward stretched.
After she left, Richard didn't speak for a while.
He stood by the window, jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his side.
"She raised me after my mother passed," he said finally. "But she never saw me as hers. I was… a job."
He looked at me.
"You understand that."
I nodded. "Too well."
He didn't say thank you. He didn't move.
But his silence wasn't rejection anymore.
It was trust.