Married to My Brother-in-Law, In Love with His Brother (Early Acess Ch 6)

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The lullaby drifted through the quiet villa, soft and haunting. It was Meenal’s voice—low, cracked, barely more than a whisper—but it filled every corner of the house with aching tenderness. Rajveer stood in the hallway, watching her from the shadows.

She sat in the drawing room, the baby nestled against her chest, rocking him gently. Her eyes were tired but patient, her touch instinctive. The child, once inconsolable, was now sleeping soundly.

Rajveer's fists clenched at his sides.

That should’ve been Megha.
That should’ve been his wife.

But she was gone.

He turned abruptly, boots echoing against the marble floor, and stormed down the corridor. He entered the master bedroom—their bedroom—and slammed the door behind him, the sound reverberating like a shot. A moment later, the metallic click of the lock echoed in the silence.

The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and old memories. He didn’t turn on the light.

Instead, his eyes found the wedding photo on the far dresser. The only one he had kept—black and white, slightly faded, but still sharp enough to cut him. The only photo of her that he had left.

Megha stood beside him, in her bridal saree, her smile radiant. He, standing next to her, looked every bit the stoic Thakur—rigid, proud, unreadable.

He walked across the room, picked up the frame. His thumb brushed over the glass, wiping away invisible dust.

“I didn’t know how to love you.” The words didn’t leave his lips, but they burned in his chest all the same.

He didn’t know what love was. No one had ever shown him. His mother died when he was a child. His father had raised him like stone—shaped, not nurtured. A man didn’t cry. A man didn’t plead. A Thakur stood alone, above it all.

And so he had.

Even with Megha.

He’d been distant, curt. Never cruel—but never soft. He remembered the way she would reach for his hand at night, only for him to pull away. The way she smiled through his silences. The way her eyes dimmed over the years, love slowly folding into resignation.

And now… she was gone.

Taken in childbirth, when he wasn’t even there to hold her hand. He hadn't been able to say goodbye.

He pressed the frame to his chest, gripping it like a weapon and a wound. His jaw clenched against the tremor in his throat. He wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t. His father’s voice echoed in his mind—
“A Thakur stands tall, no matter who falls.”
But in the dark, holding her smile in his hands, he felt smaller than ever.

Hadn’t cried at the funeral. Hadn't shed a single tear. That would have made him weak. And weakness had no place in a Thakur’s heart.

But in this room, with only her photo for company, the ache refused to be silenced.

He stared at the image for a long time, jaw tight. His throat burned, but he swallowed the rising tide.

On the nightstand, one of Megha’s glass bangles lay cracked—forgotten, but not broken.

Through the heavy walls, he could still hear Meenal’s voice—gentle, persistent.

The baby had stopped crying.

His son. But the boy didn’t know him—didn’t flinch at his voice, didn’t seek his arms. The warmth he was meant to offer had found its way into someone else’s hands. Meenal’s. The sister of the woman he loved. The woman he could barely stand.

The one who had always challenged Megha’s choices, questioned his authority, stood in silent judgment.

And now—now—she was everything his son needed.

Rajveer turned away from the photo, pressing it to his chest for a moment before setting it back down, face-first. He couldn't bear to look at her anymore. Not like this. Not when the only legacy she had left was slipping from his grasp and curling into someone else's arms.

His shoulders slumped. The weight was unbearable.

His mother had left.
His father had never truly been there.
And now Megha, the only woman who had ever tried to love him, was gone too.

Everyone he ever needed had left without looking back. Except the child. And even he cried for someone else.

He was his only hope now, the only reason to keep going.
His son.

A thread tying him to something real, something fragile and human. But the boy didn’t see him as a father. Didn’t want his arms. Wanted hers.

A soft knock on the door broke the silence.

He didn’t respond.

“Thakur Sahab?" Meenal’s voice came through, gentle, muffled. "He’s sleeping now. I thought… maybe you’d want to see him.”

A breeze slipped in through the slightly open window, carrying the faint scent of jasmine. For a moment, it felt like Megha had passed through the room—silent, unseen.

He didn’t move. Just listened.

And for the first time in years, Rajveer wished someone had stayed.

Her voice had been cautious, careful—still aware of the wall between them, but no longer trying to scale it. She wasn’t asking for forgiveness. She wasn’t asking for anything.

Just offering a sliver of peace.

Meenal’s footsteps retreated. The silence returned—thick with grief. A silence that held a man trapped between legacy and love, too broken to cry, too proud to bend.

But in the darkness, one truth remained.

He was not enough for his son.
Not yet.

And if he didn’t change—
If he didn’t learn—
He would lose the boy the way he’d lost everyone else.

*****

✍️ Author’s Note

This chapter was one of the hardest—and most heartfelt—to write. Rajveer’s silence isn’t just mourning; it’s the echo of generations of unspoken pain, duty, and pride. His grief doesn’t scream—it suffocates. And sometimes, the quietest moments are the ones that leave the loudest marks. 🌙

If this chapter moved you—if you paused at the sound of that lullaby, or felt the ache of a man holding a photograph instead of a hand—then I hope you’ll keep turning the pages. The journey has only begun, and hearts like Rajveer’s don’t break all at once… they unravel, piece by piece. 💔

🫶 Let me know your thoughts—drop a comment, send a message, or share your favorite line. I read everything, and your words mean the world.

📚 And if you're ready for more love, legacy, and layered emotion—don’t stop now.

➡️ Next chapter’s waiting…

Until next time—
Stay strong. Stay loud. Stay human.
📝💫 — Shaar Shree