tomorrow is another day

The world had evolved—from walking distances to creating wheels and innovations taking flight, from living in caves to building houses of mud until towering apartments filled out the horizon of metropolitan cities, from a society that frowned upon women to their fight for voting rights giving rise to feminism, from the conceptualisation of marriages to the creation of social norms around it until the youth decided to break them down to love freely.

The world had changed plenty—but not the whole one, even though most wore the facade of modernism over a heart still favouring the old practices that once defined the civilisation that resided on the land near the banks of Indus.

An elegant chandelier of glass hung from a frame of gold, illuminating the spacious sitting room Shauryaman had been shown to by the middle-aged housekeeper who smiled too widely and spoke too politely, making the man wonder whether she knew as well the bitter pill of truth he was forced to swallow.

It hadn’t been the first time his father had made a decision for him—the man was practically obsessed with controlling the life of the heir of the vast family empire, always bringing forth ideas that would disrupt his life. But unfortunately for his father, he underestimated the cunning of his son.

But there were no artful tricks that could rid him of Harshvardhan Gaur’s latest demands.

None except obedience and a quiet hope that his intended—carefully chosen by his father, a daughter to an industrialist acquaintance—despised this idea of union as much as he did. Because perhaps then, he might figure out a way to avoid disruptions in his already satisfactory life.

A deal would work favourably, one where his soon-to-be wife agrees to let him live his life the way he wants to while she breathes however she want—no interference in each other’s business.

A perfectly happy marriage.

His anticipation was rising as the time ticked by, the careful and revealing searches in the browser of his mobile felt heavy on his chest as well as in his pocket—ones he had made in the chauffeured car on his way to the mansion that was registered in the name of his to-be father-in-law.

The research revealed not much about her, nothing entertaining as he had hoped. Only pictures taken during launch parties and charity galas, along with the formal information about her expensive education and her role in her father’s empire: the head of the Public Relations team, a fancy title for a job that seemed nearly useless in the eyes of Shauryaman.

But who was he to comment?

Well, technically?

Her fiancee.

The rapid train of his thoughts derailed the moment dark mahogany double doors opened with a quiet creak that echoed in the otherwise silent room, his dark eyes—deceivingly resembling the innocent ones of a newborn deer—lifting to find the figure of his betrothed closing the door she had entered through.

Elegance was the only word that came to his mind as he watched her approach the sofa he sat upon, her heels clicking like the devil’s warning against the marble floor.

A smirk tugged on his lips as his eyes dragged over her—assessing from her head to toe, until he was pleased enough to rise to hid feet. At least, his father had found him a pretty face, easy on sore eyes—one that would look breathtaking on his arm and in the family photographs for Harshvardhan Gaur’s election campaigns.

“So you are the chosen one?” He wondered out loud, his boots heavy against the floor as he chewed away the distance separating them, halting only when she stood at an arms length from him.

His mocking words earn him an arched eyebrow, her head tilted to a side while she folded her arms in front of him. Her eyes—large like his own, honeyed poison in appearance—venture out on an expedition of their own, studying the sharp lines of his tailored suit and the laid back crew neck underneath the jacket.

“Chosen one?” She repeated, her voice a soft cadence that disguised her own arrogance, not like his—loud and obnoxious and evident from a mile—but quieter, more dangerous.

“Or the bali ka bakra?”

Shauryaman’s smirk widened, eyes darkening with interest as he let out a rumbling hum, bending down until his fingers trace the rim of the untouched glass of water—an action dripping of arrogance and something far more sinister—before the long digits wrapped around it like a striking snake.

A predator intimidating another, or perhaps, trying to deduce whether he was faced with a true predator or a sheep in the lion’s skin.

“Bali ki bakri hui tum toh,” he teased, taking an agonising long sip of the water while his obsidian eyes remain locked onto hers above the rim—a silent challenge simmering in the air, daring her to rise to his bait.

And oh! Does he wish to see her come alive with rage—witness the fire, if she has any.

She rolled her eyes, a nearly quiet huff of annoyance eliciting an amused laughter as he waited patiently for her reply, because he could see the gears in her mind working, her lips parting in a telltale sign of a reply incoming.

“How are you so sure ki sacrificial lamb main hu aur tum nahi?” She taunted, a smirk mirroring his dancing on her attractive features as she shifted—slow steps graceful like a panther’s, moving through the length of the room as if it was a forest, and her the queen of the land, which, in its own uniquely manner, was true.

That caught him off guard, because wasn’t it always the women that got the shorter stick in such lifelong arrangements while the men enjoyed their privileged lives? And yet, the confidence oozing from this woman a decade younger than him had even the arrogant heir reconsidering every word he had been told about the deal, and everything his father had left unsaid.

And from the amused glint in her eyes and the smirk widening the slightest inch? She knew that he was doubting everything, exactly what she wanted.

With a deep breath, one meant to fill the cracks in his composure and buy him enough time to find a satisfying reply to her words, he placed the glass back on the table before he stood up to his full height—not the tallest by any standards, and yet, his impactful aura did most of the intimidation when required.

“Mushkil hota hoga na,” he began with a mocking smile, lazy steps circling her once before he stopped in front of her, heavy gaze tracing her delicate features with eyes that gleamed at the knowledge of having a worthy opponent in the shape of his intended wife.

At least, the marriage won’t be boring.

Unless he can tame her, which would be fun, but only for a brief time.

“Aise pretend karna ki tumhe koi faraq nahi padhta ki tumhari freedom tumse cheen li ja rahi hai, all because your father thinks this marriage is of more value than you? As if tumhe bura nahi laga ki tumhare baap ne tumhari jagah tumhare bhai ko waris bana diya, even though you clearly were the better option? ”

He tsked, cruel as his fingers brush against the bare skin of her wrist—slow like a predator enjoying the thought of teasing and tormenting his prey before delivering the killing blow. His very soul relished at the sight of her muscles tensing, shoulders squared almost painfully while her jaw tightened in restraint, patience and composure hanging from a fine thread while his words and actions all but push her towards the cliff’s edge—waiting for her to lose her grip and show him the fire that blazed behind the cold facade of neutrality in her eyes.

With a deliberate shift, his hand wrapped around her wrist, catching her completely off-guard as he tucked her closer. His empty arm wrapped around the curve of her waist, keeping her pressed to his front as his dark eyes trace the newfound expression on her face—committing it to his memory, for the uncertainty of witnessing the sight again was not lost on him.

Her wrist is freed soon after, allowing her to press both of her hands to his chest in an attempt to push him away—applying as much force as she could muster. But his arm was an iron shackle, and rather than being discouraged, her defiance only fuelled the darkness swirling in his eyes—entertained he was at her attempts, unfazed still because she held little strength over him.

His fingers caress her clothed shoulder, a lingering touch—though featherlight, at best—that had her growing more restless against the suffocating warmth of him, before they shift north.

The bared skin of her neck was warm to his touch, inching closer to her face and savouring every hitch of her breath with a mocking smirk while his fingers reach their destination, splaying across the line of her jaw and tilting her face up—just to peer down into the eyes that have intrigued him in a matter of few minutes. His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip, messing with the defining lip liner and matte lipstick she wore like an armour, creating a sinful chaos on a sharp visage.

“Itna gussa,” he started, voice dropping down an octave or two as his face inched closer to hers until their breaths mingled as one, grazing each other’s cheeks and warming skin against her will—tobacco from his cigarette tangled in the mint from the chewing gum she had spat out before walking through the doors that enclosed them now.

The thumb halted its ministrations at the pause of his words, rising to press insistently on the plump skin until her lips part, offering him delightful vulnerability that contrasted against the wide eyes of his soon-to-be wife that seemed feral with rage—a sight he smirked down at.

“Sirf barbaadi lata hai, meri jaan.”

He felt her recoil at the term of endearment before he saw it, her body filled with renewed energy to get out of his hold that had began to only ebb a little, and it only brought a laughter out of him—full and cruel with his eyes gleaming under the chandelier lights.

And still, his arm around her waist unbothered, fingers tracing little mocking circles only to enrage her more.

“Let me go!” She protested, glaring up at him, but it was hard to appear in control of the situation when she was all but caged against the man she already hated—the very one that she has to marry because of their father’s whims. Rather, she looked adorable to him, like an angry spoiled brat told she could not have everything she wants.

Instead of replying verbally to her, Shauryaman only leans down until their lips were mere millimetres away, nearly brushing with every deep breath she took—unsteady from the anger that rushes through her veins—but still not touching as the heir of Harshvardhan Gaur would want—though he would have what we wants, one way or the other.

He always does, with hook or with crook.

There was a unique satisfaction in having her against him, defenceless and breathing heavily with a flush she couldn’t control colouring her cheeks pink and her lips parted under his thumb without any words to utter because even the smallest of syllable meant a contact of intimacy she clearly doesn’t want—a perverse pleasure that persuaded his blood to rush southward and pupils to dilate as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts, hidden from his sight by the silk shirt she wore, before his eyes lifted to meet hers again.

Anger. Disgust. Indifference—that is what he had hoped to feel for his fiancee before she had walked in, and yet, standing in the middle of the room with a woman glaring up at him despite having the shorter stick? He could only feel a raw desire to devour her completely. A lust deeper than anything he had ever felt for any woman before—and to think that he had been with quite beautiful ones, models and actresses and aspiring stars that dwindle before making it to the sky.

Before he could think more, or before she could find in her the strength to push him away for good, his lips slanted away on hers—not a gentle press of kindness or hesitation between virginity lovers or strangers trying to familiarise themselves to the map of their would-be.

But rough—teeth and tongue and lips clashing in a war for dominance that he was determined on winning at any cost.

A gasp is all he lets her react with before his teeth sink into her lower lip, biting hard enough to leave behind the faint imprint of himself on her skin and taste the slightest tang of her blood before he lets her lower lip escape only for his tongue to slip in, muffling her cry and probing and poking her insides until her tongue was dancing alongside his—not in harmony but engaged in a battle.

The hand cupping her jaw slipped away into her open hair, tangling into her strands and tugging at the roots—hard enough for the sting to tread closer to the line that separated pain from hard-earned pleasure—but his hand was as restless as the man, shifting south until his fingers traced the curve of her spine. All while the hand around her waist moved to play at the curve of her ass, groping and feeling the supple flesh before delivering a singular spank that elicited a yelp from her.

Shauryaman had expected rebellion—screeches and protests and pushing him away with all her strength and accusations about him being a perverted monster. But instead, his rough actions are greeted with equal vigour that surprised him just as it excited him.

Her lips moved against his with frightening intensity—fuelled by anger and a desire she would never vocalise, especially not when it originated for her to-be husband. Tongue tasting tobacco with a quiet sound of protest against the harsh and bitter flavour—a stark contrast to the refreshing minty chewing gum—and still, her pride relented from letting him win the battle, leaving them a tangled mess of saliva and raging storm that left behind ruins at its wake. One of the slender hands moved away from his chest, fingers tangling into the lapel of his suit while her body tried to arch away from his heat—failing miserably and instead, pressing into the lean ridges of his front.

It is only when air became necessary did they pull away from one another, a string of shared drool connecting their parted lips while his grip upon her loosens just a little, fingers moving until his hands settled upon her wide hips—holding rather than restraining, because all his limbs could focus upon was the lingering sensation of her; senses already overwhelmed by her scent—vanilla and orange and something warm—but he would rather take a knife to his heart before he admits to being unravelled by her.

Silence crowded the room, broken only by the broken breaths of two individuals that clearly hated—and desired—each other. Two bodies clinging to one another, suspended for a brief moment before the reality kicked in.

At last, she succeeds in pushing him away, back of the hand wiping away the traces of wetness that glossed over her lips while her eyes glared daggers at him—trying to act composed, and still, he could see the slight tremble in her fingers, the tension lining her shoulders and the flush on her cheeks that had little to do with her rage now and more to do with her kiss-swollen lips and disheveled appearance.

It amused him immensely, her feeble attempt at appearing distant as she had been when she had entered the room—unfazed even, while the sight of her spoke a different truth—bringing forth a deep laugh as his fingers ran through his hair before wiping away the lingering remnants of her from his lips.

Pride is what rushed through him, and a need to have her whole—an evidence of which pressed against the seams of his trousers stubbornly, asking for attention and sweet release.

“Agar aisi hi baat hai, Shauryaman Gaur,” she hissed, tears lining her wide eyes—out of frustration, rather than anything more vulnerable—fingers curled into fists by her side. The urge to run her fingers through her hair to bring back a semblance of confidence was immense, but she didn’t trust her own limbs to comply without giving away her vulnerability—far more than she was willing to give him.

“Then I will ruin you.”

A bold proclamation, one that didn’t terrify him. Instead, it made his trousers grow tighter, a thrill of dark amusement rushed to his mind like a line of properly crushed powder that sent him to the top of the world—not a loser son to an ambitious father, but the king of the world.

And apparently, he didn’t need the substance anymore, just his defiant betrothed with her intoxicating attitude and sarcastic remarks.

“Have you no shame? No sense of dignity—if not yours, then mine? No foresight for your actions? No care for anyone’s reputations—yours, mine or our families? Or do you simply not care about anything other than yourself?”

There was only silence that followed the poisonous words, the ragged breaths of the woman scorned echoing in the living room of the mansion that the two had to share—appearances, after all, mattered the most in marriages such as theirs. Born not out of love—if they could even feel such an emotion without certain destruction—but mutual benefit of their selfish fathers and shared hatred that often treaded into the territory of unadulterated desire.

The click of her high heels was a symphony, acting like a backdrop for her angry words—lectures about reputations and his lack of self-control, as if she was above the clutches of lust—and restless pacing that only amused the sitting figure of her husband even more.

Amber danced in the crystal glass around which long fingers were wrapped, deep eyes watching the slow unravelling of an otherwise composed figure with an inexplicable darkness—a cold amusement dancing with a fierce fire of an insatiable appetite that plagued him.

“Meri itni chinta?” He tutted, raising an eyebrow as he took a deliberately long sip of the whiskey he had poured himself as a supporting pillar because the avalanche of words seemed inevitable when he came home smelling of alcohol and cheap floral perfume of a woman not his wife. Even more when the prototype of a to-be published newspaper sat on the low table, bearing a quiet accusation in its own.

Three words. A short, seemingly innocent question. Just enough to get a reaction from the composed woman who smiled politely at cameras and gave perfect answers in impromptu interviews.

A loud groan came like a crack in her facade, every mask she had ever worn—the dutiful daughter of a greedy industrialist, the sister who clapped with a broken smile as her brother was credited for everything she did, the perfect wife who kissed his cheek and laughed like she was the happiest in the shackles of their marriage that limited their freedom—came undone as her pacing came to an abrupt halt.

She whipped around on her heels, eyes wide and alive with anger—and humiliation, though Shauryaman would never name such a strong emotion—glaring daggers at him while her slender hands sat on the curve of her waist, right above the waistband of a pristine pencil skirt.

“Why the fuck are you so careless?”

A pause, not too long, but enough to make the man believe that she was done there. His lips parted, another taunt ready at the tip of his tongue, but the words were interrupted before they could see the light of the chandeliers hanging overhead.

“Ek journalist, Shauryaman. You fucking slept with a journalist who then wrote an entire exposé about your cheating, crappy ass!” She yelled, no longer caring about the servants that went on with their work around the walls that caged two tormented souls. So what if they heard her outburst? They already knew that the perfect couple in front of the camera was anything but that in real life.

Perhaps, everyone knew, and nobody questioned their acting simply because they didn’t care—just like their fathers didn’t care about the feelings of their children.

“Toh? It’s not like tumhe pata nahi main har raat kaha hota hu,” he hissed back, lips pursing in a cruel smirk as he watched every wall of her fortress fall, every layer peeling away to leave behind a quivering woman nearly a decade younger than him, if not more. Deprived of affection and love and everything human, just as he was—reduced to a perfect puppet while he became a rebellion in flesh.

“Why are you like this?”

“Why the fuck do you care?”

Taunts and teases had all but evaporated from his body as he stood up from the couch he was reclining upon, the glass of whiskey still half-full abandoned beside the newspaper with a glaring heading: ‘Shauryaman Gaur: The Perfect Actor’.

As much entertaining as it had been to argue with her, to watch her lose her calm and unsheathe her venomous words, to unleash herself for once without a collar around her neck that held her back—it was equally hard to watch her with cheeks reddened from fury and something too emotional for him to bear, wide eyes lined with tears of frustration, and just perhaps, humiliation.

“Because I am your wife! Because everything you do, I have to face the consequences,” she answered, voice dropping into a whisper as she peered up at him through tears-beaded lashes.

Her words undone him in a way it shouldn’t have, especially not when he pretended that her words weren’t knives nestled in his heart, gnawing at the soul he pretended didn’t exist in his body. Especially when he felt nothing for her except the animosity that occasionally bled into a raw desire that never reached its destination—and how would it when she hated him enough to remain miles apart, except when cameras hounded them like rabid dogs.

Three long strides it took him to erase the distance between them, hands snarling out like vicious snakes, fingers cradling the backs of both of her elbows and tugging her closer until inches separated their heaving chests.

“Then act like one,” he hissed.

“Oh?” She laughed on his face, uncaring for how disheveled she looked despite the fineries she was dressed in—the white pencil skirt that hugged her hips and cascaded down in a tailored fall down to her knees and the dark halter neck with a cut that hinted at her generous cleavage and bared her shoulders and arms. Clad in such silks and tailored silhouettes, still, she felt bare underneath his heavy gaze, pretending at braveness when she felt little of it.

“And how does one act like that, Shauryaman?”

A growl is the only answer she receives before his lips found hers in hunger that had been left unchecked for far too long. A thirst for her that couldn’t be quenched by the feeling of another passing one night stand whose name he couldn’t care to remember, only her.

His restless hands moved from her elbows, one shifting north to wrap fingers around the nape of her neck, keeping her glued him while the other mapped her curves greedily—pressing hard enough to elicit breathy sighs that he swallowed like a predator ravenous to devour her to the best of his abilities, committing every rise and dip of her body to his sinful memory.

Her own fingers were traitorous to her thoughts, exploring his lean front despite the initial protest that rushed through her body before ebbing away, leaving behind a void where desire multiplied like a parasitic bacteria that chewed away at her logic. His hair was surprisingly soft under her skin, messed from the hands of a stranger woman he had made out with in his car before her call had ruined his mood, demanding him to come home at once, but the young woman wasn’t quite in her senses to question that—or the perfume that tickled her overwhelmed senses in the worst way possible.

Shauryaman inched away from her, panting for breath but still incapable of letting her go as his lips pressed open-mouthed kisses on her flushed skin, beginning at the edge of her swollen lips before tracing down the path behind her ear, nipping at the sensitive area to make her sing for him. And indeed, a breathy gasp escaped her parted lips while her hands wrapped around his neck, holding on to him for dear life as if he was the only anchor that could save her.

The tip of his nose nudged against her racing pulse while his lips found themselves busy, sucking at the length of her neck to leave behind a mark that would remain in the morning—a loud reminder of what the pleasure he would bring her—before his tongue lapped at the skin, tasting the salt of the sweat that she had broken at the thought of the facade of their perfect marriage coming undone in front of the world.

Soft linen scratched at his chin as his lips ran out of bared skin, meeting the ribbon that tied her top around her neck—sophisticated as she always was, except in the moment with her composure unwrapped to reveal a starved young woman unbecoming under his hands and lips.

Obsidian eyes narrowed as he took into account her clothes—crisp before his hand had creased them and yet, far too elegant when the clock ticked closer to midnight. An ugly fire of possessiveness raged through his body in realisation as his fingers—the ones that held the back of her neck—wrapped around her jaw, tilting her head up as he straightened to his full height, wandering hand halting at her hips.

“Why all these sophisticated clothes, meri jaan? Kisi ka intezaar tha?” He queried, voice low and dark, rumbling with a dangerous edge that made her quiver as she shook her head.

It was evident to him—her desperate attempts at trying to find pieces of her composure in her trembling being to sew back into the mask of confidence that she wore so frequently that it deceived most into believing that side of her. But Shauryaman knew better than to trust facades, and he knew even better to read the truth of people.

“I had a meeting with an investor over dinner,” she replied through trembling lips, hands slipping away from his neck to rest against his heaving chest as she watched with confusion as his jaw tightened and darkness swallows the little brown of his eyes—leaving behind a stormy, restless sea of shadows.

“Dinner with investor? Ya apne ashiq se milne ja rahi thi?”

He relished at the sight of her surprise, dipped carefully into confusion at his words before he moved with a newfound vigour as his cruel mind supplied him an image of his wife bent over for another man—a thought that filled his veins with pure fire while ugly jealousy twisted violently in his chest.

He doesn’t allow her to answer his accusation, calloused hands already settling on her bare shoulders before he shoved her down—uncaring of the little whine from her as her knees scrapped against the carpet, burning from his sheer roughness. One of his hands shifted over to lace into her loose locks while the other unbuckled his belt, shoving down his trousers and underwear just enough to free his hardened length.

“Shaurya—”

“Mujhe tumhare protests ki koi zarurat nahi abhi,” he warned, fisting his cock and pumping it before he slapped her cheek with his reddened tip, a drop of pre-cum smearing against her skin like a stain against a clean canvas—just the beginning in the making of his masterpiece.

“Muh kholo.”

It wasn’t a request but a command, delivered with an authority that she never knew he possessed until she knelt in front of him, taken aback by this side of him while slick collected into her panties, thighs locking together underneath her skirt while her lips part around his tip—tongue licking hesitantly at the slit on the top before she slowly began to take more of his length into her mouth.

Inch by inch until the tip collided into the back of her throat, making her gag out loud—the sound echoing in the living room along with the wet noises of him feeding her his cock and his loud groans and filthy words.

“Fuck, baby, aren’t you good at this.”

The fingers wrapped in her hair tugged hard enough for pain to shoot through her body—somehow causing even more arousal to drip down until her panties were all but ruined—making sure that the wide eyes lined with tears remained firm upon his, mascara along with the sharp wing of eyeliners smudging against her pretty skin as he thrusted into her mouth roughly, enjoying the sight of her struggling to take him completely.

His length twitched in her mouth, balls tightening while his mind began to fog with the pleasure that coursed through him like hot flames licking at his very soul—telltale signs of a sweet release that he usually made him chase even harder. But the moment was anything but usual, and Shauryaman didn’t wish to come just yet, especially not in her mouth.

Pulling her away from his pulsing cock by her hair, he leaned down, fingers wrapping around her arm with a vice grip as he pulled her to her feet, the heels clacking in protest against the carpeted floor as his lips meet her again like lightening—tongue slipping into hers to taste the salty essence of his pre-cum lingering on her tongue along with the red wine she must have sipped upon while waiting for him to return after her call.

Dominant steps pushed her back until the back of her thighs collided against the armrest of the couch he had once occupied. His hands find her waist, fingers gripping the skin still covered by the elegant fall of her clothes in a predatory grip that had her whimpering into his mouth—a tiny sound that he devoured.

A sound that unknowingly unleashed a beast.

He turned her around, a palm splayed across the middle of her spine while the other undid the knot of the ribbon holding her top together, bending her over the arm of the couch as the halter neck slipped away to gather loosely around the peak of her bust.

Blazing breath caressed her shoulder blades as he leaned over her, hips bucking into the supple curve of her ass with a satisfied groan while his tongue traced the line of her spine from the nape of her neck until it disappeared underneath the back of her top—shoving aside the loose strands that troubled him. Restless hands move relentlessly, one securing around her waist to keep her underneath him while the other pulled at the hem of her skirt, tucking it until the fabric settled around her hips.

The sight of the flimsy lace panties wet from her arousal was maddening as it was satisfying, making his hardened length tighten in anticipation—nearly to the point of pain that drove him towards insanity, if the condition could ever be so pleasing to look at.

A loud slap echoed in the room along with the obscene sound that left the parted lips of the bent over figure—something between a pained whine that bled into a pleasured moan—as her shaking limbs tried to keep herself upright for his taking.

“My baby likes this, doesn’t she?”

Long fingers squeezed the reddened skin of her ass where his hand had left another mark of his possession before releasing his hold, watching with brief amusement as the flesh jiggled a little before landing another sharp spank—this time on the untouched cheek—before his hand lowers, menacingly slow, stretching out the moment for his own cruel pleasure.

“All this from sucking me off like a whore?” He tutted, shaking his head as his fingers pushed the wet lace of her panties to a side, tracing the dripping slit before his middle finger began to probe against her entrance. His teeth descend into her earlobe as a singular thick digit slipped into her tight core, all while he continued to sing into her ears, “all that lectures about morales and here you are, dripping down your thighs while your little pussy begs to be filled.”

“Shaurya,” she moaned, hips wiggling as her warm walls stretch to expand his thrusting finger, her fingers fisting the cushion abandoned on the couch as she tried to relax against the intrusion—not unwelcome, but uncomfortable still.

“So tiny you are, baby. Agar tumhe acche se nahi janta toh shayad samajh leta ki tumhe kisi ne kabhi chua nahi—but I know you, don’t I?”

Another finger slipped into her heat, making her gasp in surprise as her eyes shut in close, teeth sinking into the plump skin of her swollen lips to keep from crying out as his fingers pick up speed, scissoring to stretch her entrance for his impatiently waiting cock.

With a final thrust, his fingers pull back, leaving her entrance open and clinching around empty air as he smirked down at her. Stroking his length with the dripping nectar that cling to his fingers, he tapped the tip of his cock against her pulsing clit, biting back a ravenous groan as he watched her body twitch and legs spread wider without his orders—good, little girl—before he positioned himself outside her cunt.

“Beg for it, meri jaan,” he whispered into the skin of her shoulder, nuzzling into the side of her neck to inhale her scent.

There was a sadistic pleasure in witnessing his composed wife with smart words having no sharp remarks to make, only a mess of parted lips and breathless gasps while her sweet nectar smeared the flesh of her inner thighs—a beautiful, breathing statue. A goddess of words left speechless, and he hadn’t even sheathed himself inside her yet.

“Beg for my cock.”

“Sh-Shauryaman p-p-please… I need you insi—”

Her words were interrupted by a choked scream as he pushed his raging length into her welcoming heat with a forceful thrust, the tip grazing against the opening of her cervix as his balls kissed her small bud of nerves for a brief yet startling moment.

A groan is teared out from the depths of him as he stills for a moment, letting her moist warmth envelop his aching cock, stretching against his width to accommodate him properly while he panted, bent over her and holding her close by her waist. His limp hand locked into her hair again, fingers gripping the strands as he began to move—an experimental thrust, and then another.

Not long after, he was drilling into her, rough bucks of hips shoving his length down her cunt while she cried out from the unusual mixture of pain mingling alongside blinding pleasure. His fingers leave bruises in the shape of his hand on her waist—unseen underneath the top—while the arm of the couch dug into her hips, gifting her a tiny purplish spot here and there while the furniture moved with the force of his thrusts.

“Such a good girl—”

A sharp tug on her hair as he twisted a few strands around his long fingers, eliciting a sharp whimper from her that melted into a desperate moan.

“—taking your husband so good—like you were meant to take me.”

The walls of her pussy pulsed against the veins that pressed against the skin of his cock, soft and welcoming—heavenly as they sucked him into her and clung to him, weeping in dismay when he pulled back until only his tip remained in her before plunging back into her with a brutal thrust that made her cunt weep some more, albeit rejoicing his return.

Her moans echoed through the living room along with the words he uttered and the obscene sound of skin slapping against bare skin followed closely by the shrillness of her wet entrance engulfing him. The scent of sex and sweat bathed over the cheap perfume he had smelt of, as well as the vibrant woody scent basking in pink pepper and saffron—Purple Oud by Dior, her favoured perfume.

“Shaurya—oh, I am close,” she moaned, one of her hands uncurling from the cushion to find purchase on the one wrapped around her waist, back arching into his as her hips move in tandem to meet his thrusts—limbs desperate for the overwhelming pleasure to wash over her as her vision blurs from the intensity of the knot beginning to slowly unravel in her stomach.

Her words—if only she had known before—made him stop, a devilish smile pulling at his lips as he sat motionless inside her, making her whine out loud while her nails dug into the back of his palm, leaving behind half-moons.

A confused “what?” escaped her lips as she tilted her head, trying to meet his gaze with her blurred eyes.

His hand snaked around her front, fingers wrapping around her neck as he pulled her back, dipping his head down until his lips brushed against the apple of her cheek in a mocking act of affection before he turned her around to face him.

Dark eyes study her features with blatant desire—the heavy fall of her long lashes trying to hide the tearful doe-eyes that peered up at him with an attempt at glare, the blush colouring the canvas of her skin along with the dark smudges of her mascara and liner and the plump curve of her swollen lips that part in quiet protest.

For a brief moment, something tender steered awake in his chest—something he had long buried deep underneath years of detached intimacy. A wandering thought that made him consider kissing the blooming marks on her skin and soothe them with a press of his tongue while his arms gathered her against his chest.

A sweet thought, but Shauryaman slams it shut before his limbs dare lift to follow through.

Instead, he leaned down, nipping at her earlobe before he gestured in the direction of the master bedroom—the one supposed to be shared by them, but was claimed solely by her—before his command arrived in a lowered octave, rumbling through his chest:

“Bedroom mein jao aur sab kuch utaar dena.”

His nose brushed against her cheek once, a small act of kindness, as his gaze traced the movement of her throat swallowing an invisible lump before she nodded almost weakly before moving to follow his orders on weak legs.

The click of her heels disappeared soon enough in the labyrinth of long corridors and quiet, lifeless rooms—leaving him behind with his loud thoughts and an unsheathed cock, not that he minded such nudity, especially not in the privacy of his own mansion.

With a low hum and a subtle stretch of his neck, he reached for his abandoned glass of whiskey, taking a long sip to quench the burn of his throat with an aged liquor that burned harder while his eyes find the source of the night—the very reason why his wife had called him when she would much rather not see his face unless absolutely necessary and asked him to come home immediately.

Home, as if the towering walls that cage him could ever be called that.

The photograph underneath the bold letters of the headline was one that took him an extra moment to recognise before the memory flooded back to him. It was from one of their early appearances as a couple after the wedding neither of them wanted happened with them pretending to be so in love, a charity gala she had organised because ‘it was good for reputations’ and their fathers were hungry for publicity, the good kind.

She had worn a white Pashmina saree with a modest blouse that had made him roll his eyes at the feigned purity, with little jewellery adorning her—only heavy jhumkas to compliment her outfit and the dainty mangalsutra he had never truly paid attention to—with no makeup except for kohl lining her eyes and a blush pink lipstick. A stark contrast to the dark ensemble he had adorned instead of wearing the bandhgala his father had expected him to wear—a rebellion that had looked rather beautiful to witness when the two stood together, pretending like their lives depended on it.

A gentle smile adorned her lips in the captured moment, her eyes soft and crinkled at the end with joy that seemed to real to be an act, peering at something off-camera while he looked at her, with his hand resting around the bared skin of her waist almost naturally

Shauryaman had never known he looked at her in public like that, with a small smile that seemed to threaten its way across his face and something usually concealed thawed behind his emotionless eyes—a look that made a frown tug on his eyebrows before he shook his head in denial, burying his intrusive thoughts under the burning alcohol before he placed the now-empty glass over the newspaper.

With a shake of his head and a deep breath, he began to tread the short but unfamiliar path to the bedroom, stuffing back every thought that felt like ice over his raging desire into the deepest corners of his mind—to be unpacked exactly never—while he peeled off the leather jacket that clung to his shoulders, throwing it into a random direction carelessly.

The door was left ajar, warm lights peeking out through the gap of handful inches—an invitation, but not a loud and excited kind that he was used to, not eager like the ladies who threw themselves at his feet but something subtler, restrain practiced despite the fire that licked at toes and the ache gnawing at the insides of stomach for release.

Wordlessly, he strode into the dimly lit room with his chin tipped in air and eyes sparsely taking in the belongings—not his own—before his attention snapped to the figure sitting on the bed—legs curled close with hands perched upon knees, straight back and squared shoulders pushing her enticing mounds higher into the air while her eyes darted around nervously in a manner that he had never witnessed before.

The sight of her neatly folded clothes placed on a chair near the balcony door amused him dearly before his fingers begin to fiddle with the hem of his tee, eyes firm upon her with the intention to make her squirm as he began to undress himself slowly—putting on a show for her wide eyes.

“Kya batau, aise baithe hue kitni haseen lag rahi ho tum, meri jaan,” he teased, gaze drifting down to the heaving mounds with pebbled nipples—pleading him to play with them. His tongue darted out to lap over his lower lip as his mind clouded with elaborative things that he could do to them, the many ways that she would wake with his reminder all over her, not merely just her plump breasts but every curve of her body.

Long shadows caressed the lean ridges of his bare chest, mingling with the hair that curled over his muscles before thinning into a trail that led to his hardened cock. His biceps flex without intention as he shoved his already undid trousers down his waist, getting rid of his underwear in the same motion before his clothes were a mere heap of useless fabrics on the floor and he was kneeling on the edge of the mattress with a beastly smirk—the kind that promised a long night.

His approach was slow, like a predator stretching the hunt for his entertainment, until his shadow devoured her smaller figure completely while his fingers snaked around her neck, squeezing just enough for breathing to become laborious while his lips wrapped around a nipple—teeth grazing the sensitive skin teasingly before his tongue circled it, flicking the peak and nipping on it until she was a withering mess underneath him.

“Shaurya,” she moaned, fingers tangling into his hair as his attention turned to the unattended nipple, hand groping her breast before his thumb and index finger squeezed and twisted the sensitive bud until a whine escaped her parted lips.

A plead had formed on her tongue, barely a whisper as she tucked on his strands desperately: “p-please, Shaurya, I w-want to c-come.”

“So needy,” he growled back in response, sucking on the flesh of her breast until the skin began to bloom with a purple tint—satisfaction rushing through his blood like an intoxicating drug before his eyes rise to meet her hooded ones with a dark pull of his lips that promised obscenity she had never imagined before.

An arm snaked around her, pulling her flush against himself while his other hand guided her until her thighs bracketed his hips—pulsing length bumping unceremoniously into her weeping entrance hard enough to send a shiver rushing down her spine.

“If you want to come, baby, you will have to work for it,” he announced with a grin while his hand left the supple flesh of her thigh to pump his cock ready to take her, raising an eyebrow at her confused expression as he waited—albeit impatiently—for her to realise the meaning of his words.

It was no longer a mystery to him that her experiences in the realm of flesh and pleasure were brief and sparse, especially compared to his. And while her raw emotions and pretty noises amused him much, his patience ran out faster than her mind’s quiet musings could figure out the meaning of his words—hands gripping her waist in an iron cage as he lifted her onto his length, pulling her down in a smooth pull until he was home again.

A shrill squeal tore through the careful composure of his wife as a tear rolled down her cheek, the new angle providing for him to fill her to the brim until everything felt overwhelming—the stretch of her walls around his pulsing cock, the curved tip brushing insistently against a hidden spot that made stars appear at her periphery, her clit grazing his hipbone as she began to lift her body and fuck herself, his hand’s continued abuse of her breasts and nipples.

There was an inexplicable thrill—the kind that arrived after jumping from the edge of the cliff for the simple sake of adventure—in watching her face fall into the throes of pleasure, eyes shutting close and lips fall apart to let out breathy moans and loud whimpers while her instincts take over her limbs, rocking herself upon his length with all the little strength she was left with.

Manicured nails dug into his shoulders as he slowly began to rise his hips to meet her shallow thrusts, letting out an approving growl as a choked moan cracked through her chest when his mushroom tip brushed against the small bundle of nerves hidden in her welcoming cunt.

“That’s the spot, isn’t it?”

She only moaned, head tipping back and baring the length of her neck as her hips bucked faster, chasing her long awaited release that brewed in her stomach faster than before—the knot growing tighter and tighter as her chest heaved from pants that echoed in the room along with the indecent sounds of intercourse.

It was only a harsh spank on her ass that pulled her out of her trance, a cry interrupted her rhythm as her body came to a standstill.

The hand that now rested low on her back moved, caging her jaw as he pulled her face down until their breaths mingled together in a dance of intimacy and the embers glowing in his eyes were apparent, even to a blind.

“Words, whore,” he growled, his fingers releasing her only to slap her across her face, cheek burning no longer from mere flush but with a handprint now faintly glowing as his hand assumed his earlier position of cupping her jaw—a cold question making her gulp: “Kya maine rukne ke liye kaha?”

“N-nahi…”

An eyebrow lifted as a rumbling hum emitted from his lips, deep eyes glancing down at her tight cunt splitting open around his heavy cock before he looked up at her.

“Toh ruki kyu?”

Shauryaman knew he was being mean, but then again, he was mean. She knew that just as well as he did, so why should he not enjoy the vision of his wife gulping on thin air or looking around while her lips parted with an answer she didn’t have.

It was adorable, and so tempting without trying to be—not that he would ever vocalise the truth.

She doesn’t reply, for she has no answer. Instead, her hips begin to work again, thighs burning with exhaustion as her body lifted itself only to descend back onto his length—nothing coherent on her mind apart from seducing thought of the sweet release that seemed just out of her finger’s grasp, within sight but not in reach.

He knew that, could sense the frustration as her eyebrows pulled into a frown that made him smirk before he tugged her face closer yet again by his grip around her jaw. His teeth sink into her lower lip—right where he had earlier, breaking skin yet again to taste the coppery tang of her blood before leaning back.

“Ankhein sirf mujhpar, meri jaan.”

A selfish man he was, but there was nothing more delicious than a pussy convulsing around him—overstimulated and stretched out for him to rut into.

Pleasure-hazy eyes lined with thick lashes find the deep storm clouds in his with a tiny sound that was somewhere in between a squeaky whine and a low moan, earning her a slow swipe of his thumb across her cheek before he leaned up to glide his tongue across the bite mark that bloomed red on her lip.

With a final flick of her nipple, his hand moved down until long fingers splayed across her stomach for a brief moment. But that wasn’t his destination, far from it, and with a lazy ease of an apex predator, his journey continued until his thumb found the small bundle of pleasure above her entrance, trapping it in between his fingers before he began to rub slow circles around her clit.

Not on it, but around.

Pleasing but not enough to push her over the edge.

“You want to come, don’t you?” He huffed against her lips, a breath of amusement while his hand drifted down from her jaw to curl like a shackle around her neck.

She nodded before remembering through her wild haze his commanding words, stuttering out a pitiful “yes” that had him cooing to her—mockery of affection, or perhaps, not a complete tease as his eyes trace the path of tears running down her cheeks.

A singular brush of his calloused fingertips against her clit had her jolting in his lap, muscles of her thighs shaking violently in a telltale of exhaustion that had Shauryaman huffing in annoyance before he shoved her down onto her back—cock still heavy and waiting for its own chase of orgasm.

Rough hands parted her thighs to accommodate himself as his fingers drummed against her flesh, a wordless command to wrap her legs around his waist as he began to pull out from her heat almost completely before pushing back.

He was no longer a mere human, but a beast taken flesh as he rutted into her, relishing in the way her nails left behind angry scratches on his bare back while his name was a prayer on her lips, chanted in pornographic moans and screams that echoed in the void in their marriage, filling the quiet walls with something other than sharp words and even sharper hate.

The mushroom tip of his length brushed against her spot again and again while his thumb had abandoned modesty and found her pulsing clit to torture under firm circles that grew persistent with her increasing noises.

Her warm walls threatened to collapse, pulsing against his bulging veins in a moist heat as the threads of the knot in her stomach began to unravel.

“Oh—Sh-Shauryaman—”

“Come for me, meri jaan. Milk my cock like a perfect fucking slut.”

The edge of the cliff was jagged and beneath it was the ocean of pleasure—white and restless and waiting with open arms to engulf her writhing body in an intense embrace that would make stars appear on the edge of her consciousness. All she needed was a push, a driving force that would tip the scales in the favour of a blinding euphoria that rendered the limbs heavy.

And the push came in the form of Shauryaman’s knuckles capturing her heated bud while he continued to explore her depths and rearrange her guts with grunts and growls that spurred her on, a singular tug of his fingers and her back was arching off the bed, sore nipples pressing into his bare chest while her fingers find purchase on his back.

“Shaurya—ahhhh.”

Her walls clamped down on his length, making a guttural sound escape his lips as he continued to fuck her through the highs of her release, dragging the waves of pleasure until dark spots began forming in her vision, body convulsing in his arms.

He waited for the searing pleasure to fade away into a heavy exhaustion before his hand collided with her ass, humming at her broken whine while her trembling fingers attempted at pushing him away by shoulder—an adorable attempt, but one he was in no mood of tolerating now.

“On your fours, whore,” he hissed through his teeth while long fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking himself while he watched her blink in confusion. He nearly imagine the protests that were to come—the kind that belonged on the tongues of spoiled brats obsessed with themselves, and no matter how much sweet she seemed, Shauryaman knew that they shared the same narcissistic core deep inside.

“No,” she protested weakly, a stifled cry behind bitten lips as she tried to crawl away from him on limp limps.

His head tilted to the side, dark eyes narrowed at the defiance before he reached out with sheer force, fingers curling into her hips before dragging her closer, turning her around until she was exactly the way he wanted—on her hands and knees with back arched and hair gripped in his fingers.

“Maine tumse puch nahi raha tha, jaan,” he roared, lining himself against her entrance while pulling at her hair hard enough for her neck crane back and a cry to slip past her lips. With a firm and finally stroke, he bottomed into her yet again with an animalistic sound, letting out a contented hum as her overstimulated pussy fluttered around him, continuing as he pulled back, “main tumhe bata raha tha.”

A harsh snap of his hips, a guttural cry from her lips—the cycle continued until he was a rabid beast breeding his bitch in heat.

Enough to knock her off balance until her arms gave up, face crashing into the mattress roughly as he continued—uncaring as she thrashed underneath him, chanting his name as if he was god himself. And in the moment? With his balls tightening and vision blurring with intense pleasure, he felt no less than that.

“Agar mujhe pehle pata hota,” he huffed between heavy pants, leaning over her as his hips moved with determined vigour to chase his orgasm. Her fluttering walls tightening around his length was all that he needed to know, bringing a smirk to his lips as his fingers let go of her hair to move down and circle her front, playing with her bouncing nipples while he growled into her shoulders: “toh suhaagraat wale din shayad aa hi jata tumhare pass.”

A scream of his name punctuated his words, spurring him on as he tugged at her nipples before twisting them until her tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You love to pretend that you are above this all, but look at you—” her walls gushed around him while her lips parted in a choked scream, fingers curling into the silk sheets as her head shook both from the waves of crushing pleasure as well as in denial, because Shauryaman Gaur wasn’t stopping still, “—fucking coming around me after protesting like a good wife.”

His orgasm came abruptly—like low tides suddenly turning into tsunami that crashed into him, ripping through his limbs until he was collapsing onto her like a heaving mess while his cock twitched inside her, filling her cunt up with his seed—all to the brim until their mixed cum dripped down the back of her thighs and staining his front.

And still, his length still remained a hard mass of raw lust as he pulled out of her, watching her quivering body through hooded eyes before his fingers rise to trace her arm—a touch featherlight and yet, lingering enough to make her whine and try to move away from him.

The girl was so small, she barely reached his waist. There was a massive sun hat over her curly head, creating an umbrella-esque shade over her tiny body and she was donned in a bright denim dress with sunflowers stitched into the frilly skirt. 

Her hand was small enough to fit between two of his fingers. 

“Papa! The sea is eating me!”, she shrieked in part delight and part alarm, as the sand pulled beneath her chubby feet making the girl gurgle in joy and jump. 

He felt a laugh burst out of him and he bent swiftly and caught her, pulling her up, till the squirming toddler was wrapped in his arms. Her sunhat was hanging around her neck now and he could smell the soft powdery scent of her shampoo as her inky curls brushed his jaw. 

“The sea isn’t eating you, sweetheart. The waves pull back rhythmically against the shore because of the gravitational pull of the moon.”

The girl stared at him with round baffled eyes and he sighed, internally debating the finer points of teaching sixth standard geography to a five year old. 

He brushed a lock of her hair off that miniscule cherubic face which made his daughter giggle again and then sneeze. His heart had ballooned inside his chest like it would explode with all the love that seemed to travel like lightning through his veins. 

He covered her cheeks with kisses, much to the toddler’s delight and breathless protests. 

“Papa..papa stop..it tickles..hihihi”, she patted his face away with soft hands. 

He chuckled and pressed his nose on the crown of her hair, inhaling the sweet milky scent of pure innocence, so unmarred from the filth of the world and the wickedness of men. He wished he could bubble wrap her and keep her locked inside his ribcage forever.  

His mother’s music had reached a soothing crescendo behind and he wondered where she had put up her mat to sit and play the instrument. 

Why were they on the beach anyway?

He couldn’t remember. 

The sun was setting, having turned the horizon into shades of mauve and light orange. The air was turning chilly and his daughter was almost asleep, drowsy and blinking those large lashed eyes, little face tucked inside the crook of his neck. 

“Where is your grandmother?”, he asked, absent minded and tried searching for the source of the music. 

He couldn’t see her. 

That ever familiar small dainty figure with a thick curly braid reaching till her knees, always wrapped in the softest of pastel hued chiffon sarees that he loved to bury his face against whilst hugging her, the scent of her english rose perfume and the fragrance of vanilla had misted in the air 

There was sand and rocks everywhere. 

The music seemed to get fainter and fainter and a slow tension had started simmering inside him. 

“Maa?”

He called out but there was only the waves and the dying music and his own echoes answering him. Then his arms felt empty, the comfortable weight limp against his chest and shoulder was gone and he realised with a start that his daughter had vanished into thin air. 

Panic clawed into his throat viciously and he couldn’t breathe. He looked around desperately and there was not a single person in sight. The air inside his lungs was lead and a sudden, sharp and rank odor made him almost gag. 

There was a body spread almost eagle shaped on the ground, a few feet in front. 

The dark blood soaking the sand around in a macabre pool was visible even in the dim light of dusk. He didn’t want to go there but it was like his body was being controlled by someone else. He couldn’t stop his feet from moving. 

His heart was hammering so hard, he could keel over any moment. 

It was a woman. 

Not his mother. 

Not his daughter. 

A young woman, mutilated and violated, the scraps of her white saree barely clinging onto her bluish tinged ashen skin. Her eyes were turned towards him, as if boring into his soul, accusation bright and clear in their watery depths. 

He felt his knees buckle and something grip his throat with brutal force. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He knew her. 

She was saying something. The dead body. Her mouth was bloody and open and illegible words fell from her lips like dribbling poison. He raised a shaking hand towards her but couldn’t reach her, his strength failing midway. 

He would drown on dry earth. 

Drown beneath the sand and the sea and the music playing like the summoning of death in his ears. 

There was no respite for him, no retribution, no redemption— only a reckoning. 

A loud crash brought him back to reality. 

Shauryaman hissed and almost fell off the bartop as he straightened from his painful slouch on the table. There was a bull playing banjo inside his head and he could feel the individual throb agony shoot down his spine. 

His mouth felt like someone had poured acid and cement down his throat, in that order. 

The dim lighting of the nightclub felt fortunately easy on his eyes as he slapped his own face a few times, trying to hit the oncoming lethargy and spike of nausea away. Someone had forgotten to put out the music and it kept on playing on a horrible loop of some nineties bollywood number in the background. 

The bartender was snoring on his seat. 

Shauryaman debated kicking him off his chair and then resisted the urge and gingerly climbed down the stool. His legs took some time to steady beneath him and his head felt like a thousand kilos atop his neck. 

A quick squint at his watch told him that it was near dawn. 

Some of his drinking companions were sprawled over the couches in the back, completely hammered and out like the light. The scent of alcohol, perfume and heavy tobacco was cloying and felt like solid smoke as he neared the bunch, silently. 

The high end escort that the ring leader had hired was nowhere to be seen. If the fools were lucky, they might still have their expensive watches and wallets intact. But then, prostitutes who worked the clients in this particular club knew better than to rob their regular patrons. 

No one wanted to get in the crosshairs of the club owner. 

Or rather, the man who was the face, at the least. 

“Fuck! Hey richie rich— what the hell did you feed us man?”, a growl from the pile of bodies startled him bad enough to almost step back. He had been inspecting the white residue left on the black center table kept in front. 

The smell was distinctive enough. 

“Ambrosia, Rags. What— don’t like the downside that much, do you?”

Shauryaman grinned and surreptitiously slipped the mobile phone that had been lying on the table inside the hidden pocket of his leather jacket. 

‘Rags’, was the name the Mumbai underworld had given Raghav Chotan— drug kingpin and the supposed right hand man of the most dangerous mob boss in the city. His distribution network ran most of the street trash circulated in the more underprivileged localities in town. 

He was a paranoid man and for good reason. 

The police had been on his scent for many high profile contract killings for years. 

Rags coughed and grimaced, sitting up from his perch and caught the bottle of water that Shauryaman had chucked at him. He finished half of it and was seemingly about to say something when a loud ringing shattered the otherwise quiet of the club. 

“Fucker! Switch it off!”, some drunkard yelled from the other corner. 

“You fuck off fucker! Do you know who I am—”, Rags yelled back, tried to stand up and then promptly fell back down on his ass. 

Shauryaman stifled a groan and tapped at the man’s pocket that had been vibrating for the past one minute. 

“It's your phone idiot, pick it up!”

The other man grumbled but acquiesced, putting the phone to his ear and spitting curses in Marathi, seemingly before the other person could have even spoken. But suddenly he straightened and started nodding, saying, ‘yes boss, sorry boss’ rapidly for the next one minute. 

Shauryaman raised an eyebrow questioningly and Raghav grinned at him. 

“Today’s your lucky day, rich boy. My boss wants to meet you. Get ready by eleven. I’ll send you the address—”, he said, trying to slap his back but missed it by one centimeter and almost fell on his face on the table. 

Shauryaman had to resist the urge to vibrate out of his skin in sheer adrenaline. 

Fucking finally!

______________________

It was almost eleven when Shauryaman pulled inside the driveway of one of the most dangerous men in the city. 

If one wanted to stay in power in Maharashtra, it was imminent that they built a relationship with Tony Braganza. 

The multibillionaire business tycoon had risen the ranks of the Mumbai underworld through every organized crime possible. The brothels in the red light district, the drugs being sold to both the celebrities in tinsel town and the seediest underbelly of the city, the smuggling racket in the ports, extortion, murder, contract killing— you name it and Braganza has done it.

He has his fat fingers in every pie, has business dealings with media giants and industrialists, has been called to bollywood celebrities’ houses and has ties with both the sitting government and the opposition. 

It was also nigh impossible to get close to the gangster on your own volition. 

You don’t call Tony Braganza, he calls you. 

And thus, Shauryaman had to wait, for an excruciating amount of time, to even get close to the so-called mafia leader. 

The arched gateway of the ostentatious mansion of the supposed king of the Mumbai underworld was guarded better than Fort Knox, itself. The rotating shift of armed security kept a tight vigil and there were three entry checks on the main gate before his car had even been allowed inside. 

Shauryaman had chosen the red corvette today— one of the most expensive and fancy cars he owned. He was wearing a white shirt, opened scandalously at the collar and blue jeans, a casual fit, not too much effort but the watch on his wrist could buy the entire showroom full of sports cars and his shoes were custom made Givenchy. The black Prada sunglasses were strategically placed to hide his eyes.

He had wrapped himself in obscene wealth— the gait deliberate of a rich smug-ass brat who had more money than sense. There was that cavalier arrogance befitting a vain prince in the quirk of his lips and the attitude with which he had slammed the door of the car after skidding to the front porch at high speed and thrown the keys to the valet. 

A master performance. 

Like sheep skin stretched over his body— white, fluffy and completely vulnerable to the wolves inside.

‘Look a baby clown’, they would say, ‘look the stupid spoiled heir to the Gaur billions’, they would laugh in sadistic glee, ‘look at the puppet we have caught’, they would cheer. 

And he would play along, smile his lazy, self satisfied smiles and open up his wallet to the crooks. 

He had waited a decade for this. 

Ten long years. 

Four years to just get in contact with Rags and through his extensive list of contacts and indulging his gruesome gang of goons and the rest six to befriend the man enough so that he would lead him straight to his next step. 

Yes, Tony Braganza was a big fish.

For some, perhaps the don was the biggest fish in the sea, but not for him. 

Shauryaman wanted the fisherman. 

And the first step towards catching the fisherman was to find the biggest fucking fish in the sea. 

The receptionist ushered him inside the house and they walked out of the big French windows on the other side to the perfectly mowed lawn. There were shaded groves along the outer boundary and trimmed hedges with exotic flowers and was that a fucking peacock?

The entire property had been sealed with signal jammers. No weapons or electronic devices were allowed inside. 

“Hey! Shaurya— over here!”

Raghav ‘Rags’ Chotan hollered and Shauryaman turned to the right and almost dropped his facade being face to face with the notorious gangster of Mumbai.  

Tony Braganza looked exactly how he looked in the photos. Somehow managing to resemble both the celebrity coverage in Filmfare done a month prior and the mugshot photos taken more than two decades ago, when the former had still been an enforcer for Haji Mastan. 

Seated on a lounge chair, a Cuban cigar clenched in one hand, bedecked in his signature all-white look and gold rimmed glasses, Braganza was a behemoth of a man with a scar cutting diagonally through his stern face. 

The man was staring at Shauryaman like he could visually dissect him into seven layers and inspect his molecules. 

It was unnerving to be pinned like that. 

Shauryaman gave a lazy wave and sauntered towards them in a practiced unhurried gait. He was walking towards a mountain bear with the countenance of a man strolling inside his garden. 

“Mr. Braganza, delighted!”, he extended his hand for a shake. 

Tony did not even glance at his hand, not bothering to take it. Just gestured with his eyes to the seat in front. Shauryaman shrugged and sat down, stretching his legs in an angular fashion and waited, hands atop his belly. 

“Uhh boss.. This was the man I was talking about— Shauryaman Gaur he—”, Rags stuttered but a single hand from his employer had him shutting up. 

“I know who you are, kid. Many years ago, I had offered your father power beyond imagination but he had refused. Something about his company’s ideals and never associating with the likes of me. So imagine my surprise when his son started hanging around my boys.”

Those beady eyes were trained almost eerily on his face. 

Shauryaman gave the most disgustingly empty headed smile he could possibly conjure. 

“My father..lets just say he has the typical yesteryear ideas of doing business. The man has no concept of how to move with the times—”, he drawled. 

“And you do?”, the kingpin raised an eyebrow. 

“I know the importance of building the correct alliance.”

“Indeed. I heard you got married. So tell me, how is married life treating the infamous rake of Malabar Hills?”

It was with a Herculean effort that Shauryaman had to stop himself from stilling. There was a contemplative look on the other man’s face. He was testing him— he knew that. Yet the words had prodded at a door he had firmly slammed shut while coming here. He couldn’t let the mobster peek through that. 

Never. 

Not..her. 

Shauryaman grinned and hooked one of his legs over the other. 

“She is a sweet little thing. A bit dumb if you ask me. But I am quite certain that I own a percentage of Laconte now”, he finished. 

Tony stared at him for a good long minute before cracking a golden toothed smile. It looked remarkably ugly on his hairless face. 

The man could play a live action mountain troll. 

“Good for you”, the big man suddenly gestured for the attendant that the younger man hadn’t even noticed had come up to stand beside his chair.

The woman couldn’t have been older than twenty. 

She was beautiful. 

The kind of prettiness that was more girlish but somehow had been enhanced through makeup and accessories. 

She bent down beside him and poured the tea into the cup for him in all probability. In this way, the girl’s thighs were visible from the slit of her pencil skirt. Her hair was pinned in a professional bun and Shauryaman could see the pink cats she had drawn on her nails. 

He felt his stomach drop to his knees. 

Tony Braganza was leering at him. He could feel the gaze of the older man over his skin like pepper over a hot pan. He knew what was expected. His heart slid off his knees and dropped to his feet. 

Shauryaman braced himself internally and stared lecherously at the bare skin exposed on the girl’s legs and ran a hand over her clothed hip in a very provocative way. The worst part was instead of flinching back and snarling at him, the girl turned and gave him a sweet smile. 

As if it was expected. 

Normal. 

The gangster was appraising him still and Shauryaman swallowed the bile back inside his throat, apologized to the poor girl profusely in his mind and smacked the girl’s ass. She gasped and gave him another sickly saccharine smile but there was no light in her eyes. 

Tony Braganza laughed aloud and swatted the girl away like she was an insignificant fly hovering over his fruit basket and that flicker of suspicion in his dark eyes had finally extinguished. 

“You were right, he is a little perve, isn’t he?”, the older man told his right hand man who laughed at the joke in his typical raunchy fashion. 

“I prefer the word connoisseur, sir”, Shauryaman layered on the slick a little thicker. 

The gag reflex should have been non-existent at this point. 

“Okay, back to business, then. Chotan tells me that you can help with the building permit plans of the new string of clubs I want to open in Andheri?”

Finally—

Shauryaman tilted his head and gave him a nasty smile. 

“I might know a man who knows a man…”

Hook.

The old mobster leaned in front, blowing a ring of smoke right on his face. Shauryaman didn’t even bat the cloud of expensive tobacco away. 

“And what do you want in return, little prince?”, the older man asked, teeth bared more like a predator about to sink its fangs into a hapless prey than a businessman sealing a deal. 

Shauryaman smirked and seemingly observed the gold wedding band glinting in the sunshine on his finger before taking a sip of the tea offered to him. 

“I want a seat at the table. I want to meet the..benefactors”

Line. 

There was a chilling silence following his words and Shauryaman wondered whether he had accidentally shown his hand. The mafia leader was as unreadable as a sphinx. Rags was shifting on his seat, looking uncomfortable with the sudden seriousness that had descended in the atmosphere.

“You want to play in the big leagues..huh?”, Tony said finally. 

Shauryaman cocked his head to the other side and pouted slightly which he knew made him look childishly pretty sometimes and pretty idiotic, at other times. 

It may have worked because Braganza licked his lips slightly and then leaned back more comfortably. 

“Tell you what, Mr. Gaur. You get me those permit plans and I will personally accompany you to the big boys’ table.”

Shauryaman’s smirk stretched till it split his face in two, the naked delight on his handsome features were reminiscent of a child being promised his favourite toy. 

Tony Braganza watched him for some seconds and then mirrored his smile, if only, on the older man’s scarred face it looked somehow ghastly. 

Sinker. 

_______________________

Shauryaman had made a beeline for the bathroom as soon as he had reached the house, and hadn't even checked whether Meenakshi had returned from her office. 

After the deal, Raghav had taken him to some pub and he had watched the other man sell his weight in cocaine, molly and something that was being called angel dust on the streets. Notable amongst his customers had been people associated with two bollywood a-listers, a very prominent sportstar and the usual clientele of a drug lord. 

By the time he had entered the front porch of his house, the layers had started peeling alarmingly fast and he could feel the bile that he had suppressed since the beginning of the day, start to flood his mouth. 

He had barely managed to reach the sink in time. 

He didn’t know what had prompted the nausea to break open— the dream, the stupid blood alcohol level he was carrying at the moment, the way Tony Braganza had roved his beady little beetle eyes over him like he was a piece of meat waiting to be exploited, or the way he had unwillingly touched the server girl. 

Whether it was breathing in the stale smoke of hookah and cubans and the nascent toxicity of lines of coke in front or the overdressed hookers splaying their sharp nails all over his chest. 

After the porcelain god had had mercy on him, Shauryaman had ripped open his clothes, turned the shower to the hottest setting possible and jumped under the spray. The heat seared his skin and he started rubbing soap over it almost savagely. 

It was like the sheep skin had melded into his own skin and try as he might, he couldn’t separate the two. 

The taste of alcohol and lipstick and the metallic tang of blood was painfully sickening inside his mouth. The force with which he used the tongue scraper almost made him bleed. 

The entire washroom had fogged up because of the heat and anyone would have jumped out of the water by now but he couldn’t even move a single muscle. 

His mind had always been a torture trap of its own. 

Vitriolic. Unforgiving. Punishing. 

Was it worth it?

All this theatre—

This tiring dangerous game of smoke and mirrors?

Hadn’t his arrogance resulted in one catastrophe already, the biggest mistake of his life, that he was readily committing a thousand more? 

Will any of this even be fruitful?

He couldn’t get the powdery fragrance he had conjured up for his so-called daughter out of his mind. It blanketed everything else in a powerful wave. The haunting echo of his mother’s sitar only added to the building anxiety inside his chest. 

Suddenly there were hands over him. 

He could feel the echoes of the vicious blows that had cracked his bones, the blind desperation to survive, the taste of his own blood flowing inside his mouth, the boot stamped over his throat— someone had a fist full of his hair and was dragging his body against the road even as he struggled to escape. 

His breathing had exponentially shot up till he could practically hear himself trying to heave. 

Oh god, he can’t be having a stupid episode right now—

Not again. 

But the signs were clear. 

The breath falling short, his ribs tightening hard enough that it felt like his lungs would pop out, his entire torso was on fire. He saw dark spots dance in front of his eyes and scrabbled helplessly on the wet wall, trying to keep his wobbling legs in place. 

It wouldn’t do to crack his skull open on the bathroom tiles. 

“Shaurya!”

A sudden clear voice cut through the hammering of his heart inside his ears and his vision cleared slowly. 

Meenakshi. 

Her voice rang with that same mixture of irritation and annoyance that she always used while speaking to him. She was knocking impatiently on the door. 

“If your fourteen-step everything-shower is over, can you come out? I need to go to a client meeting around nine and I need the bathroom!”

Shauryaman cleared his throat once and then twice and when he was fairly confident his voice wouldn’t wobble too much, he shouted back. 

“There are thirty washrooms in this mansion!”

“All my products are inside this one! Come out fast, mister mermaid.”

An involuntary chuckle broke out of him at her exasperated tone and the ridiculous claim of him being a water nymph. He imagined her standing outside, stomping her foot, angry like a cute red button, those beautiful hazel irises burning fire. 

It was strange how his wife’s anger at having been kept waiting for the shower had seemingly broken through his anxiety. 

“Give me five”, he called back and quickly turned off the shower and patted himself dry. 

When he finally opened the door, Meenakshi had indeed been standing there, tapping her foot impatiently on the wooden paneling of the floor of their bedroom. She took one look at him and her anger vanished into bafflement.

“Wow..you look like a lobster having been left for too long inside a sauna—”

Shauryaman rolled his eyes and sidestepped her, clutching the knot of the towel he had hastily tied around his waist. 

“Who keeps client meetings at nine o’clock at night?”, he grumbled. 

“Businessmen and every consultancy firm ever—”, she had come to stand beside him near the wardrobe and he almost jumped at the sudden unprecedented proximity, “but…are you okay? You look…strangely jumpy”, she sounded concerned. 

Shauryaman suddenly missed the time when they had been avoiding each other because of ‘The Fight’.

No— he countered himself immediately the moment the thought had come. 

He didn’t miss that time. 

Never. 

He had been miserable. 

Well, more miserable than usual. 

Shauryaman could have never guessed that he would actually miss fighting with his wife. The silence of those days were only slightly less heavy than the guilt that had smothered him from the very second he had uttered those godforsaken words. 

Now, Shauryaman knew he was capable of a depraved level of cruelty when it suited him but the moment he had seen his wife’s angry face turn ashen, it had hit him like a freight train to the gut. 

He had said those terrible words to hurt her. 

Because she had hurt him. 

He had never been so affected by the words and doings of anyone before. 

Maybe Avantika could make him react just as badly, but Meenakshi seemed to have done a masters on the subject. She could raise an eyebrow and he would feel his temper flare, she would give him a condescending smirk and he would want to immediately snarl back, she would spit words coated in poison— words that many people have quoted to him in worse ways and yet it would twist inside his chest like acid coated arrows and draw blood. 

When she had brought Avantika in the argument, she had torn open an already tender wound. She had reached into his chest, snapped all his ribs in two and ripped his beating heart out of his body with bloodied nails and shredded it in front of him. 

It shouldn’t have hurt so much. 

Many people have said over the years that he was essentially incapable of love. 

Hell, Avantika herself had screamed it to his face the last time they had talked. 

And still, it had felt like this time it had hurt worse. 

Shauryaman was weak like that. He couldn’t swallow agony with grace. He had to turn around and spit it back. So he had lashed out the best way he could. Pulled out the only weakness he had found out in Meenakshi Bannerjee, sharpened that knife and plunged it inside her chest. 

The way he had found her later, statuesque and frozen under the icy spray of water— drenched and shivering, eyes blown wide and completely unresponsive, it had broken his heart. 

The way she had laid limp in his arms when he had carried her out. 

The guilt had hit so hard then that he could barely look at her trembling figure. He had barked some instructions at Vimmi tai and bolted from there. He had wished the earth would break open and swallow him whole. 

It was not like it had even been her fault. 

Anyone would have lost their temper at the way he had behaved. She didn’t know what that man was capable of. 

She didn’t know that Shauryaman felt like throwing up, curling into a ball and crying whenever he would catch the mere sight of Prakhar Sahani. 

She didn’t know the sheer magnitude of restraint he had to employ to stop from scratching that man’s eyes out, the way his supposedly soothing baritone felt like nails against a chalkboard to him. 

And he couldn’t even do her the courtesy of telling her the truth. 

The ugly bitter horrific truth of the man his wife had trusted like everyone else. 

The words would come at the base of his throat and coagulate like solid sludge. The terror would grip his lungs and squeeze demonically till he couldn’t breathe. The panic attack snapping its bloodied jaws at his heels the moment he would try to utter the words. 

‘She won’t believe you’, his demons sounded suspiciously like Prakhar. 

‘No one would believe you. Your own father didn’t care. Who would believe a womanizer sex addict like you—’, they would laugh. 

And he would swallow it all down. 

Even if he wanted to rip the fucker’s arm off anytime he would see him throw it on his father’s shoulders, as if in innocent camaraderie, or pat Meenakshi on the back, or graze close to them. 

Shauryaman was so weak he couldn’t even warn them, too repressed, too wrapped up in his own fear and the threat Prakhar had so benignly given him all those years ago. 

He couldn’t let Harshvardhan know the truth. 

Not that. 

It will break his father’s heart. 

It will kill him. 

So he stayed mum. 

Shame had always been a close friend and wrapped its terribly heavy arms around him like an obsessive lover, more often than not. 

But this kind of remorse had teeth. 

Claws that could rip through anything. 

Shauryaman remembered spending those two months of silence, sequestered inside his mother’s room, trying to pour every functioning brain cell into the board in front, steeped in his own agendas. But to no avail. 

Meenakshi had somehow carved a space inside him and now occupied it like a queen on her throne, unconquered and infallible. 

Then that fateful night, he had fallen asleep on the table like an idiot and his wife had almost found out everything. Thanks to that irritating demonic bug that had distracted everyone enough for him to remove the evidence. He shouldn’t have been studying in the open. 

But then, if he hadn’t— maybe he would have never reconciled with his wife— or whatever truce they had managed to come up with wouldn’t have occurred. 

Meenakshi was still staring at him, concern clear in her big eyes, now. 

Her hair had curled a little from the humidity outside from its natural beachy waves and he resisted the urge to run his fingers through the silken strands. It was a chore staying away from her most days— a task to walk around her, feel her warmth beside him on the bed, see her cut down men thrice her size in the boardroom with the easy demeanor of a warrior general and not being permitted to touch. 

Just to see if she was even real or a figment of his deluded mind. 

The first time Harshvardhan had proposed the alliance, Shauryaman had thrown a mother of all fits. Not only was he not interested in having any long standing relationship after Avantika, but also— he hadn’t wanted to bring another innocent person into the equation. 

But his father had been adamant and had taken out the last weapon in his arsenal. 

“Either you marry, Ms. Bannerjee, or you can get out of all my properties and I will freeze all your accounts—”

At literally any other time, he would have turned around and left but he had already been too deep in his plan. He had spent so many days and burned so many bridges and worked so fucking hard to reach where he is and he couldn’t throw it away.

So he had acquiesced and hoped the girl would turn out to be a dumb bimbo and would stay out of his way. She had obviously been far from it. 

Meenakshi Bannerjee had come like a storm in his life— uprooting every single thing he had thought about her, tearing through all his defences with the unbothered efficiency of a military general. 

She was a chaotic wildfire that followed no rules, was bound by no one and could care less for his idiosyncrasies.  

Shauryaman was terrified of his wife. 

And he was terrified for her. 

Meenakshi was like a lotus, blooming in the muck of his life and completely unaware about the snakes he had attracted intentionally, that swam underwater, orbiting their world in venomous subterfuge. 

He couldn’t suck her into the nightmare his life had become. So he had let her believe whatever the tabloids said, let her form her conclusions based on the flawed data he fed her religiously and let her detest him. 

But surprisingly enough, Meenakshi, unlike literally everyone else in his life, seemed determined to crack open all his shells and find out the truth. She wouldn’t be taken in by the falsities so easily and maybe he was tired of playacting all the time as well. 

Shauryaman didn’t remember the last time he had actually felt like himself. 

Then he saw her watching a baking show sitting on the couch, the silk of her blue nightsuit falling in effortlessly elegant lines over her amber cream body, the polished clean nails that she kept surprisingly short and efficient, the pleasantly relaxed posture that had seemingly poked and prodded at him. 

He had been so bone tired from all the partying and the sex and Raghav fucking Chotan dragging him all over town and pouring over every detail on a decade old case— he had just let go. 

He would never forget the look of pleased delight on her face when biting into the muffins the next morning. 

He had taken her out to lunch, shown her the place only he and his mother had ever visited. Let his wife of seven months inside one of the deepest, darkest cobwebbed corners of his heart that he hadn’t even been able to open for Avantika. 

The woman he had supposedly loved. 

The kiss was another thing he resolutely refused to even think about. 

The way she had moaned into his mouth, dragging him in like she wanted to devour him, the fragrance of her spicy, addictive perfume, the taste of her lipstick and the way her tongue had battled in drunken ecstasy alongside his own. 

Shauryaman deserved an award for the restraint he had shown that night. 

The way his wife’s smaller body had felt against his own, curled into him, rubbing languorously against his cock— suffice it to say he had had to take many cold showers in the days following. Desire had never felt so burning, so painful against his skin. 

Meenakshi Bannerjee Gaur was a beautiful woman, no doubt.

Objectively he might have seen more conventionally good looking women but her— mere words felt insufficient to describe her brand of striking attractiveness. 

There was something almost divine, wrathful and savage inside of her. She had kept it under control but it snarled at him from its enclosure often, baring its gleaming fangs having gotten the scent of another predator nearby. 

Shauryaman remembered watching her work the Laconte board once, when he had been called on time by his father in law for a majority shareholder’s meeting, almost two months prior. 

She was a master manipulator. 

A charm to see at work. 

Wrapped in a beige dress that accentuated her waist and the curve of her hips just the right amount and yet maintained that border of powerful professionalism, she had gone for a very light makeup, no bold colors, no visible lines. As if she was showing transparency overtly, putting everyone at ease. 

But Shauryaman knew better. 

Having played the game of shadows and covers— deception and manipulation came as easy to him as breathing. 

When you want to hide something, do not keep it locked up, show it in plain sight but surround it with enough glitter and glamor that every eye will be baffled in disoriented unfocus. 

She had been a marvel. 

Wielding words like precision tools and smiles like forbidden fruits hanging low enough to grab but would feel like benediction once directed at you, at the same time. 

The board had voted in her favor alright. 

Shauryaman had given her a smirk when he had met her eyes finally and she had just cocked a sharp eyebrow at him, unresponsive to his blatant provocation and marched off, clearly not concerned about keeping up appearances. 

He hadn’t voted in favor of her suggestion if only to rile her up. He had already counted the votes on the faces of the other board members the moment she had finished. It had been hilariously unsubtle. 

He had known his stance wouldn’t matter. 

So it had been pure ragebaiting. 

And maybe a little bit of curiosity. 

His wife hadn’t risen to the bait, but. 

It thrilled him— the constant game of push and pull that they seem to be playing. It felt like something real, something only they owned in a life that was ruled distressingly by a severe lack of privacy. 

Something that called to his own wilderness like a siren song. 

And the more he refused to answer it, the more he felt like he was being sucked into her terrifying gravitational pull. 

It was petrifying— this much loss of control when he had bound himself to a staggering constraint for nearly a decade. 

“I am fine..just took a hot shower”, he muttered pulling on his sweats. 

“More like a scorching shower—”, his wife commented but didn’t pry anymore, moving away towards the bathroom. 

She knew he wouldn’t say anything. 

They talked a lot. 

But not about anything important. 

That was the unspoken rule, wasn’t it? 

Shauryaman remembered her shaking in his arms, face buried inside his chest, trying to seek his warmth, his protection while thunder had lashed against the windows, outside. He had felt an uncharacteristic near violent surge of protectiveness that night. 

He hadn’t even noticed how her body felt against his own. Only the feeling that he had to shield her had compelled him to almost bury her under his weight, physically putting his larger body as a barrier for anything to come. 

It had worked miraculously and she had fallen asleep. 

Waking up to the feeling of his wife curled into your chest had been a novel experience. He had stroked a fluttering hair off her sleeping face and had marvelled at the way his heart had almost shrunken in an effort to reach out to her. 

My wife.. 

He had thought for the first time. 

Someone who could belong to him. Someone he could belong to in return. No matter how strong one’s will was, at the end human beings had not been designed anthropologically to exist in isolation. 

My wife.

Yet instead of pride, only a damning heartbreak had remained. 

She would never know. 

She can never know. 

He would not do that to her. The safest option was to let her believe the worst of him. To let her distance herself and live in her own world, removed from his, safer than his, much brighter than his. 

Shauryaman had put her gently on his side of the bed, pulled the covers on her and kissed her temple so softly his lips had barely touched her. Then he had dragged his screaming, protesting body out of the bed like a coward and hidden under the guise of nonchalance yet again. 

Meenakshi had still squeezed his hand, still shown her unrequired gratitude, if only nonverbal but it had hit him like an arrow to the chest. 

She was a much braver person than he. 

As an answer to his question in the shower, the dream-woman’s body flashed in his mind. A graphically clear image. So real that he could still smell the rigor mortis again. 

Shauryaman closed his eyes and swallowed a painful lump. 

Yes it was worth it. 

All the pain and the heartbreak and the sheer mental torture was worth it if he could pull the damned monster from his throne, bring his empire down around his ears and crush everything he has ever loved to fucking dust. 

It was worth everything.

Even if he ended up losing everything.  

Including a life with an incredible woman that he had begun to dream about, a life that probably would have been kinder to him than anyone and anything ever has. 

But he didn’t have time for self pity. 

He needed the call records of the phone he had slipped from the club. And he needed to get those permit plans for the gangster king of Mumbai. 

He opened the door of his mother’s room with the spare key and slipped inside and then shut the padlocks. There was no other way of entering this room, except from the balcony but that was two stories up and oversaw the security cameras that he had installed inside. 

The board pinned up on the wall in front was already covered in pictures and newspaper cuttings and stacks of sticky notes, a convoluted spider web of red thread seemed to join the entire display like a crocheted mesh. 

Shauryaman replaced the sim inside his phone and dialed a number from the contact list. 

The other person picked up on the second ring. 

“Akshat, I need you to crack open a cell phone for me. I will get it to you tonight. Same place, same time. Order a bourbon."

“Just one?”, came from the other side, almost cheeky. 

Shauryaman rolled his eyes, even if he knew the other man couldn’t see him and cut the call. 

He leaned back on his chair and stared at the board. It had taken him nearly a decade to build all the connections, to find all the clues and gather the testimonies. And yet, it had fallen short. He had struck off the three thousand and forty seventh option a week back and no new solution was in sight. 

But he was so close to his target. 

He could finally see the end of the tunnel but the light glimmering from the other side could either be freedom or a nuclear explosion waiting to swallow him whole. 

He had to meet with Justice Chaudhary. 

There was a party being hosted in the CJI’s home next week and all the high court judges would be in attendance. Shauryaman had to secure an invitation somehow. It wasn’t a celebration where industrialists or their rotten heirs would be called to— especially not disbarred rotten heirs. 

The only way in, would be as a plus one. 

Richa Khosla was enamoured of him enough, all he had to do was rub in the slight he had thrown at her father a month ago, and she would be game. And if that wouldn’t suffice, he knew how to show a woman a good time— 

Richa wouldn’t even care that he was married now. She would only get a thrill out of it. 

Pulling men like bees hovering over nectar. 

Arrogance will be her downfall one of these days. 

Just like it had, for him. 

Just like it would be for the fisherman. 

Shauryaman took a dart and threw it with perfect aim to hit dead center on the face of the man whose photograph was pinned in the middle of the spider’s web. 

I will have you, you fucking bastard. 

“I will have you if it is the last fucking thing I ever do”, Shauryaman Gaur growled to the silence choking the otherwise empty room. 

The sitar had stopped playing, finally. 

__________________________

“Kia, you have to listen to the strings before tugging at them—”, Shauryaman instructed the twelve year old, who was listening to him with rapt attention, her small fingers pulling at the strings of the old sitar. 

“See, one, two, three…one, two, three….maintain the chord as well as the rhythm”, he continued gently and demonstrated it on his own instrument. 

Well, technically it was his mother’s instrument but she had left it to him. 

His tiny student followed through with military focus and the eager determination of a pupil wanting to impress their teacher somehow. It tugged at his rotten heart somewhere. The girl was so desperate for approval that it reminded him of another twelve year old boy. 

“Good”, he offered her awkwardly. 

Praise came stilted and unused to his lips. It was like pulling teeth. Not because he couldn’t feel it but because the expression took more emotional labour than he could extend on most days. 

It was tough to squeeze blood out of a heart having been beaten into stone years ago. 

But Kia smiled so brightly that her dark skin started glowing like gold, being hit from the humid sunshine filtering inside the room where the ceiling fans were working overtime to counter the oppressive heat. 

The cotton kurta he was wearing had stuck to his back with sweat quite uncomfortably. 

The place was so atypical of his usual setting that he stuck out like a sore thumb despite his effort to acclimatize to it. He had foregone his usual expensive western clothes with a simple modest kurta over washed up jeans and black rimmed spectacles. 

Not that anyone here would recognize the infamous playboy billionaire in this part of the town but he didn’t want to take any chances. He had read somewhere that wearing spectacles made it difficult for people to focus on identifiable features of a face without it. 

He was sitting on the floor of the living room of the one-bhk flat. The sounds of children playing gully cricket on the narrow strip of road outside came in periodically. Someone was watching a Marathi soap opera on their tv down the corridor. 

It was the usual atmosphere one would expect from a lower middle class housing complex in Parel. 

Kia had already gone to the next string of notes and Shauryaman could see that she had practiced. 

The girl had an uncanny ear for catching a tune. 

Just like her mother. 

“You know, you don’t have to do this, right? It's not like we are paying you to tutor her. We can barely afford three square meals most days—”

Shauryaman sighed and turned to the old woman who was leaning against the doorway, wiping her sweat streaked face on the pallu of her saree. 

“That is because you adamantly refuse to accept the money I keep sending—”, he countered exasperatedly. 

“Hey now..as far as I remember, you are the one paying for Kritika’s schooling and books and—”

“But it is not enough. I told you to get an AC and I sent the electrician that you sent away—”

“Beta, what do you think I should tell the landlord and the neighbours, how did I suddenly get money to buy an AC? They are getting suspicious anyway and you know we can’t—”

She stopped suddenly and wiped the corners of her eyes. He looked down and plucked at the string of his sitar, giving her time to compose herself. 

“Your pride will be the end of you, aaji”, he muttered quietly. 

“Pride is all I have left, beta. And Kritika. I can’t lose her too”, the old woman’s voice broke. 

“You will not lose her”, Shauryaman snapped and then regretted his tone immediately.

“Kia, keep practising”, he instructed the twelve year old who nodded vigorously and 

He got up fluidly, eager to move the ensuing conversation away from his young student’s ears. The sitar was a chore to pack and carry with him but he powered through, zipping it up and lifting it like a sling bag on one shoulder. 

Then he stepped out of the room with the old lady. 

 “I have almost reached my goal”, he told her. 

“What—”

“It is just a matter of months and I shall have him. I will have that brute grinding his nose on the fu— uhh ground.”

Akshat had come through with the call records. 

“I hope you know what you are doing, Shaurya. This man will not be easy to catch. Not even for you”, his friend had said in between the sips of his bourbon. 

“I don’t want to just catch him. If that were the case, I’de have done it years ago. No— I want to destroy him”, he had replied, sliding the digital copy of the call records that the former copied into a pendrive for him, inside his pocket. 

Now he had a direct link connecting Tony Braganza and his target. He had given the permit plans to the old mobster turned businessman for building his clubs, just a week ago. 

Now he was waiting on the summons. 

“Boy, you stay away from that monster”, Kritika’s great grandmother said, clutching his arm desperately. There was fear naked in her cataract laden gaze. 

The kind of animal fear that only the hunted had. 

It felt like the hands that had had Shauryaman in a chokehold for years. 

He removed her grasp gently and patted her shoulder awkwardly— still unused to the concern extended so undeservedly on him. 

“Don’t worry for me. I have made enough noise all these years that try as he might, he couldn’t make me disappear. I have a shield that you all never did— I have money”, he tried consoling her. 

“That will only go so far..he offered us the money but—”

A sudden sheepish voice from the corridor outside stopped both of them mid conversation. 

“Arre, Bhosle aaji, I saw your young man from outside. If he is done teaching Kia, can he come and look at these papers for me, for a bit?”

“Arre Rajesh, how many times do I have to tell you that he is not your free legal counsel. And how many land disputes are you even embroiled in? What is that good for nothing lawyer of yours doing?”

Mrs. Bhosle snapped, irritated, making the middle aged man quiver in fear. 

Bhosle aaji was the undisputed ruler of the community and even at the ripe age of seventy six, feared by everyone. 

Shauryaman stifled his smile and slinked out, using the opportunity to escape the older woman’s well meaning, if only, unnecessary concern. 

“Rajesh dada, come with me. I might not be able to fight your case but I think I can give your useless lawyer some wisdom. Come, come—”, he ushered the grateful man outside, clutching his papers.

After he had educated the idiot of an advocate fighting the neighbour’s case and refused the man’s repeated entreaties to pay him in lunch, Shauryaman found himself walking a good two miles on foot till he had left the locality behind and hailed an auto. 

He had to reach the flat that he had bought here a few years ago, change into better clothes and take his car back to his house. 

The Sunday heat was killing him. 

Then his phone rang. 

Richa. 

He picked it up on the seventh ring. Not too fast and not too late. Just at the edge of lazy disregard and suppressed enthusiasm. 

“Hey.. I was just thinking about you—”, he drawled seductively. 

“Liar”, she giggled and then, “what is that godawful noise? Are you inside a generator?”

Shauryaman resisted the urge to pinch his nose. 

“Im on a yacht, baby. You tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure”, he made sure to emphasize on the last word. It incited the correct reaction and the woman giggled sensually, clearly remembering the night they had spent a few days ago. 

He still hadn’t managed to get her floral perfume off his skin, despite rubbing himself with the strongest smelling soap he had, for hours, till he had pruned and turned raw and red. 

“I have the invitation for you…papa is friends with a defense attorney so— wanna come along?”, she asked.

Gotcha. 

“Why not? I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear that red dress”, he added lecherously and cut the call before she could reply. 

And if later in the evening, when he had entered the gates of the CJI’s house, had immediately ditched his date to go get himself acquainted with the high court judge, Justice PV Chaudhary’s decade younger wife, no one had thought much of it. 

Typical of the Gaur heir to whore himself out. 

His poor wife. 

No one had even spared a second glance when Justice Chaudhary and Shauryaman Gaur had stood at the corner of the lawn, heads almost bowing together in deep conversation for the rest of the party. 

_____________________________

It had been a few days after the party at the CJI’s house when Shauryaman found himself returning home at a more respectable time. 

He had just entered the hall when Vimmi tai came scurrying towards him, hands twisting inside the pallu of the saree she wore as a uniform. 

“Sir, I uhh— madam..”

“What happened?”, he asked, observing that she had been speaking at a tone much lower than normal, looking here and there as if an invisible tiger was waiting to jump on her at a moment’s notice. 

“Madam has been in the gym since the afternoon. Rajan said he heard something breaking inside but we have been too afraid to enter and—”

Shauryaman dismissed her and started towards their built in gym. 

Whatever he thought was happening, it surely hadn’t been this— the sight that he happened upon could belong in any biopic movie of an underdog kickboxer. 

Meenakshi was slamming into a punching bag continuously, her form perfect and the force with which every individual hit rocked the hapless sand filled leather, the invisible shockwaves created in the air around could practically be seen. 

She was wearing a bright orange sports bra and gym shorts that would have looked ridiculous on anyone but somehow managed to give the appearance of a model on a runway sticking to her ludicrously built body. 

She was sweating and had he not seen the aftermath of a punching bag lying, sadly torn at the seams, at the other end of the gym, he wouldn’t have known where the noise Rajan had heard had come from. 

Meenakshi was so engrossed in her boxing or rather destroying the punching bag that she hadn’t even noticed Shauryaman who had opened his shoes and left his jacket at the door and worn the extra pair of gloves himself. 

Her hair was braided so tight it must have hurt, slapping continuously against her back and the air like a cobra with every violent movement. 

It was like watching a warrior prepping for some end of the world battle. 

“Want to hit a real person instead of that poor abused leather?”

His words almost made the latter swing around and she would have knocked the living daylights out of him, had he not managed to block the punch on time. 

“Shaurya! Not now, please”, she snarled, gasping for breath and moving away. 

He just quirked an eyebrow and gestured with his gloved hands. 

“You afraid of fighting someone who can fight back?”, he challenged and felt his wife’s simmering temper boil over immediately. 

He knew how to spot danger and right now, pissed as she was for some reason, Meenakshi Gaur could happily trample over a herd of elephants, let alone just one man. But he was also a reckless idiot with suicidal tendencies so he swung at her lightly. 

‘Baiting an enraged tigress— good move, Shaurya!’, the last remaining cell of self preservation howled at him furiously. 

“You wanted it—”, was all she hissed before swinging at him. 

Shauryaman gasped and blocked the hit but could barely make his own as she just kept on coming at him relentlessly. They were dancing around in the entire gym now, him trying to not get his skull caved inside and her doing the best impression of Muhammad Ali on steroids. 

At one time, she had hit one of his blocks with her leg so powerfully, he had stumbled back, getting the breath knocked out of his stomach and barely managed to not fall on his ass. 

Meenakshi’s eyes were blazing, the sweat pooling around her glowing face, made the small flyaways and baby hair stick to her defined cheeks. 

Shauryaman would never know how fury could look so besotting on anyone. 

Anger had always looked ugly to him. 

His father’s shouts, the screaming in the pubs and nightclubs, the vicious kicking and punching endured at the expense of information and appearances— but her. She was like a warrior goddess. 

After all, what could one expect from the daughter of the Bengal Tiger himself. 

The Major had taught his daughter well. 

“Fuck!”, he cursed almost taking a knuckle sandwich to his cheek and blocked her next hit and completely missed her knee coming up in a graceful arc and slamming headfirst into his unprotected stomach. 

Shauryaman dropped like a sack of potatoes and tried to breathe through the fire coursing through his lungs, flat on his back. 

“Shit!”

Meenakshi kneeled beside him immediately and started prodding on his stomach as if checking for internal injuries.

“I told you! Why can’t you tone the godforsaken baiting down for one fucking second—”, she spat but panic had bled into her tone. She was trying to tug his top over the impacted area to inspect more, hands shaking slightly at the sheer adrenaline drop, he figured. 

“Hey now— at least buy me dinner first”, he joked in between hissed breaths as her fingers poked the tight hot skin. 

“Shut up!”

Meenakshi ordered him to breathe deeply and then did some odd sort of stretch and pull with his legs and upper torso and then wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him up with alarming ease. 

“That would bruise brilliantly”, Shaurya said, looking over the impressive red and blue clotting over his skin, on the floor to ceiling length mirrors. 

“How would I know you couldn’t take a tap”, his wife grumbled from underneath his shoulder, but that fury had tempered down. 

“That was not a tap. That was a death blow—”

“Stop whining—”

“I am not whining. You should join MMA as a side hustle. Does this come under domestic violence? I should make a case if only for later when your lawyers cry alimony—”

“First of all, you are a pea-princess who bruises like a peach and you baited me so now don’t cry about it. Secondly, I will never want alimony, I’m richer than you—”

Shauryaman guffawed and looked down at her. 

“You are not richer than me. I am twice your net worth—”, she poked him at his bruise like a she-demon and he gasped and tried moving away as they climbed the staircase to their bedroom. 

“Your company is twice my net worth. The company you are leaching off like there is no tomorrow. You will be on the streets, by the time you gain control. That is if the board ever lets you—”, she said and dropped his weight on the bed. 

He leaned back on the pillows and pouted at her in an incorrigibly immature way.

“You didn’t deny the domestic abuse allegations”, he sing-songed. 

“You didn’t deny the pea-princess allegations”, she smirked at his rolling eyes and brought out the first-aid box. 

He hissed slightly when she applied a very cold cream over the bruise but it mercifully numbed the area almost instantly. She said he was being a big baby and sank into the chair beside, unbothered about the sweat now sticking to its expensive upholstery. 

“Why were you taking your anger out on the poor punching bags, anyway?”, he asked almost hesitantly. 

She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. There was a strange emptiness in her eyes that felt painfully familiar. 

“Have you ever loved someone and hated them at the same time with such a fervour that it makes you sick?”, she whispered. 

Shauryaman raised an eyebrow but somehow immediately knew who she was talking about. He didn’t speak. He thought it was obvious. Meenakshi didn’t ask again because he knew she knew as well. She had bent down, hands over her knees, trying and failing to look unbothered. 

“Mama…she has done everything for me, she built me into this person I am today. She is the strongest woman I know but..somehow while trying to make me strong, she had turned me to stone as well— just like her. I hate it.”

The tears springing to her eyes were unexpected and so sudden, it took him aback. 

He looked away, suddenly awkward. But kept his fingers towards her hand that was clenching the bedspread, if only to gesture any sort of comfort. 

It took her a long minute to compose herself. 

He had taken that time to settle the words inside his mind. These were such important things, they couldn't be spat without thinking like he usually did with most of his thoughts. 

“You are not stone, Meenakshi. You cannot be. This rage you feel, it is just the emotions you cannot express. As for your mother, I don’t know her well enough to form an opinion, but I know you— and a woman who can shape you, cannot be stone either. Maybe she has been left out in the cold for too long.”

Meenakshi was quiet for so long after he had spoken that he was afraid she had taken offence. Just as he was about to say something stupid if only to distract her, she spoke again.

“That was surprisingly wise. You sure, I didn’t hit you too hard, triggered a cognitive recalibration?”, her words were humorous but her cadence was warm. 

Shauryaman grinned at her. 

“Please, you need to hit my head for that and both of us know, I am much too stubborn to get redeemed like that. It would ruin my aesthetic."

She laughed and the clouds brewing on her face had finally misted off. 

He didn’t know what came over him, but he cupped the side of her face. She stilled, topaz eyes going a little wide but she didn’t stiffen or move away immediately and he took it as permission enough. He rubbed his thumb gently over the miniscule scar practically invisible on the apple of her cheek. 

She was staring at him, slightly behooved. 

“Look at us…just a regular couple having daddy issues and mommy issues—”

Meenakshi smirked but still didn’t move away. 

“And anger issues and alcohol issues—”, she added mischievously and he sniggered, finally dropping his hand and immediately missing the softness of her skin pressing into his own calloused one.  

Yes, a right, regular couple they were, who solved their problems by punching each other. 

Later that night, when both of them were trying to sleep, Shauryaman had squirmed on the bed a little, the pain from the bruise would flare up if he moved his abdominal muscles even a little bit and he just couldn’t find the correct position to sleep. 

Meenakshi had suddenly rolled over and wrapped a leg over one of his and tucked her head under his chin, trapping him with her weight without touching the inflamed wound at all. 

Her fingers had caressed the bruise from over his t-shirt lightly. 

“I am sorry… I know you were just trying to distract me. I just—”, she whispered quietly in the dark and the sudden apology was more startling than the way she had moulded herself over him. 

“It's okay, angrybird. I’ll consider it payback for all the times I’ve been an ass to you”, he whispered back, stealthily trying to run his fingers through her hair. If she had felt it, she hadn’t stopped him. 

“If it was payback, I should have hit you harder”

“Hey!”

She giggled against his throat and he felt like his heart doing something incredibly goofy like a cartwheel inside his chest. 

They had fallen asleep like that and the next morning, he had stayed in bed till his wife had woken up and deigned to lift herself from over him, grumbling about coffee, some client meeting, her entire body aching and it somehow being his fault and he had just smiled up at the ceiling like an idiot. 

_____________________

One month. 

It took one month of working with Tony Braganza before the summons came. 

Shauryaman had been in some high end gentlemen’s club, watching the newly arrived Prince of Jaipur play polo with Ambani’s son in law. He was bored out of his mind and the only reason he was here was because someone had invited Harshvardhan and the latter had decided to drop it on him. 

“Try not to embarrass me any further”, his father had said and sent him on his merry way like he was still a toddler. 

“Mr. Gaur Jr. I believe”, the man had sidled up to him from somewhere and he pretended to startle. 

“Mr.... should I know your name?”, he smirked at the reedy looking man who smiled at him like he was a retard, from behind his owl rimmed glasses. 

Shauryaman knew him perfectly well. 

The PA of the man he had been trying to meet for the past decade. He was so close now that he could practically taste it. 

The sweet cold flavour of revenge. 

“I am no one of import but my boss definitely is. And he wants to meet you. Heard you helped solve a problem for us in the Andheri project?”

Shauryaman drank the rest of his cognac and grinned. 

“I may have pulled some strings.”

“He is very pleased. How does eight o’clock at the Taj sound?” , the nasally voice had started grating on his ears and he nodded vaguely. 

“I do love their toasties”, he answered, pretending to be busy in the game in front.

“Very good sir. We shall be seeing you”, the man left just as inconspicuously as he had entered.

Talk about feeling like the protagonist of a Bond film. 

‘Oh your employer shall be seeing me much more than he would have ever expected’

___________________

The meeting had gone on for three hours. 

Shauryaman had given the best performance of his life, if he so believed. 

The fisherman had looked convinced enough. 

Tony Braganza had been his usual brand of scarily contemplative and had only added to the conversation whenever absolutely necessary. 

He had recognized at least one supreme court judge, a very famous cardiac surgeon, three industrialists and two IAS officers in the round table. But his attention, like the rest, had solely been on the head of the table. 

He had pretended to be pleasantly tipsy by the end, joking with his neighbours and letting them have their fun at his expense. 

Later, back in his office, he called Akshat again. 

“Oh for god’s sake, now what?”, his friend sounded half dead, no wonder— it had been one in the night but he was topped with enough adrenaline and scotch to rouse the dead. 

“We have hit the jackpot, Chillar. Just came back from a meeting with our target”

“What!”, well now he sounded awake. 

“Yup. Finally. He looks remarkably unremarkable in person, honestly.”

“The most venomous spiders look the least harmful—”

“Don’t I know it…”, he said, almost humorous. 

“What are you planning to do now?”, Akshat Chillar asked, a little warily. 

Shauryaman picked up the second dart and hit it dead center on the photograph in the middle. He had lost count how many times he had perforated that face plastered on the glossy surface of the photo. 

“Now, we wait and I find a way to somehow get my ex’s deity-like husband to commit perjury in court without his knowledge.”

The sigh that came from the other side rang like the last breath of Promestheus after being sentenced to eternal agony by the Olympians. 

“Sometimes I wonder about your sanity, my friend—”

Shauryaman couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping him. Maybe he was really tipsy.

“Isn’t that the million dollar question—” 

___________________

The anniversary party was when it all came to head. 

At least some of it. 

Shauryaman, for the first time in his life, had actually wanted to attend the party. For some reason, people commenting on how handsome they looked together, how pretty his wife was, how lucky he was, was actually making him preen a little inside. 

‘Like, yes, look at her. Can you believe it?’

‘She is gorgeous. She is my wife.’ 

It had been absolutely ridiculous considering there was nothing remotely husband-wife like about their relationship. He had to continuously remind himself that it was a contract at the end and that he was essentially deceiving Meenakshi in a way. 

Even if he wanted to be with her, the foundation of their marriage couldn’t be based on a signed deal and a lie. 

But overtly, at least he could enjoy the charade. 

Meenakshi was looking mesmerizing in that forest green saree and for a second, Shauryaman had almost blurted out the truth. He had wanted to say, ‘you look beautiful’ but that would have been too intimate, too close to the truth, too near to his rotten heart— so he had turned it around slightly and said, ‘good. You look good.’

His wife had returned the compliment, in decent courtesy be it but it had still made his cheeks heat a little. 

And then she had worn the earrings he had given her. She didn’t need to but she did. And it had made something long dead flutter inside his stomach. 

Something he had ruthlessly crushed after Avantika had left his heart mangled and bleeding and splayed all over the floor for everyone to see. 

“Looking gorgeous madam”, he had told her mother instead and Lata Bannerjee had smirked at him reminiscent of her daughter and swatted him away. He had shaken hands with the major, barely managing to stifle his wince at the sheer strength of the man’s hold. 

No father would be too pleased with him anyway and he had slunk away to the bar, letting his wife handle the rest of the guests. 

He had barely taken a sip of the whiskey when his father had come up beside him. 

Harshvardhan Gaur had always had such an intimidating aura surrounding him, it was impossible to feel anything other than small in his presence. Or that could just be the twelve year old inside Shauryaman still waiting outside his father’s study door, hands trembling against the wood. 

They had not conversed much in a way after the Surat plant deal had been lost. 

“It is her night too”, his father said quietly from beside him, not looking at him but rather towards the guests chattering and drinking in front, “try not to ruin it.”

He smiled into the rim of the glass and swallowed the distraught ‘And me? What about me? Do you care about what it means to me?’ with the whiskey. 

“Heard you were seen with Khosla’s daughter in the CJI’s housewarming party. Do you have any shame at all?”, Harshvardhan hissed in between his own sips. 

“Would it matter to you if I answer that question or was it rhetorical?”, he said languidly. The single malt burned his throat. 

“Sometimes I think it was good that your mother died young. She would have been appalled at how you have turned out—”

‘Wow. Low blow, daddy’

Two could play this game. 

“Well the thing is, Mr. Harshvardhan Gaur, if you had prioritized my mother over your precious company for once in your goddamned life, maybe she would have been here to be appalled at my behavior.”

His father’s face twisted in clear hurt but Shauryaman was tired. He kept the glass down and walked towards the kitchen, eager to get out of the sights of their guests and more importantly, of Harshvardhan, before he said something he couldn’t take back again. 

He had not seen the man following him or he would not have chosen to sequester himself away from anyone’s sights. 

The kitchen was mercifully empty— the staff busy catering to their guests' needs. 

Shauryaman braced his hands on the counter table and took deep breaths, trying to control his fury somewhat. The thought of his mother always hurt fiercely. He poured a glass of water and had just brought it to his lips when he felt the presence just behind him.

Years of paranoia and milling about in the seediest parts of town with a dangerous band of rogues would have alerted him of another presence immediately had the ever familiar cologne that always made him gag, hadn’t already.  

He turned around fast enough to give himself whiplash and staggered back till the counter was poking uncomfortably in his lower back. 

Prakhar Sahani was staring at him. 

Gone was the mild mannered pleasant look always plastered on his face and the jocular demeanor that made people want to get close to him. 

He had a macabre look of anger which somehow had turned his usually handsome features into a sore ugliness. 

“You—”, Shauryaman gasped and tried looking over his shoulders for any escape but there was no one. 

“You are testing my patience, kiddo. It is one thing not answering to me and ignoring me in the office, quite another to ignore my phone calls and insult me in front of both of our wives”, he snarled. 

“You stay away from my wife!”, the younger man spat, trying to suppress the hysteria rising inside through brutal force. 

“Hah, she is a pretty little thing but you know I am not interested in her—”, the man had his fingers trailing down Shauryaman’s face and the latter recoiled from the touch like being burned. 

His heart was inside his throat. 

Not here. 

Not inside his home. 

Meenakshi was here. 

Oh god, Meenakshi was just outside—

“I will kill you—”, Shauryaman whispered and scrabbled behind him for something, anything that would protect him from the monster in front and found a handle. 

“You..”, Prakhar laughed and grabbed his waist with a hand, tight enough to make the pain travel like pinpoints through his jacket and shirt, “you are just a silly boy who is still searching for daddy’s approval”

Shauryaman gripped the handle tightly, wincing at the pressure on his waist, stomach roiling in sheer unadulterated fear. 

“You cannot keep doing this for long. One day, I will expose you and that wouldn’t be pretty..”, he tried pushing at him but for all his workouts and training, his strength fell useless in front of trauma. 

He was twelve again. 

And he couldn’t escape the monster in his bed. 

Prakhar Sahani laughed slowly, almost pleased at his sniping. 

“Oh you have grown a few little teeth have you? Don’t worry, I will break them off. Did you forget what I can do to you and your poor dear father? Do you really want that to happen, baby boy?”

Ice smothered his nerves and it was pure desperation that had him slashing the swiss knife he had managed to clutch in the air. Prakhar sprang back with a yelp and a dinner plate that had been balanced precariously on the edge of the sink smashed into pieces on the floor. 

“You come near my family again and I will destroy you!”

Terror and terrible anger had mashed together in a ferocious magma-esque feeling burning him from inside out. He could barely breathe from it, the weapon gripped so hard in his hand he could feel the blade slice into his palm. 

What if he just killed the man, right now. It would be so easy, slash his throat out and watch him gurgle and choke on his own blood on the floor. Watch the light leave his eyes. 

There was a sick fascination in watching something die, wasn’t there?

“Shaurya!”

Meenakshi’s petrified voice was what brought him back to earth. 

Prakhar’s expression changed almost dramatically from that sinister darkness to helpless fear. Shauryaman could not see through the anxiety gripping his chest, his hands were shaking and she was saying something. 

She was right in front of him. 

“---op the knife, please..”

The knife?

Oh, he dropped the knife almost immediately and couldn’t even register the sting of it and the blood that was falling into little droplets on the floor. 

His wife had her back turned to him, talking to Prakhar and—

Oh god, she had seen him. 

She had seen them. 

In that position inside the kitchen, he was two seconds away from actually bringing the knife down on the monster’s face. He didn’t even know when his feet had started moving but before he knew it, he was gone from the kitchen and racing up the staircase. 

Oh god—

__________________________

Meenakshi entered the bedroom, trepidation building inside her chest with every step. 

She had never seen Shauryaman quite that unhinged before. And despite her assurances to Prakhar downstairs, she was wary about the state she would find the other man in.

But whatever she might have envisioned flew swiftly outside the window the moment she spotted him. 

There was a narrow space between the heavy teakwood dresser and the king sized bed inside their bedroom and her husband was tucked right there, on the floor, leaning against the wall, knees drawn close to his own chest. His obsidian eyes were frozen wide on a completely colorless face. 

It was like someone had ripped off an entire layer off him.

He looked painfully defenseless. 

It jolted Meenakshi of her own confusion almost violently. 

“Shaurya!”

He didn’t even react  and she hurried towards him and kneeled in front. He looked like was intentionally trying to make himself appear smaller. Curled into his own body, reducing the surface area for impact. The effect was sickening to look at. 

“Shaurya what..what happened? Are you okay?”, she whispered, her voice automatically lowering like she was trying to soothe a skittish horse. 

Where was the enraged man from the kitchen?

That homicidal rage on his face that transformed into a piercing naked look of absolute blankeness. It was a terrifying to look on someone who had only ever appeared to swing between utter nonchalance and an annoying amount of vanity. 

“Hey..hey..”, she was afraid to touch him so her hands hovered, a hair’s breadth away from his rigid body. 

Shaurya’s eyes seem to focus on her, the pupils still wide like he was high on mushrooms or something. He seemed to drop another six shades if that was even possible and appear starchy, similar to the hospital sheets they put over corpses. 

Meenakshi’s heart was hammering hard enough to probably be audible to all the guests downstairs. 

He opened his mouth, tried speaking but only a helpless sort of gurgling noise seemed to come out before she could see the sweat gathering at the corner of his temples. He was trying to speak but it felt like some invisible ancient force had its paw wrapped around his throat. 

“Shaurya..Shaurya..breathe, it's okay..can I please have your hand? You were bleeding—”, she hadn’t forgotten the unintentional wound he had given himself but his hands were clenched so tight over his own knees, it seemed like she would need a crowbar to pry his fingers off the material of his suit pants. 

She could see the blood seeping in the black fabric making it glisten in the amber lighting of the room. 

“I can’t…”, he managed to whisper, a dry rasp, unbecoming of the arrogant cadence that Shauryaman Gaur was infamously known to possess. 

“Can’t what?”, she asked softly, keeping her hand on his white knuckles grip softly so as to not spook him more. 

“Breathe..”, he wheezed suddenly and she could finally spot the bluish tinge to his veins, popping out in the back, “can’t breathe—”

Then she finally noticed that he was trembling. His entire body had locked up but he was vibrating like a tuning fork. And suddenly it was so very clear what was happening to him that Meenakshi wanted to hit herself for not realising it immediately. 

“You are having a panic attack, sweetheart”, she whispered and held his quaking fingers, trying to pry them off his knee. He was chattering now, nearly on the verge of hyperventilation and he would asphyxiate if he didn’t slow down right now. 

Frantic worry flew through her own veins but she couldn’t let it out. She had to calm him down somehow. 

“Hey..Shaurya, look at me, look at me please… see breathe with me, can you feel my heart?”, she had finally managed to unclasp his own hand and brought it to her chest. He had gripped the silk of her saree on her chest, but it didn’t matter to her, at the moment. 

As long as he could feel her heart beating rhythmically. 

“Try to follow it..mimic it.. there thats good..thats very good, honey..”, the sudden endearments she had never spoken felt as easy as air on her tongue and she patted his shaking hand and scuttled closer to him. 

His breaths were falling shorter but steadier with every second. 

The blood seemed to return to his ashen cheekbones a little. 

He was still too pale for her liking but it was progress. 

She had no idea how long they sat like that, breathing together but finally Shauryaman’s muscles uncoiled and he let a deep audible breath out and seemingly collapsed against the wall, leaving her saree immediately. 

“Can I touch you?”, she asked gently and he looked at her wearily, still unable to speak but nodded imperceptible anyway. 

“Thank you. Your hand please—”, she took his wounded hand. The cut wasn’t too deep but she had to put antiseptic anyway, lest it catches infection. She was about to stand up and move away to get the first aid box when he suddenly grabbed her hand, eyes blowing wide in terror. 

She sank down again and rubbed his hand. 

“I will be right back, sweetie. You are bleeding. Let me get the first aid box, okay..I will be just here..alright? Please?”

He uncurled his fingers but looked miserable and she hated herself a little for prying the rest of his grip away but she had to get him some first aid. She almost slipped on her own saree in her haste to get to the box and bring it back as fast as possible. 

Shauryaman was staring at the ceiling when she had come back and let her do her ministrations without any sound at all. Meenakshi never thought she would miss the whining but at the moment she would take anything as long as he spoke. She put the antiseptic and bandaged his hand tightly. 

“Want to get off the floor?”, she asked but he scuttled back and seemed to lock into himself again. 

“Okay okay..we can sit here too..”, she sat down more comfortably, cross legged and adjusted her pallu. 

“You want to tell me what happened in the kitchen?”

Shauryaman stared through her. It was unnerving. It wasn’t like he couldn’t meet her eyes, more like he didn’t know that he wasn’t. He curved a little over his knees again, looked at the ground and shivered once. 

She could wait. These things took patience. 

He didn’t make her wait too long though. 

“I..just…wanted him to…go away.”

The words were spoken haltingly, like it took extra effort to form the syllables and Meenakshi was intimately aware of trauma. She knew the bone deep exhaustion of coming out from an episode of this severity. 

She had just not expected it out of her husband. 

The words themselves registered only a second later. 

She frowned and tried picturing the scene again in her mind. Shaurya with the knife, Prakhar backing away. It didn’t—

Then it was like a truck hitting her. 

Like lightening striking her. 

Her head spun. 

She could barely breathe through the sudden jolt of horror that filled inside her synapses like crystallised ice. All the disjointed scenes between the wizened CEO of Gaur Constructions and its heir, the moments where he deliberately ignored him, walked right in the opposite direction on seeing him approach, the way he had screamed bloody murder that evening when she had called them—

The moment in the kitchen, blade drawn again— it was not the anger of a predator wanting to cut down a rival in his territory. It was the desperate fury of a prey having been cornered with no escape. 

Her husband wasn't angry at seeing Sahani. He was terrified. 

And suddenly like a blazing light being thrown in the darkened corner of a room, everything became so crystal clear that it hurt her eyes. 

The scenes were all coloured wrong in her mind. 

The wine bottle slamming down on the table, followed the tremor of his hand that she had noticed but forgotten in her own rage, the uncontrollable shaking in the kitchen hadn’t been maniacal murderous wrath but absolute unadulterated terror. 

Meenakshi knew this kind of fear. 

She was a woman after all. 

And unfortunately every woman genetically is born knowing this kind of terror. 

The realisation came with a sudden surge of acute nausea and she had to clasp her hand on her mouth trying to force the bile back inside. 

The times she had laughed with Prakhar Sahani, eaten food with the man, let her hug him—

She clutched her head and crushed her eyes closed and counted till ten. 

When she opened her eyes, Shauryaman was looking at her, this time the fear on his face was different. This one was borne out of something else. The primal feeling of shame that afflicted the mind like a jailor keeping him captive in a quagmire of guilt. 

“Did he hurt you?”, she asked, voice nearly gone at the force of her own guilt. 

His face lost whatever color it had gained again. He was holding her hand suddenly, a violent desperation in the sudden strength of his grip. 

“Please.. You can’t tell anyone.. You can’t. He will destroy the company. He will.. You can’t—”, his breaths were falling faster again and she could practically taste the anxiety blowing up again. 

She removed his grip with deadly force and wrapped her arms around his shaking body. She had pulled him down to fit the crook of her neck, his hands were spasming on her back and she swallowed the lump stuck in her throat painfully. 

“Did. He. Hurt. You?”, she gripped him tighter, trying to physically force his body to calm down through her own. 

He whimpered against her neck. A sound she wouldn’t have known, he could make. 

And that was answer enough. 

The nausea had brought with it a blinding rage. She could practically feel it beating inside her throat. She wanted to smash something, destroy the entire room. Go back to the gym and tear the punching bags open. 

“Sweetheart..listen to me. He won’t hurt you again, okay. He will never hurt you again. I will kill him. I will drag him out by his fucking throat and rip his fucking dick off—”

‘Breathe, breathe, you can’t lose control, not now, not here, not yet—’

“No!”, he cried out suddenly and pulled himself away. 

His eyes were wild under his disheveled hair. He looked painfully young. 

“What—”, she began but he held her hands desperately. 

“Promise me. You won’t go after him!”

“But—”

“Meenakshi, I am begging you. No! No please. I can’t take it if he— you won’t go after him. Just promise me. Now. Do it”

“Okay..okay, calm down please”, she rubbed his nape and he dropped his head into the crook of her neck, tired, suddenly falling weightless in her hold. 

Evidently the last bout of excitement had been enough on his nerves. 

“Lets get you to the bed, okay?”, she distangled herself from him and pulled him up by his waist. He was like a ragged limp doll, letting her maneuver him in whichever way he desired. 

She was feeling sick. 

She set him on the bed and pulled his jacket and his shoes off and then drew the covers over him. She would have helped him undress, get him into something more comfortable but he deserved whatever dignity was left. 

Shauryaman tugged at her hand weakly, looking up at her through half lidded eyes. He was clearly drowsy. His mind shutting down in self defence, letting his body rest forcefully if anything. It was common after a panic attack of such proportions. 

Meenakshi sat down on the edge of the bed, beside him and saw her husband curl around her body like he was unconsciously trying to seek her warmth. She felt her eyes burn and hesitantly placed a hand over his forehead. 

When he didn’t recoil, she let her fingers rake through his hair in a long forgotten rhythm she remembered her mother used to do when she would fall sick as a little girl. 

He had closed his eyes but kept holding onto her hand. 

“Why didn’t you just tell me? That evening when I called him…”, she whispered thickly, unable to let the consequences of her ignorance leave her mind, try as she might. 

For a moment she thought he had fallen asleep.

But then he answered. His voice was so low she had to bend down to hear the sleep softened words. 

“I didn’t think you would believe me..papa didn’t. Who would believe me..”

And then he opened his eyes slightly again, a small frown of consternation darkening his face and he tried squeezing her fingers with whatever strength was left in his body. 

“I am sorry. I ruined your evening—”

Meenakshi wanted to laugh. But it came out like a sob. And before she knew what she was doing, she bent down and pressed her lips on his temple. He fluttered his eyes shut again and she kissed his forehead and then the corner of his eye, blotting the tear he probably didn’t realise had escaped. 

It was like she had forgotten everything. The hate she had felt for the man, at the early days of her marriage, now curled around her like a caterpillar. The absolutely disgusting notions she had about him and more importantly, the detached nonchalance at his existence. 

At this moment she felt like someone had torn her heart out of her chest and stamped on it for good measure. 

Her own tears slid down her face into his temple as she pressed her forehead against the skin there and struggled to breathe through the guilt and the anger and the regret and the absolute soul shattering horror that was bubbling in her blood. 

Twelve. 

He had been twelve. 

The way Prakhar Sahani had looked at Pauravi Gaur’s picture that day in the lobby and the way he seemed to defend Shauryaman to everyone— it was all so twisted she wanted to vomit. 

She had promised her husband that she won’t go after him and she will honor that despite her better judgement and an intense desire to shoot the bastard in the face but he will not step inside their home again. 

Not as long as she was in this house. 

Never again. 

_______________________

Meenakshi stormed out of the room, after making sure Shauryaman was fast asleep. 

She could see their guests chattering happily from the balustrade above. She could see Prakhar Sahani laughing aloud near the bar, encircled by a group of admirers as usual, Harshvardhan leaning aside on the bartop, chuckling with his friend. 

It sent a pure white heated rage through her entire body. 

How dare he!

How fucking dare he stand in her home after what he had done to her husband!

How fucking—

Even before she was aware of what she was doing, she had plucked off a champagne flute from the tray kept on the server’s desk and smashed it on the ground, shocking everyone into complete silence. 

There was a foggy haze of crimson that had curtained her eyes. 

She could barely breathe with all the rage ballooning inside herself. She had no idea when she had already reached the bartop. She hadn’t noticed the way her parents were trying to catch her eye, she hadn’t noticed her father in law calling out to her, confused at the sudden diametric transformation in her countenance.

She was locked onto her target like a missile in the air. 

Meenakshi felt the awareness come back to her a little when she felt the sting of her skin splitting and the ensuing tingle of the impact rattling her entire right arm after she had already bashed her knuckles inside that monster’s face. 

The alarmed gasps of the guests and the horrified shriek of Leena Sahani barely fazed her. 

“Get the fuck out of my house!”

She had snarled viciously. 

“What the hell! Have you gone mad?”, someone, maybe Harshvardhan or her own father or maybe another of the older men in the company cried out horrified. 

She didn’t care. 

She wanted them out. All of them. The entire party of glittering clowns hiding their teeth behind their plastic smiles and false wishes. 

“Get out!”

She screamed again, sounding a little unhinged herself. 

“All of you! Out of my house!”, she snapped. 

Harshvardhan was trying to lift his barely conscious friend from the ground with the help of the latter’s wife, throwing horrified and enraged glances at her. From a third person’s perspective, she had indeed done something completely crazy. 

But she cared not, for anything at the moment. 

“Meena, what have you done? Why did you hit Mr. Sahani?”, her mother’s sharp hiss of disbelief got Meenakshi to observe how everyone else was mumbling amongst themselves, throwing her wide eyed glances. 

Why were they all here again?

She plucked off the whiskey decanter from the bartop and threw it with all her might on the opposite wall, narrowly missing the head of a poor bartender making everyone jump and finally cry out in restrained fear. 

“Didn’t you hear me? The party's over! Get moving. Chop chop!”, she showed them the way quite disrespectfully and completely uncharacteristic of her usual poise. 

“She has gone mad..”

“Is she drunk?”

“I think her husband has started to rub off on her—”

“This is what happens when you have too much money…”

The guests had reluctantly started filing out of the hall, clutching their pearls and their spouses hands. The servants that had been startled into inaction, started helping them out as if catching onto her unspoken command. 

This would definitely make headlines tomorrow in some tabloid gossip columns. 

Meenakshi Gaur, loses her mind, knuckle punches the CEO of Gaur Constructions and threatens her guests on the day of her first wedding anniversary. 

Fantastic. 

The stock prices of Laconte might take a drop. 

But Meenakshi didn’t care. 

She didn’t care about her parents still trying to prod her for what had happened or Prakhar Sahani giving her a nasty yet chillingly calm look or Harshvardhan half furic and half befuddled, trying to help the former with a handkerchief which was now drenched in blood. 

“I am so sorry, Prakhar, I don’t know why she did this.. I..”, Harshvardhan sounded genuinely distraught as his friend shook him off, muttering, “its okay”s under his breath. 

Meenakshi wanted to drop kick him. 

“I was only trying to help you and your husband, Meenakshi. You should have realised that instead of acting so irrationally”, Prakhar said, through a blotted muffled nose, having been seated on the chair, his wife and friend had helped him into. 

Oh this right fucking manipulative bastard. 

Her hands were itching for another punch but she restrained herself. 

“You, so much as breathe the same air as Shaurya again and I will kill you myself!”, she growled like a hunting lioness. 

“Meenakshi!”, Harshvardhan snapped angrily, “be in your limits. Has that boy filled his nonsense in your head too? What the hell are you—”

“The only reason he is still breathing is because of something your son refuses to tell me, and you”, she whirled around, that still scorching rage directed at her father in law, “you should be fucking ashamed of yourself!”

“Meenu—”, she ignored her father’s warning.  

“He was a child! He was just a boy and you should have protected him! You are his father! You should have—”, she shut up remembering the horror struck expression on Shauryaman’s face and his desperate plea for her to not pursue this. 

She gritted her teeth and swallowed the rest of the words in. 

“Protected him from what? What are you even saying—”, Harshvardhan shouted incredulously. 

“Why don’t you ask your dear friend!”, she snapped, “now get out of my house, all of you!”

Riddhiman seemed to have broken out of his baffled stupor and tugged at his wife’s arm and turned to Harshvardhan and Prakhar, the latter was staring at Meenakshi almost daringly, half his face hidden behind the sodden hanky. 

“Mr. Gaur, I think it's best we leave right now. Mr. Sahani needs medical attention. I will talk to my daughter later—”

Meenakshi bristled at that. It was like her father was saying he will school his errant child after the adults are gone. 

But at least she got to kick that monster out of her home, this way. 

Riddhiman and Harshvardhan supported Prakhar on his way out. And only then did Meenakshi realise that Mrs. Sahani was staring at her but instead of the humiliated anger and horror she was expecting, there was almost a knowing melancholy on her lean face. 

‘Oh so you knew too, didn’t you? Why didn’t you say something, you cowardly woman!’, she wanted to scream at her. 

But alas, Meenakshi knew all too well to spot the signs of abuse in someone. 

Years of psychological trauma left marks on a person’s face. 

Shauryaman had hidden them behind a livid arrogance and devil may care persona and Leena Sahani had hidden behind servile submission and isolation. 

Meenakshi just shook her head in defiance and turned away, letting the poor woman follow the others out. 

“I hope he is worth the mess you have just made”, her mother’s parting words reverberated in the empty hall which now bore witness to the aftermath of a simple anniversary party that ended up in blood spilled. 

Meenakshi huffed, stared at the broken glass, spilled whiskey and the blood staining the marble and walked up the staircase at a more sedate pace. 

The rage had left a suffocating grief behind and she didn’t know how to grapple with it. 

_________________________

Shauryaman woke up with a start. 

It had been a dreamless sleep. 

The heavy kind of slumber that left you feeling discombobulated even hours after waking up. The room was still dark and somehow he knew that it was still night outside. There was only the sound of the air conditioning and the soft rhythmic breaths of another person audible. 

He turned slightly and was rewarded with the sight of his wife, deep in sleep, her hair splayed on the white pillow covers almost like a halo. She was turned towards him, chest rising and falling softly under her cotton nightshirt. 

He realised that she had her fingers entangled with his on the covers in between. 

It made something ache sweetly inside his chest. 

She had believed him. 

He hadn’t even had to say much or justify himself. She had believed him. She had not turned him away, or looked at him with disgust or worse— pity. 

She had been angry, instead. 

On his behalf. 

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been angry on his behalf. Or hold him like that. Like she wanted to be the physical barrier protecting him from all the evils in the world. A human armour. 

He remembered the fragrance of her perfume, the hint of vanilla and neroli oranges in her skin where he had dug his nose, the touch of her fingers through his hair. If he imagined hard enough he could sense the slight affection. 

There was an odd pressure, like a feather on certain places on his face. 

He didn’t know from what but it was pleasing. 

Very pleasing. 

He wanted to turn around and fall back asleep, maybe brave the distance a little and snuggle against her side. She looked so inviting, her posture so much more open than usual. 

She would indulge him tonight, wouldn’t she? Just for tonight? He could resume the act tomorrow, right?

But something was niggling at the back of his mind. 

He certainly wasn’t a clairvoyant but it wouldn’t do to ignore such strong intuition for so long. So he turned to the other side, gently disentangling his fingers and picked out his mobile from the side table. 

It was vibrating.

The caller id was unknown. 

Shauryaman wanted to put it back down but that feeling of wrongness wouldn’t let him. He picked up the call instead and the other line crackled with a very familiar if, somewhat afraid, voice. 

“Hello? Mr. Gaur? I..you said to call if—”

“Soma?”

He sat up straight, adrenaline building up immediately, all thoughts of sleep and softness having flown from his mind. 

“Sir, he contacted me again last night. He was furious, demanding to know who I was talking to. I think he might know it's me—”

Shauryaman repressed the urge to laugh like a lunatic with much difficulty. 

Ten fucking years. 

I have you now, bastard!

“The Swandive. Meet me there”, he whispered hastily on the phone and slid out of the covers, almost tripping over his own feet in hurry. 

“Now?”, came the incredulous voice from the other side. 

“Right the fuck now, Mittal. And please don’t get killed on the way. His men might be on watch”, he hissed and cut the call. 

Suddenly Meenakshi turned in her sleep, sighing and Shauryaman froze. She was on her back now, still dead to the world. He hoped her dreams were sweeter than her reality was going to be in a few hours. 

A sudden pang of vicious regret went through his heart. 

He wished—

He wished for so many things. 

Shauryaman bent down as noiselessly as he could and gingerly pressed his lips on her forehead. She didn’t stir and he mentally apologized to her. 

Amongst all the actors and pawns in this game, she had always been the uncounted variable. 

He hadn’t expected her. 

But the game was already set. 

And now it was time to burn the entire fucking board down and all Shauryaman could do was pray that she would be the only one escaping unscathed. 

The wedding had been covered extensively by every known and quite a few internationally accoladed magazines and media outlets, rivalling the popularity and coverage of some of the biggest celebrity weddings the state has ever seen. 

After all, it wasn't everyday that two of the country’s richest business families were joined in holy matrimony. 

The Gaurs had been big names in the construction business spanning three generations, having had extensive contracts from the Indian government and quite a few private clients spread worldwide. 

The Bannerjees came from aristocracy— their ancestors having started the silk and textile trade dating back to the time when the Mughals had outposts in ancient Bengal. Now their business interests had spread towards various concerns, the biggest being private shipping and transport. 

The wedding brought forth an alliance that would strengthen a hundred crore deal between the two corporate giants and thus had been the talk of the town and of financial experts and political analysts for weeks preceding the ceremony. 

And if that wasn’t reason for scrutiny enough, the bride and groom themselves have been in the crosshairs of tabloid gossip for years— if only for slightly differing reasons. 

Shauryaman Gaur— the heir to the Gaur millions had made headlines often, especially for all the wrong reasons. A notorious womanizer, infamous for his devil may care attitude, wild parties and lavishly excessive lifestyle was only tempered with a surprisingly brief stint as a lawyer in a well known law firm that has been celebrated for taking up a lot of pro bono work in addition to a few high profile patronage.

His disbarment had been quite a scandal, though no one knew what the charges brought had been, due to it being a closed court hearing and the records had been sealed.  

Meenakshi Bannerjee— the chief liaison officer, has been, since the time she debuted in her father’s company— Laconte, infamous in the business world for being recklessly ambitious and quite cutthroat. Under her direction, the company had tripled its profits in the last two quarters, if only through ruthless hostile takeovers and ingenious strategic overhauls. She was known to be razor mouthed and a firebrand. 

They had made quite the controversial, yet a pretty handsome couple— and aided with the added aesthetics that only an obscene amount of wealth could provide and a star studded guestlist that could rival the premiers of a few countries— what more was needed for the public to gush over them?

This sham of a marriage that had looked so gorgeous and dreamy on the papers whose bedrock was a contract signed by two old men seated in a boardroom was just as empty as the magnificent horizon of the city of dreams as it shielded its dirty underbelly from view. 

The sheer deception of the entire charade at playing happy families and newly wedded bliss for the cameras was as tiring as the heavy set crimson lehenga wrapped around her body. 

Meenakshi wouldn’t call herself particularly beautiful. 

But she wasn’t as modest as to not realise that she did turn quite a few heads when she wanted. Her body was a result of years of rigorous discipline and carefully crafted regimens and she had inherited her mother’s large hazel eyes and her wavy rich raven hair that reached her curved waist and her father’s aquiline nose on an oval face. 

She was fairly tall and her skin was the colour of milk stirred with honey. 

All the gold she had been layered with was pinching her uncomfortably and she wanted to get out of this jewellery induced torture trap yesterday and run her fingers through her itchy hair that had been set to almost stone with all that ridiculous hair spray. 

And didn’t anyone tell the stylist that she absolutely despised the scent of roses? 

The things one has to do to keep up appearances.

She could see her reflection on the glass in front,  a little of the vermillion staining the partition of her hair had fallen on her nose, that apparently no one had cared to clean off or even point out to her.

Tradition bespoke of how if the sindoor fell on your nose, it meant your husband would love you more.

Hah! 

Meenakshi wanted to balk. 

Who even writes all this bogus shit—

“Keep staring at the glass a little harder and I swear it will crack.”

Shauryaman Gaur had stepped inside the room and was now lounging on the other side of the decorated bed, hands folded behind his bed, posture laconic and unbothered like he was the pinnacle of nonchalance, his lithe ripped limbs were splayed like that of a big graceful cat on the white sheets. 

In this way, his cream sherwani was stretched across the surprising breadth of his shoulders and chest, exposing the clean lines of his trim waist and sharp hips. There was that annoying strand curled over his dark lustrous eyes, having escaped the confines of his styled inky hair. 

And that ever perennial smirk had marred his chiselled face, pulling his slim lips down in a half mocking, half amused way. 

Now Meenakshi would have considered her newly wedded husband to be quite a strikingly attractive man had he not made her want to punch him in that handsome face whenever he opened his mouth. 

She had had the privilege of meeting Shauryaman Gaur once before the wedding, for a measly two hours when the marriage contract had been finalised by their respective team of lawyers, and she had gritted her teeth throughout. 

“Heard you were in the military Major sahab, should I expect your daughter to be a drill sergeant?”, he had thrown at her father, an icy note hidden in the otherwise mockingly jocular tone of his surprisingly gravelly voice. 

She had barely held back from launching straight at the man swinging like a five year old on his chair, sassing everyone in sight every two seconds, with the cavalier arrogance of a God looking down on ants. 

But she had given just as good as she had got. 

“Heard you used to be a lawyer once, Gaur sahab, was your impeccable behaviour the reason they disbarred you?”, she had asked sweetly from behind her own gucci sunglasses. The hangover had been shitty, like a hammer drilling inside her head. 

She had drunk half her weight in vodka when her beloved mother had told her that she was getting married. 

Shauryaman had grinned at that, his eyes invisible under the chocolate colored glasses but there was something nasty in the curve of that mouth. He hadn’t seemed particularly bothered about what was being put in the papers, or that his marriage was being fixed right in front of him. 

Donned in a black shirt and dark jeans and dark brown aviators which definitely hid his own hangover from the previous night, he seemed too busy playing candy crush on his phone than focus on the prenup that was being signed. 

If not for his father, leveling a half disgusted look at his useless son, and their head lawyer— she could have easily taken him to the cleaners in case of a divorce. 

Meenakshi couldn’t figure out whether the man was so completely detached from any kind of seriousness or was he really that dumb— a typical rich spoiled brat. 

He had barely looked at her face, even when she had effectively poured salt over a visible wound. And yet he had successfully managed to rile her up enough to have her storm through everyone like a rampaging tornado for two days straight. 

Her father, bless the man, had actually considered not getting her married, but then, that decision had been out of his hands anyway. The board’s majority shares were held by her mother, a ruthless financial analyst and twice as ambitious as her daughter. 

Lata Bannerjee was a shark that even Major Riddhiman Bannerjee, famously monikered the Bengal tiger, a retired Indian Airforce officer himself and current business mogul, feared a healthy dose. 

“I mean, if you want to break the glass, be my guest, there is a hammer somewhere in the toolshed. I can ask the servants to fetch it for you—”

It was with a sisyphean effort that Meenakshi resisted the urge to turn around and throw the glass of half filled whiskey that she had been gripping for dear life, right on his stupid face. 

She was taught to be more civilized than that even if the person in front deserved a face full of shattered glass. 

Instead she downed the alcohol like a shot in one smooth gulp, enjoying the smooth burn of it sliding past her throat and turned around. He had raised a sculpted eyebrow at her less than ladylike behaviour but that irritating smirk hadn’t left his face. 

Well, if he was expecting a sweet servile tradwife he was in for a rude awakening. 

“Okay, ground rules”, she spat, ignoring the deliberate baiting while unhooking the million pins from her hair to pull off the veil. 

He raised both his eyebrows at that and fuck, how was his face so expressive anyway?

“I don’t give a damn about you—”

“Ouch”, he put a hand on his chest like she had shot him point blank even if his pupils had turned darker than those usual pits of volcanic ash— if that was even possible. 

“And you don’t give a damn about me—”, she continued unperturbed by his dramatic expressions. 

“Not true”, his smirk was disgustingly lascivious as he roved his eyes all over her body like he was appraising her and Meenakshi was debating the finer points of domestic violence. 

“Shut up and listen. I will lead my own life and you can carry on crawling through whichever gutter you find. I don’t care how many women you fuck as long as you don’t bring them to my home. You don’t question me ever and I won’t poke my nose in your business— understood?”

He was staring at her unreadably now. 

She wished she could crack his skull open and see if there was anything present between those ears or was he just existing on the mercy of his outer shell, no matter how lovely looking. 

How had the man even passed the bar examination? 

Maybe his daddy had lined some pockets somewhere along the way—

No wonder he got disbarred. 

“You don’t care if I fuck other women?”, he asked finally. 

“I don’t care period”, she had finally managed to unhook the heavy necklace from around her throat. 

“Does that mean, you will fuck other men?”, that damning eyebrow was back near that envious hairline. Meenakshi’s blood was already simmering and this was like striking a match against raw phosphorus. 

“Like I said, I won’t question you and you won’t question me”, she said between gritted teeth and tugged off her gold bangles viciously. 

“Does that mean, we will fuck?”, that smirk was back on his lips and she finally noticed his cheeks had a slight impression of dimples on either side. 

“I will cut off your dick if you bring it anywhere close to me”, Meenakshi warned, holding the hair pin like a blade towards him, kohl lined eyes pouring fire, “and is sex all you can think about?”

Shauryaman shrugged and leaned back down on the pillows as if it was a moot point. 

“You are undressing after all. I was just making sure.”

“I am undressing because this stupid dress is fucking suffocating, not because I want to be anywhere near you”, she sighed and opened her nose ring and kept it on the side table and eyed him skeptically, “I’m honestly suprised you even asked. I was expecting to have to fight you off…in fact I was almost waiting for it.”

The idea of knocking the daylights out of Shauryaman Gaur with an elbow to that sharp nose shouldn’t be as tempting as it was sounding. 

She had been expecting to see him smirk at her in that disgustingly attractive way again only to see his expression shuttering off. For the first time since they had met, he looked disgruntled. His eyes had hardened like chips of coal and for the first time, Meenakshi felt like there was something under that seemingly unbothered exterior after all. 

The scent of danger repressed so tightly under pretentious charm and feigned harmlessness that it was almost a static presence under her tongue. 

He was pissed. 

“No matter what you may have heard about me, wife— I don’t rape women. They fall at my feet consensually.”

There was a strange note in his voice that she couldn’t decipher and neither did she want to at the moment. Every playboy she had met had said the same thing. Only they mistook drunken and drugged disorientation as consent as well. 

Men will be men and disgusting pigs. 

She forcefully suppressed the urge to shiver at the dark cadence of his tone. She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. 

“You know what, husband?”, she said brightly instead, “I don’t care. I need to sleep. Stay on your side”, she warned and started rummaging through the wardrobe for her night clothes that the housekeeping staff had mercifully arranged for her from her innumerable suitcases. 

Shauryaman peeled himself off the bed and seemingly took a few to steady himself. The sudden palpable tension in the air had vanished again. 

He was clearly drunk just like she had expected.

She wished she could drink herself to oblivion as well and just forget about everything for one night. 

“I will get out of your hair”, her husband mumbled discombobulated and surprisingly enough staggered out of their bedroom slowly. 

“Good riddance”, she muttered. 

“I heard that!”, he hollered from outside. 

“You were meant to!”, she snarled back and then smirked at the muffled curse she heard that echoed off the staircase. 

The bed was calling to her and Meenakshi Bannerjee Gaur decided she could figure out the semantics of living with an asshole for a husband without losing her sanity or committing murder, later. 

___________________

Meenakshi had adjusted to married life as well as can be expected. It also helped that Shauryaman seemed to have taken her conditions to heart and was happy enough to avoid her and continue with his whorish partying ways as usual. 

They barely saw each other, orbiting their shared life like two planets unwilling to collide lest the black hole created would suck them both in as a result. 

Sometimes they saw each other, mainly at the dining table, even then, they mostly ate in silence, her busy in her tablet, steeped in work and him, usually picking at his food like a bird. Meenakshi wondered whether that is how he maintained his girlish figure or did he have an eating disorder— not that she cared. 

It could very well be that he had already eaten outside with his friends. Or whatever he called that band of vain hooligans he went around with. 

She had had reservations about sleeping on the same bed, lest he tries something but that was soon negated as most of the times, their schedules barely matched to coincide lying on the bed together let alone sleeping. Meenakshi would sleep late and wake up really early, go for her morning run around the property, finish her workout in the gym, have her breakfast and then leave for her office. 

Shauryaman, she knew would come in, even later, long after she had already fallen asleep and sometimes he never even came back home, spending the night in someone else’s bed in all probability and would wake up really late, around noon and then get out of the house by evening. 

That was not to say that their paths never crossed. 

One day, Meenakshi had come panting from her morning run, wiping her neck with a microfibre towel as she barked the morning’s agenda to her PA on her wireless earbud, pushing open the glass double doors of the gym only to find her husband running on the treadmill. 

Shauryaman seemed lost to the world outside of his earphones, running with surprising form and the controlled power of trained athletes, his eyes fixed on the glass in front, overlooking the brilliant landscape of their posh locality in Malabar Hill. 

He had seemed very far away to her. 

And if the sudden and unexpected sight of seeing the other man awake at this hour, no less working out, was shocking, he was wearing nothing except a pair of grey sweats. He had a small towel, similar to her own, hung around his neck. 

His torso was completely bare. 

And for the life of her, Meenakshi couldn’t look away. She had stopped talking midway leaving her poor unaware assistant hanging on the other side. 

She knew Shauryaman was fit enough and had a lean build but she had never seen him without his clothes. The muscles stretched wiry and ripped all over his back and chest, mapping over taut, glistening and tanned skin were like a display of the most scandalous works of Michelangelo himself. 

The man was carved like fine chisel and not a hint of any alcohol induced puffiness was in sight. He had dark hair lining his chest muscles and abs and those long ripped archer’s arms. 

No wonder women kept throwing themselves at him, despite his rakish ways. 

She may have gawked at him for too long because she had missed the smirk that had painted his face in knowing vanity. 

“Like what you see?”

His voice had lowered three registers, almost feeling like a velvet purr against her skin and she had straightened like being electrocuted and turned around while closing the open line on her earbuds with a hasty tap. 

Her face was smoking and she would die before she let him see it. 

“Keep dreaming”, she spat and leaned back on the weights bench. 

Shauryaman had grinned at her, turning to face her finally, switching the machine off and patting the sweat collected on the hollow of his throat and collarbones with the towel. 

“You don't want to know my dreams”, he had drawled in that syrupy voice. 

“No. I don’t. Now if you will excuse me”, she had said, trying to block off his suddenly magnetic presence as she focussed on the burn of her muscles while lifting the weights. 

“Such a prude, Mrs. Gaur”, he had whispered mockingly and sauntered off and thank god for that or else he would have had the next weight flung at his face. 

If Meenakshi had surreptitiously tried to check him out as he had come back down, bathed and covered in a white shirt and grey suit pants, no one had to know except her own guilty mind.

She must have been on her cycle. 

____________________

It had taken Meenakshi not very long to fit into the hierarchy of the upper management in Gaur Constructions. The company board had welcomed her according to their deal and she now owned fifteen percent stakes in all their businesses as her husband did in Laconte. 

Her company name had come from the French multibillionaire who had partnered with her great grandfather to bring the textile giant into the international market in the early 1900s in British occupied India. 

Harshvardhan Gaur, her father in law was a hard taskmaster as she had understood but he was also quite a respected figure in the business world. His name meant something to the rich and affluent in Mumbai. He also had extensive political alliances and very deep pockets. 

And he seemed to like her well enough. 

He had introduced her to the top brass so to speak. 

“We pride ourselves on the quality of our service and our business relationships just as much, if not more than the profits. For generations, Gaur Constructions has been the face of reliability in the construction business as well as our innumerable real estate projects”, Harshvardhan had said, the pride for his company clear in his voice. 

“We appreciate your brand of ambition quite some bit too. I hope you will find working with us just as rewarding”, he had concluded as she had been ushered inside the glittering reception area of their chrome and glass tombed corporate headquarters. 

“Harsh is being a stuck-up, my dear. Don’t listen to him, we are essentially a family. Have you heard of the time your father in law and I had been suspended from college for throwing an illegal rave? His father had to beg the DIG to throw that case away—”

Prakhar Sahani, the CEO and Harshvardhan Gaur’s oldest friend and closest confidante was one of the majority shareholders of the company. He seemed diametrically opposite to the stern MD of the Gaur Constructions, indulging more in humour and jest and had an all rounding cheery personality. 

He had taken Meenakshi under his wing, educating her on the informal politics of the corporation and the day to day workings of their offices. He also had the best stories, one more ludicrous than the other making her laugh at his brilliant way of spinning a tale. 

Everyone liked him. 

Amongst her new family’s friends and business associates, Meenakshi liked Prakhar Sahani the best 

Harshvardhan seemed to open up around him the most too. 

“Don’t listen to the ridiculous tales he spins. It's grossly exaggerated—”, the older man had laughed and thrown an arm around his sniggering friend. 

“Lies and slander. I say the truth. Nothing but the truth, my lady”, Prakhar had guffawed. 

“You two seem close..”, Meenakshi had remarked later to her father in law. 

“He is my brother. The one man who has held me up in some very dark times”, Harshvardhan’s eyes were like his son’s. Dark and seemingly fathomless, his skin wrinkled from age but still tough along that sharp jawline hidden behind a shock of salt and pepper stubble. 

Harshvardhan Gaur must have been quite a handsome man in his prime. 

“And, Meenakshi”, he had opened the door of her car, very chivalrously. She could see why the media had such a kind opinion of the billionaire industrialist. He reminded her a little bit of her own father with those straight backed shoulders and severe yet gentle eyes. 

“Yes sir?”

“Call me Papa”

She had smiled at him. 

“Call me Akshi then…Papa”

Prakhar Sahani seemed to wield most of the company’s onsite operations with his team. He was also spectacularly well liked in the community, Meenakshi had observed. Involved in many philanthropic institutions, he seemed to live a very simple life himself. A modest apartment in Bandra— well as modest as it goes for the people of their economic stature. 

But his lifestyle was more understated than anyone would expect. 

There was also the matter of the fact that for some reason, he seemed like the only one in the entire board who seemed to actually care for Shauryaman. 

Or that could just be loyalty towards his friend— to look after his son’s interests even if Shauryaman himself didn’t seem all that interested in the company he might one day inherit. 

That is if the board doesn’t kick him out before. 

____________________

“He was supposed to be here today!”, one of the board member’s raged and Harshvardhan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Javed, seriously, cut the man some slack. You know how Shaurya is— he will get here”, Prakhar tried smoothening over ruffled feathers but to no avail. 

“It is a shareholders’ meeting, Mr. Gaur. If your son ever wishes to take the reins of this organization, he has to learn the meaning of responsibility—”, another one had piped up. 

Meenakshi was feeling second hand embarrassment for her father in law. But before she could steer the conversation in her direction and hopefully appease the enraged investors, there was her husband, sliding inside the room, dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, his sunglasses hanging from the opening at his collar, completely unbothered about the tension gathering like storm clouds abovehead. 

The man couldn’t have dressed more casually even if he had wanted to. 

“Morning everyone… or is it afternoon? Sorry, I lost track of time”, he said and dropped on a seat beside his father. 

By the white knuckled grip Harshvardhan had on the table, Meenakshi knew he was two seconds away from blowing a gasket. Meenakshi could commiserate. She wanted to bang her head on the table, herself. 

“Shaurya! There you are! Where were you? The meeting was due to start an hour and a half ago!”, Prakhar exclaimed but sounded relieved. 

Shauryaman completely ignored the older man and put one leg over the other, like it was his living room and threw his hands around in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. It was inherently disrespectful and seemed completely on brand for him. 

Her father in law looked like he had sucked on a lemon. 

Which seemed to be his go to reaction whenever faced with his son. 

“The meeting has concluded. The vote is supposed to occur now”, one of them said with gritted teeth. 

“What vote?”

His eyes were already unfocused and trained behind on the glass, like he couldn’t even be bothered to look anyone in the face. He looked spectacularly bored. 

“The vote on whether to give the contract of our cement plants to Arcelor-Mittal— did you even read the documents we sent?”

Evidently he hadn’t, if one went by his clueless face. Meenakshi wanted to groan. 

“I vote that we should go with them solely because I hate the other guy…whasisname Jindal”, he concluded and then suddenly got up like he remembered he had to be somewhere else, post haste. 

“Well then, you have my vote gentlemen, adios”

“Shaurya wait. We have to discuss the financials and the—”

“I am sure you can do it on your own, Akshat. Or do you need me to hold your hand?”

Their CFO shut his mouth and scowled darkly as Shauryaman gallivanted off just like he had entered. The silence in the room was so painful in the aftermath that Meenakshi had to resist the urge to crack a joke if only to somehow bring the simmering tempers down. 

“That's it. I am out”

Javad Khosla, one of their biggest investors, proclaimed suddenly and left his seat. 

“Javed—”, Harshvardhan tried intervening but the older man was already storming away, face red with humiliated rage. 

“Your son cannot respect us enough to even give us the time of day and you expect me to invest in a company that would probably go to him!”

Meenakshi had heard the last vestiges of Harshvardhan trying to placate the man as they walked off followed by the rest of the board in a more sedate pace. 

The vote remained hanging as they couldn’t proceed without Khosla’s support. A good deal was squandered and she could mentally calculate a staggering five percent loss in the current project because of the now indefinite hiatus on the cement supply.  

All because her husband had been an arrogant ass. 

She wanted to kill someone. 

Prefarably, him. 

“He is..difficult, Akshi. But not a bad man”, Prakhar’s sudden whisper had brought her violently back from her homicidal thoughts. They had been standing in the main lobby. 

She had no idea when the older man had found her. 

“I— I just don’t understand why Papa tolerates his nonsense, Prakhar uncle. That was completely disgraceful”, she retorted, irritated. 

“Shaurya..has had a hard childhood”, the older man seemed thoughtful, “Harsh— I love that man like a brother but he has his own faults. And Shaurya..he wasn’t like this before, you know. He was quite a sweet child. Then his mother died and—”

The older man stopped himself as if overcome with some invisible force. 

Meenakshi turned and looked up at the wall as if on cue. There was an enlarged black and white picture of a woman hung artistically all over its expanse, visibly immediately to anyone entering the reception. 

It was quite a sentimental tribute Harshvardhan Gaur had given to his late wife. 

Theirs had been a love story for the ages. 

Pauravi had come from a very modest family, not belonging to the Gaurs’ social class at all. Harshvardhan’s father had been against the match, expecting to get his only son married to a girl from another business family but his son had fallen madly in love with Pauravi Khedkar— the daughter of a lowly government clerk. 

The story went that she had been performing for an inauguration ceremony at a school where she taught dance and music and Harshvardhan had been in attendance as the chief guest. He had been smitten at first sight. 

The marriage had been the talk of the town at that time with A-listers from every field in attendance. She didn’t know what had happened to the woman after, but it seemed Pauravi Gaur had been battling clinical depression for a long time and one fine day Harshvardhan had come home to his wife overdosed on her sleeping pills. 

Shauryaman had been twelve. 

The media as usual, had been merciless vultures. 

Talks of the late Mrs.Gaur having an affair with a prominent bollywood producer had flown the rumour coop for a long time. 

Harshvardhan never remarried— seemingly completely heartbroken over his wife’s loss. And maybe that was the time he had distanced himself from his young son, as well. 

Her reverie broke when Prakhar started speaking again.

“Something changed him after…that. Harsh was inconsolable in his own grief and he shut us all out. By the time he opened the doors, his son was long gone. Too far out of our reach. And then all that scandal with his disbarment—”, his eyes had been trained on Pauravi’s face, a strange melancholy in those handsome features. 

“But I'm afraid I can’t protect him for long if he keeps self-destructing. The board just needs enough votes and they could kick him out and then nothing Harsh might want to do would work.”

It was a sobering thought. 

Meenakshi didn’t know exactly what had soured the relationship between Shauryaman and her father in law but it was an open secret— the discord between them. The house in Malabar Hills belonged to the family but Harshvardhan had apparently moved out years ago, letting his son live alone in the property. 

And then she came into the picture. It had seemed strange and a little sad to her— just one man living in a three storey behemoth of a house, alone, not counting the servants. Not that Shauryaman stayed in the house for too long at a stretch. 

While touring the house, she had come across a locked room. On asking, Vimmi tai, their housekeeper, had told her that it belonged to the late Mrs.Gaur and only Shauryaman had the keys to the room. He didn’t even let the servants inside.

She had seen her husband reacting quite viciously with his father on more than one occasion as only with the latter, Shauryaman seemed to lose that annoying uncaring attitude of his and get mercurial quite overtly. Harshvardhan on the other hand, seemed unwilling to rise to his son’s rage and simply countered him with the cold precision of an expert surgeon.

And maybe that was worse. 

He looked like he couldn’t be bothered to spend that much effort on being angry at the younger man. Like he was always treating him like a child— an adult humouring a rotten tantrum throwing kid. 

And that was one feeling Meenakshi had unfortunately been closely acquainted with herself. A parent being so aloof that it fucked you up completely— yes, she could commiserate with her husband, if only on this single thing. 

But it had specially come to head after the lost deal. 

Javed Khosla had left the board and joined their rivals and the partnership with the steel giant hadn’t fallen through because of the indecision of the board after Khosla’s exit and the votes falling short as a result. 

“You are a fucking disgrace to the Gaur name! Do you know how much revenue loss has happened because of your stupidity?”

“I don’t know why it should be my problem if some old geezer can’t handle his overinflated bruised ego. I came to the meeting and gave my vote—”

“You have no concept of respect! You didn’t even sit through five minutes! You humiliated a very powerful man and a good friend! You humiliated me!”

Harshvardhan had never been this enraged before. At least, Meenakshi hadn’t seen him like this before. He had come storming into their living room and started raging at Shauryaman who was still lounging on the sofa, fiddling with his phone, completely unbothered.

She had come running from her study hearing the uproar. 

“Akshi, I swear to God, one of these days, I will disown this worthless idiot!”, he had spat at her and Meenakshi had seen something flicker in her husband’s eyes before going out like a light. His expression hadn’t changed though. 

“Papa, calm down. The doctors had warned us before of your blood pressure..please”, she had tried appeasing her father in law. 

“Yes. We don’t want you to have a stoke because of a few bucks”

Sometimes, she really wished she could chuck something at this man’s head. Harshvardhan’s eyes became rounder on his pink face if that was even possible and he was huffing like a maddened bull.

She could see that vein beating against her father in law’s temple from ten feet away. 

“FEW! Five hundred crores feel ‘few’ to you! And keep your empty considerations to yourself. You will be the happiest if I have a stroke. I will have my fucking will altered before, mind you. I won’t leave you a single penny, you ungrateful piece of shit.”

And he had stormed off despite her protests. 

When she had turned to him, Shauryaman had looked just as uncaring as he had, throughout the entire fiasco. 

“Don’t start—”, he had waved her off before she could even open her mouth. 

“It is your company. You want to kick it down the drain, be my guest”, she had snapped and climbed up the staircase to their bedroom, hoping he would take it as a hint to go get drunk in some hole and leave her the hell alone. 

Thankfully she hadn’t seen him for a few days after. 

________________

It was a tepid evening when Meenakshi had finally found herself a little bit of downtime. 

She had taken a long shower, completed her meticulous twelve step skincare routine, poured a  Château Pétrus from the bar, cleared all her inboxes since the past two years and had switched on ‘The Great British Bakeoff’, a guilty pleasure of hers, which was weird because she knew nothing of baking or cooking in general.

She had been so engrossed as the participants on screen debated the finer points of using mascarpone in the white chocolate raspberry fondant that they were making that she hadn’t even seen him till he was right by her ear, standing behind the couch. 

“Cream cheese would cut the sourness of the raspberry better than mascarpone”

The sudden voice made her jump as she turned wide eyed at the supposed intruder. Shauryaman was frowning at the eighty four inch flat screen TV like he was trying to solve world hunger. He was still wearing the leather jacket from the club he had apparently come from. 

She could see the glitter on the sleeves from her seat. 

“What the hell are you doing home so early?”, she asked surprised. 

“That is a singular question I don’t think any wife has ever asked their husband. It is more often, ‘why the fuck are you so late’”, he smirked and then opened his jacket dropping it on the floor, giving her a good view of his maroon shirt stretched across those broad shoulders and defined chest and came and sat beside her. 

Strangely enough he didn’t smell of whiskey or cheap hooker perfume either. 

It was almost a musky stronger scent— cedar, pine and something smoky like flavoured tobacco with a hint of something citrusy. 

It was a disturbingly pleasant smell. 

“We are not a usual husband-wife either, are we?”, she challenged with a raised brow and sipped on the red wine from the round bottomed glass in her hand. 

She was wearing her midnight blue silk nightsuit, her recently shaved legs bare from her knees and crossed elegantly at the ankles as she lounged on the couch. Her hair was braided loose and a few unruly locks kissed her cheeks in the cool air of the hall. 

“Touche”, he smirked. 

“You didn’t answer my question”, she continued as the bakers had moved on from the fondant and were busy preparing the spongy base of the cake, on the screen. 

Shauryaman suddenly looked tired. The sharp lines of his face had dropped into a more softened base. The smirk loosened up till it was a half smile clinging on desperately. He ran a hand through his styled hair and messed up the strands till his locks looked more natural and somehow curlier. 

He had his mother’s hair. 

“I just… I was feeling a little under the weather, so I came back”, he said finally and for a startling second, Meenakshi realised that this might have been the most genuine statement that has ever left Shauryaman Gaur’s mouth till the day they had met. 

Has it been almost a year already?

She looked at his side profile for a long time, sipping her wine intermittently as he pretended to focus on the screen, head leaning back on the couch. 

“So..cream cheese huh?”, she said finally and saw a spark of gratitude flicker into those abyssal pits of his eyes. His unasked question was perhaps answered to his satisfaction. 

“If the flavor profile is all sour, it would numb you to the taste. Hence, something rich to balance the tartness”, he continued and Meenakshi found herself staring at him again, this time bemused. 

“How do you know about flavor profiling anyway?”

“I was in Paris for a summer and made friends with a pastry chef from the Ritz Carlton.”

“Friends..huh?”

He turned towards her finally and smirked like always, a hint of mischief flickering on that effervescent face. It made him look strangely young. 

“She had lovely legs and could bend in half like a pretzel—”

“Which she obviously demonstrated for you for strictly educational purposes.”

“Oh I was educated alright. What was the saying..they never do it like the French…”

Meenakshi had found herself chuckling at the salacious words and then later on, laughing quite some bit, hearing her husband’s quite hilarious commentary on the baking choices of the contestants on the screen. 

It was later when she was almost asleep, the other side of the bed still empty, that she had realised— it was the most time she had spent with her husband at one go since her wedding without wanting to take his head off. 

And Shauryaman Gaur apparently knew enough about pastry making to give their Michelin star approved chef a run for his money. 

The next morning she had seen white chocolate covered muffins topped with raspberry compote and crushed pistachios kept alongside her usual granola bowl, eggs and protein shake. She had bit into one skeptically and had to control a quite inappropriate moan from escaping her lips. 

Creme cheese definitely elevated the flavor profile. 

Not that she would tell her quietly gloating husband that, even if the wicked man had peeked his head from the kitchen door, winking at her lasciviously. 

Instead she had declared that if the board did kick him off then he could earn his keep by baking these exact same muffins for her every day. Shauryaman had looked at her incredulously for a few seconds and then against all expectations and to her great if not delighted surprise, burst out laughing. 

And if her heart had skipped a beat spotting the dimples blooming on his cheeks and the sudden boyish handsomeness that had peeked from behind that razor sharp darkness, no one had to know. 

_____________

It was like something had changed between them from that day. 

Yes, they still fought at times, at the most trivial of things and Shauryaman was still that ass who loved ragebaiting anything that moved and was for some reason hellbent on being a trainwreck on most days and she was still healthily wary about his intentions. 

But somehow they seemed to be spending more time together than she would have once expected. The viciousness from their arguments had tempered into an acerbic banter— could still leave them bleeding at the end but it was more playful pokes than jagged lacerations. 

“So, Rudra seems to have been eyeing you the entire night”, Shauryaman commented casually leaning back against the bar with a shot glass in one hand. 

It was one of those tiring afterparties of some bollywood celebrity’s birthday bash. Meenakshi was wearing a black sheath dress that hugged her curves and accentuated her height pretty nicely. Her hair had been swept at one side, letting everyone witness her creamy back held together by stringy straps. 

She smirked into her drink and gave Rudra Sinha— a spoiled nepo baby, a wink of her own. 

“Why, are you jealous?”, she drawled, hazel eyes twinkling in mirth. 

Shauryaman looked nonplussed but there was a hint of something dark in his eyes. In an all black ensemble, with his blazer opened and vest buttoned down to reveal a nice portion of his chest, inky hair splayed over his mischievous eyes, he was just as handsome if not more than the silver screen heroes milling about.

“Why should I be jealous?”, he muttered but slowly and very unsubtly angled his body in a way that clearly blocked Rudra’s direct sight to her. 

Meenakshi resisted the urge to giggle at the blatant way he was staking his territory. It would have irritated her at literally any other time, but tonight she was feeling particularly buzzed and her husband looked good enough to eat. 

So what if she was enjoying his uncharacteristic attention a little too much. She had legal rights to do so, fuck you good sense—

“What are you drinking?”, she said and snatched his glass, taking a sip and almost gagging at it. It tasted like an unholy concoction of sulphuric acid but went down her throat like liquid ice. So strong she had felt a little dizzy instantly. 

“My God, what the hell was that? Motor oil?”

The wicked man laughed at her and stroked a strand of her straightened hair off her cheek where the glitter from her highlighter had made that single lock stick to her skin. His touch ignited a fiery feeling inside her core that made her want to clamp her legs shut. 

Damn, she was really drunk wasn’t she?

“I call it, ‘the wife’. The way it pours like wildfire down your throat threatening to burn everything inside, but it also has a sweet aftertaste”, his voice had gone syrupy, heavy and dark and Meenakshi was turned towards him fully now, abandoning her pathetic attempts to look nonchalant. 

“Mr. Shauryaman Gaur…”, she hiccuped, a little giggly, “are you possibly flirting with me?”, and then gasped dramatically. 

“Mrs. Meenakshi Gaur, I would like to clear it right away that I am absolutely flirting with you”, he had whispered over her cheek, smelling of that irresistible combination of expensive cologne and something musky and virile, which seemed to be his natural scent. 

That voice would do her in one of these days. It felt like gravel over silk. Like velveteen chocolate over her skin, like a fucking hand in between her legs, stroking her damp heat with maddening rhythm and fuck it—

She grabbed the open lapels of his blazer and dragged him to a fierce kiss. It was wet and sloppy and completely uncoordinated thanks to both of them being drunk off their asses and it wasn’t the best kiss she had had by a long shot but the way it had made her insides self combust, had been novel indeed. 

His hands had encircled her waist and she had found herself plastered and hanging against him, his lips dominating her with practiced ease, licking into her mouth like a greedy monster and battling with her tongue and clashing against her teeth, tasting of hard liquor, blood and something uniquely him. 

She let out a tiny moan, rubbing herself against the very visible hardness of her husband’s interest when he suddenly separated from her, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Wha..what happened?”, she tried catching his lips again but he held her apart. 

“Can’t do it like this..”, he sounded miserable. 

“Like what? We are not kids, Shaurya..I want this, you want this— we are married for god’s sake”, she grumbled placing a small kiss at the corner of his mouth and giggled at the tortured groan that had come out of him. 

“Sweetheart, we are so drunk we can barely see straight. You want this now, you will not want this in the morning so much..lets go..”, he practically picked her up and started walking towards the exit, her grumbling about him choosing to be a gentleman at the worst possible moment. 

The next morning saw her sprawled over the bed like a starfish, clothed and feeling like someone had poured cement down her brain and stuffed cotton inside her mouth. 

Her husband was sleeping beside her, hanging half off the bed from his knees, having only removed his jacket. 

He was still wearing his shoes. 

She remembered bits and pieces from the previous night and got increasingly alarmed till she realised that nothing had actually progressed beyond that kiss. The hint of relief had been overtaken by an unprecedented wave of disappointment. 

She could chase the taste of his mouth stuck to her lips still. 

Meenakshi had anticipated things to get awkward after that but strangely enough nothing much changed. Shauryaman still teased her mercilessly almost to the point of having a heel being chucked at his head and they had settled back in their previous routine almost seamlessly. 

If Meenakshi dreamt about that one drunken tussle of mouths and lay wondering in the dark about the things that could have followed, no one other than her own sick and twisted desires knew about it. 

_____________________

Shauryaman kept testing his board’s patience recklessly. 

He had thrown two more minor alliances away, by sheer unprofessionalism aided by his inherently incorrigible arrogance. A road reconstruction contract in Borivali and a mid-sized powerplant construction in Surat had gone to their rivals. 

Meenakshi was most sympathetic to her father in law and Prakhar uncle’s piling headaches. 

Yet another mystifying reason that she couldn’t figure out was why her husband seemed to detest Prakhar Sahani as much as the man was seemingly fond of him. The wizened CEO would try to engage him in the meetings only to get coldly rebuffed every time. 

Shauryaman refused to talk to him straight and snarled almost rabidly if he was forced. 

“You could be a little more respectful, you know. He is your only ally on the board. And for some godforsaken reason, seems to care about you”, she had said once. 

“No one cares about anyone in this world, Meenakshi. It's all one big play and we are the unwilling actors”, he had countered sharply. 

There was something unsettling in his voice. 

“That is quite cynical”

“It is the truth”

“It might be your truth. Doesn’t make it universal.”

“Tell me then sweetheart, who cares about you? Your parents who got you married to a loser? Your friends who would ditch you the day you step out of the boundaries of an acceptable societal status?”

The words had been nasty, the endearment dripping with condescendence and targeted to rile her up and even if she had understood that, it had still rankled. 

“Just because no one cares about you Shaurya, doesn’t mean no one cares about me. You know nothing about me”, she had snarled. 

He had chuckled meanly and walked off, not refuting her statement but not accepting it at the same time. The bitterness on his face had transformed into a strange flicker of hurt just for a second before it had smoothened out into that damning detached nonchalance. 

Meenakshi had twisted and turned on her bed for the whole night after that, unable to unhear those poisonous words. Shauryaman always brought out the worst in her. And she seemed all the more jubilant at duelling with him, no matter how vitriolic the arguments could turn. 

It was like countering fire with fire. 

They were much too alike in some ways. And so different, in many others. 

And yet Meenakshi couldn’t have anticipated just how low both of them could have fallen, if only to cut the other down. 

________________

It was a pleasant winter evening when the Sahanis came to their house. Meenakshi had wanted to host Prakhar and his wife, Leena for a long time. They had always been exceptionally kind and accepting of her. 

She didn’t know whether it had been just mere courtesy or that lingering yet childish need to get back at her husband, she hadn’t informed him of the dinner priorly— just saying she had guests over and if he did come home on time, to be decent. 

Shauryaman came back home on time alright, and surprisingly enough he also brought a wrapped bottle like a gift but none of that had mattered in the end because the moment he had seen Prakhar Sahani seated on the couch, laughing with Meenakshi, he had blown his top off like a missile being shot out. 

“Get the fuck out of my house!”, he growled at the older man, voice lowered four degrees in absolute chilling venom. 

“Shaurya what the hell are you saying”, Meenakshi tried intervening but to no avail. It was like he was seeing red, a loud uncontrollable rage that had transformed his so-called harmless persona into a pitfire of hellish doom. 

This wasn’t the lethargic, alcoholic playboy that the world knew Shauryaman Gaur to be. 

Meenakshi had been intimately conversant with violence in her life and she knew well enough how to spot danger, living with a former military personnel and for other reasons that she refused to admit even in the privacy of her own mind, she knew the exact moment when to anticipate it. 

And right now her husband was the most dangerous man standing in the room. 

His jaw had hardened enough to cut glass and his knuckles were so white around the wine bottle that they were almost bloodless. 

“Shaurya…please”, Prakhar tried placating him, hands hovering in the air but the younger man snarled so hard he had to take a step back. 

Shauryaman was like a wild animal, pouring murder from his eyes in a way that chilled Meenakshi’s blood. 

She had been wrong about him. 

There was nothing harmless about this man. He was a bored tiger who had been playing tag with his prey and now his fangs had been bared and she could see the blood stained on the gleaming enamel. 

But Meenakshi was no weakling, herself. 

Wrath had coloured her vision crimson too. 

“I will say it for the last time. Get. Out. Of. My. House. Right the fuck now before I call the cops”, he spat between gritted teeth and Prakhar sighed and ushered his shaken wife outside, throwing apologetic looks at Meenakshi whose face was burning with shame and rage. 

The moment the older couple had left, she felt the last string holding her temper snap audibly. 

“Have you lost your goddamned mind! What kind of disrespectful behaviour was that? Are you an illiterate savage?”, she yelled, eyes blazing, nails digging into her own palms. 

Shauryaman slammed the wine bottle down on the table with a mighty thud, almost shattering the glass and turned to her, his charcoal eyes spitting fire. 

“Why the fuck would you call that fucking pi—”

“Speak of him with respect! He is old enough to be your fucking father!”

“Shut the fuck up! As if age has anything to do with it!”

“You are right! Age has nothing to do with it. I would respect a five year old more than a tantrum throwing brat like you! What the fuck is wrong with you! I have never felt so ashamed in my entire life! I called them—”

She was pinching the bridge of her nose feeling the humiliation sizzle inside her veins. 

Her husband apparently wasn’t done. 

“You stay the fuck away from him!”, he spat which only made her blood boil harder. Her voice was icy like a stalactite when she spoke. 

“You do not order me, Shauryaman.”

“And you do not bring someone to my home without my permission.”

“This is my home too!”

He threw his hands up, almost in despair even if his handsome face was now almost ugly in its ferocity. She was faring no better and could practically feel her entire body thrum with repressed violence. 

“This is the reason!”, she growled pointing at him, “your father was right. They were all right. I thought there might be something everyone is missing. But it was just wishful thinking. You are a worthless piece of shit who can barely differentiate his ass from his nose on most days. Your ex dodged a fucking canon ball!”

His head snapped towards her with a dizzying force. 

“Yes, I know about Avantika”, she continued ruthlessly. 

“Meenakshi”, he warned, face paling slightly but she was on a roll and had no intention of stopping. Her endless well of patience had extinguished. 

“And your illegitimate daughter. Thank fuck, she had the good sense of leaving. You didn’t deserve her or that poor girl who unfortunately will have to carry your good for nothing genes for the rest of her life! A selfish monster like you knows nothing about love.”

Shauryaman went bone white and the anger was gone at the force of the sudden hurt that spread uninvited on his features. He looked like she had taken that massive swiss knife from the kitchen counter and rammed it inside his chest and twisted it for good measure. 

Good. 

Meenakshi knew she had always had a viciously mean streak but this man deserved worse. Someone who cannot respect anyone, had no regard whatsoever about anyone except himself, deserved no regard or consideration from anyone else. 

But then the shen pallor was gone and replaced with a cold vitriolic look of utter contempt. 

“You are standing here lecturing me about love? You? You think I don’t know about your past? What you did to your sibling—”

It was Meenakshi’s turn to pale and she could barely hear the rest of his words. Her head was spinning and the constant ringing inside her ears had overtaken her. His words were poison and slipped inside her ribs like cold steel, burning through all her flesh. 

“You stood and watched your sister drown. You have no right to say anything to me about being a selfish monster, Meenakshi Bannerjee. You killed an innocent baby because momma cared about her more than you—”

The slap turned his head to the side with vicious force and shocked both of them. Meenakshi could see the scratch marks her diamond rings had left on his clean shaven cheek. Her knees were jelly and she could barely breathe. 

She turned around and ran and somehow the world went black at the same time.  

Later their housekeeper, Vimmi tai had told her that she had locked herself in the bathroom and turned on the shower and had sat underneath the icy spray like a statue for hours. 

Apparently the servants had been banging at her door urging her to get out before Shauryaman had broken the door open himself and had carried her out in his arms. Then Vimmi had changed her into warm clothes and called the doctor. 

She did remember snippets of a loud thudding, a muffled curse, calls of her name going in and out from a fog but everything had felt like having come from under water. There was water in her lungs, pulling her down into an inky abyss. She had felt a warm touch around her too, for a brief second she remembered seeing Shauryaman’s panicked face, his arms around her. 

And then nothing again. 

Her husband was nowhere to be seen when she had woken up from the medicated sleep and Meenakshi had been quietly glad. 

It felt like she had been back at that moment again. Frozen stiff at the edge of the pool, unable to move a single muscle as her little sister gasped and screamed for help till the dark waters claimed her. 

All these years of therapy and clinical help and constant struggle against her own demons and it had taken just a few words to undo everything. 

But the words had been true. 

She had killed her sister. And she had no right to lecture anyone about anything because a mean insecure asshole Shauryaman maybe, he was still not a murderer. 

____________________

A year of progress seemed to have vanished under the weight of silence. 

Shauryaman and Meenakshi still managed to catch a glimpse of each other but they rarely interacted anymore. The words both had spat at the other seemed to have plunged into their bodies like daggers with their shining hilts sticking out like pincushions for anyone to see. 

And try as they might, they couldn’t pull them out. 

When the hysteria from the ptsd and the rage from earlier had cleared off, Meenakshi had been forced to admit that she too may have jumped the gun this time. 

She may know about the breakup, thanks to the tabloids running their mouths loose, especially because Avantika had gone right up and married Arjun Mehra, her boss who was not only a celebrity in law circles himself but had also been the one to disbar Shauryaman when he had been interning under him. 

The daughter being Shauryaman’s wasn’t something she had learned from the tabloids, that had been hidden quite well— thus the hasty marriage, she figured. It had been a fixer who had been employed by Arjun to help him investigate a high profile client. He had accidentally happened upon the truth and had revealed it to her later in a party, in a drunken state. 

She knew nothing of why Avantika had broken up with her husband. 

She didn’t even know if Shauryaman had ever wanted to meet the girl. But it was clear from his expression that he still harboured some feelings for the woman who had once famously trapped the most sought after bachelor in town and a certified playboy and then had apparently broken his heart. 

Meenakshi had later met up with Prakhar, inviting him to lunch in the Laconte headquarters and had called up a famous celebrity chef from Bandra to provide for them and apologized for her husband’s deplorable behaviour. 

“It's okay, Akshi. Don’t be stressed. I am used to it. I had hoped he would have softened a little by now but—”, the older man had smiled but there had been pain in the lines of his face. 

“I am still sorry, Prakhar uncle. It was tremendously ungracious and..oh god your wife, I hope aunty isn’t too mad at me?”

“Nonsense. Leena understands, just as well. Come to our house once, both of you— we’ll make everything alright.”

At least her relationship with the CEO of Gaur Constructions hadn’t soured yet. The man must either really love her husband or have the patience of a saint. 

Meenakshi on the other hand, had no idea how to get out of this strangely depressing limbo she had fallen into. 

_____________

It was pretty late when Meenakshi’s silver Audi entered the gates of their house in Malabar Hills. The property was a good few acres, surrounded by a garden which had a gravel path layered around the road to the front porch, for the cars. 

Ravi, their valet had been dutifully waiting at the front doors of the three story building to take her car to the parking garage in the basement. Meenakshi exited from the driver’s seat and her tired eyes suddenly caught the light reflecting off the young valet’s wrist. 

“Ravi, where did you get that watch?”, she asked curiously. The nineteen year old blushed crimson under his dark skin but held out his wrist proudly for her to see. 

“Shauryaman sir, gave it to me. I am writing the test for the police constable post next year and I asked for leave from sir and he said to have this. He said, ‘it is a good luck charm’ and helped him pass his lawyer examination”, the boy declared with a mixture of shyness and clear adoration. 

Meenakshi’s eyes climbed her forehead involuntarily. 

She was sure poor Ravi had no idea that it was a fifty lakh worth limited edition Patek Philippe. Anyway the boy just seemed happy to have been given a gift which had someone’s well wishes.

What was a price tag in front of good natured blessings?

“Oh, all the best, Ravi. You will do great. Remember to come and have dahi cheeni from me before going to the exam center.”

“Aww madam. Thank you”, the boy blushed even harder and scurried off. She knew he was an orphan and lived alone in the chawl. This was the least she could do for him. 

Her mind was scattered as she entered the hall. The more she unearthed her husband, the more perplexed she became. 

How can one person be simultaneously so cruel and so kind?

As if on cue she caught sight of the man in question and froze. 

Shauryaman was slumped on their massive twelve seater dining table, half of which was covered with books and papers and varied other paraphernalia. She came closer and caught sight of the titles. They were all law books, opened at various pages and marked over and over again with sticky notes and highlighters. There were pencil markings at the edges, covered in a sharp and spiky handwriting she was intimately familiar with. 

There were various musty old documents and freshly printed photos of undecipherable objects and what looked like court transcripts and witness testimonies and old police records and newspaper cuttings dating back a decade. It was like the department of legal studies or an advocate’s homework had exploded on the table. 

Shauryaman was fast asleep, his eyes hidden by a shock of surprisingly product free hair, head nestled in between the spine of a very heavy leather bound book. His back would not thank him when he invariably woke up. 

He had been typing something on his laptop, the screen saver preventing her from taking a peek. It was a chillingly impersonal photo of the summer sky and she felt unsettled just looking at it for too long, like she was staring at something intimate, something impermissible. 

She was slowly backing off from the table top, when she saw a single photo stuck in the spine of the book, half hidden by Shauryaman’s hair. 

The face of Avantika Mehra, well she used to go by Bhatt then, greeted her from its glossy creased surface. It seemed like the photo had been folded and unfolded a lot from the spiky creases made over it in abundance. 

Shauryaman’s face was turned towards Avantika and he looked so damned young in it, it was almost heartbreaking. The joy in her smile was infectious and Meenakshi found herself mirroring it almost involuntarily. But what had caught her sight more was the look in her husband’s face as he seemingly watched his then girlfriend. 

The love painted over his handsome features was so naked, so unmarred by life and fate yet, that it felt like a hot iron inside her stomach. It was too much exposure and she felt the ridiculous urge to go back in time and shield him retrospectively. 

It was with a slightly sickening jolt that Meenakshi realised that despite what he might have become later, Shauryaman had loved Avantika with as much sincerity as he could have managed at that age— maybe even beyond. 

The existence of the photograph was evidence enough. 

And suddenly, Meenakshi didn’t want to know why Shauryaman was sleeping on his law books on the dining table of all places. The desire to unearth the mystery behind her husband’s increasingly strange activities had dampened under the force of his past. 

‘Why is it bothering you? So what if he is still in love with his ex? You had made it clear you wanted nothing to do with him. This marriage is a contract anyway, a business deal. At least this proves the man used to have a heart somewhere hidden beneath that detached cavalier exterior.’

She had still been arguing with herself later, inside their bedroom when a sudden shriek came from downstairs, piercing the air like a nail against a chalkboard. The fear in that scream was so potent that it automatically made her run out in panic. 

“What happened?”

Meenakshi screamed back, holding her red soled Louboutin in her right hand, poised to launch at the unknown intruders with military precision. 

Only to see Vimmi tai and two other man servants searching the heap of books, utterly hassled while her husband was standing on the couch of all things, clutching desperately to what appeared to be a rather fat volume on criminal law, eyes wide on his sleep-creased face. 

“Shauryaman, did you scream?”, she poked at him lightly, having climbed down the stairs near the couch over which he was still posed like the statue of liberty. 

“Yaa! What..fuck! Oh it's you”, he had almost taken her head off with the book that he was still brandishing like a shield in front of him or an impromptu weapon for invisible enemies about to charge at him. 

“What the hell is happening here and who the hell shrieked like that?”

“It wasn’t a shriek. It was a very manly scream”, Shauryaman countered, frowning even as he backed away from the table slowly. 

“It's a cockroach madam”, Vimmi tai answered her instead, looking hilariously exasperated at her terrified employer.

“Just a cockroach? Just. That thing was fatter than a dung beetle and it has wings and do you know how many diseases spread from cockroaches and why the hell are there bugs in the house! Don’t I pay you guys enough to deal with shit like this!”, the man retorted slightly hysterically. 

Meenakshi was staring baffled at Shauryaman when he finally met her gaze. She couldn’t help the sudden bubbling laugh that had opened up like a can of soda inside her stomach. 

He was shooting her a warning look but it was too late. 

She had already doubled over. 

“You are scared of a bug? A poor little arthropod?”

She was gasping for breath, tears rolling down her face while her husband had turned an endearing shade of pink, trying and failing miserably to glare her into submission. 

“Shut up! I am not scared of cockroaches. I just don’t like them. It must have crawled back home from the evidence lockup. Fucking policemen can’t keep their stuff clean—”

He would have continued his rant had Vimmi not found their little troublemaker and held it up triumphantly by a wing. 

“Found it!”, she declared like a general having won a war and Shauryaman looked like he would pass out with how colorless his face looked. 

Meenakshi stifled her giggles with an herculean effort and ordered their victorious housekeeper to let it out in the garden. 

“So, my brave and mighty husband, may I ask, what were you rifling about in evidence lockups?”, she asked carefully and saw him stiffening. It was as if he had just realised that she had seen everything scattered on the table. 

He seemed to debate internally whether to disclose anything before sighing. The book was kept back on the table and he picked up a single sheet from the court transcripts. 

“Nothing. It was just an old case. Someone said something and I had to check it out for myself. I had forgotten how much work lawyering actually took—”

There was something wistful in his voice that called out to her gently. The man wasn’t as unaffected as he usually liked to pretend and that was a fact that she had come to realize time and again, after all these months of forced proximity. 

He missed being a lawyer and that was evident. 

Meenakshi suppressed the desire to ask what had happened leading to his disbarment. 

She would not scrape at old wounds anymore. The rebound from her own, if only intentional cruelty, had been quite gruesome. She wasn’t sure she could take another round and survive in one piece. 

At least not anytime soon.

Suddenly she had to change the subject. 

“Did you eat dinner?”

Shauryaman stared at her a little bewildered at the sudden non sequitur. She hadn’t talked to him straight since their fight nearly a month ago. He hadn’t approached her and she had left him to his devices as well. 

Maybe the silence had been a little painful to him too because he seemed to brighten up immediately.

“No. Have you?”

She shook her head. 

“I think Vimmi tai could spare us some if we ask her nicely”, he offered hesitantly. 

“I don’t know….you did just ask her to catch a roach—”, she pointed out, the mirth coming back to her voice in spades and by his irritated look, she knew he knew that she was having way too much fun with this. 

“You are never going to let me forget this one, will you?”

“Never.”

He smiled at her and suddenly the world felt a little less darker than it had an hour ago. 

They had eaten dinner like college kids on the island table in the kitchen, engaging in a surprisingly not awkward conversation about the most trivial happenings of their day. 

There was a little unease in the background, like they were too master sportsmen having been out of the game for years and were just relearning to sync again, one unsteady step at a time. It seemed like the elephant in the room would remain invisible for the time being— the topics and their individual reactions to them were too painful to breach anytime soon. 

The wounds were still fresh and both Meenakshi and Shauryaman were too proud to admit to their fallacies. 

___________________

“That looks…expensive”

Meenakshi was staring at the small colorful concoction on her plate with mild disgust. Shauryaman, seated opposite to her, swallowed the entire thing in one go, made a face and then drank a little of the sparkling water kept beside.

“I was told, this place was going to get a Michelin star.”

Meenakshi sighed morosely at the piece of whatever raw fish and truffle and artichoke and orange slice mini monstrosity on her plate and muttered a disheartened, ‘figures’. Her lunch partner sipped on the white wine and then sighed heavily, wiping his mouth with the white cloth kept over the white oval table.

“I knew this would be a disaster but my father insisted I take you out somewhere fancy. Apparently I couldn’t be trusted to make an informed choice about your particular taste and so he reserved a table for us.”

Meenakshi sighed and drank the rest of the wine in her glass in one gulp. She had been more than a little surprised when Shauryaman had come one afternoon to her office and insisted she accompany him to lunch. 

She had been ready to bat him away but he had looked strangely hopeful, trying to hide it behind his usual panache, but there had been something sweetly hesitant about his expression. 

And she had been hungry anyway. 

“Come with me then, daddy dearest’s option sucked, let's try mine—”, he held out his hand and she rolled her eyes but took it anyway. 

“Shaurya if you take me to a pub, I swear to god—”, she threatened as they walked, strangely hand in hand, to his parked convertible. 

“Oh ye of little faith…”, he said in a sing-song voice, opening the car door for her, again, being uncharacteristically chivalrous. 

But Meenakshi didn’t complain. This has been a nice change. His usually abrasive jeering nature had softened as weeks had turned into months and in turn she could feel the ice around her heart melt slowly. 

“Where are we going?”, she asked, feeling the wind whip her loose wavy curls and the Juhu beach hugged the other end of the road under their wheels. 

“Patience woman..”, her husband muttered and stopped in front of a rocky expanse of the beach which opened into the sands a few metres away. He asked her to go sit on a rock and said he would be back in a few. 

Climbing up a rock in her grey pencil skirt and Valentino heels was probably not a good idea, so she ditched the shoes and walked barefoot on the sand. It had been so long since she had been on the beach. The salty sea air was probably making a mess of her blowout but she didn’t care. 

Not when she could feel the cold water foaming in between her manicured nails. 

“Here you go, watch the heat”, Shauryaman appeared out of nowhere beside her. She had been so lost in the scenery in front she hadn’t even realised when he had come back. 

“Vada pav?”, she laughed in pleasant surprise but took her share. The spicy scent of the favourite street snack of the Mumbaikars wafted in the air making her mouth water almost immediately. 

“The best vada pav in the city”, her husband responded seriously and bit into his own. 

She saw he had pulled his slacks over his shins and left his socks in the car as well, sinking barefoot in the sand like her. His hair was free of product and fluttered over his dark eyes and the late afternoon sun fell golden over his olive toned skin. 

He looked carefree. 

She felt carefree. 

It was like both of them had been thrust into a strange bubble of comfort and something whimsical. She wolfed down on the vada pav hungrily and had to concede to his claim— it had perhaps been the best she had ever eaten in a long while. 

“My mother used to bring me here when I was just a kid”, he said, suddenly breaking the comfortable silence between them, “it was my favourite spot. She would ask the driver to park the car somewhere far and we would walk down this strip of the beach and she would buy vada pav for both of us and we would sink our feet into the sea”.

His voice was light. 

Empty. 

Like that of a hollowed out tin vessel rattling in the air. 

He never spoke of his mother. 

At least, he hadn’t, not before this. 

Meenakshi slipped her slimmer fingers inside his bigger ones before she even knew what she was doing. It was like her envious control had slipped in face of a grief like that and she had no words to offer except her silence. 

So she said nothing but kept holding onto his larger hand in a firm grip. 

Both the Bannerjees were alive. 

Even if sometimes she felt like her mother had died with her youngest sibling that horrible day, but still she could see her everyday, feel her warmth as she brushed past her in the office, and watch the light blaze behind her topaz gaze. 

She didn’t know how it would have felt to lose her when she was just a child. 

She had lost track of how long they stood in silence, till Shauryaman broke it, that teasing cheer back in his voice and the bubble burst finally. 

“God, it's so late. I promised your dad, I will have you back before your client meeting this evening. Let’s go. I don’t want to test a tiger’s patience”

Meenakshi had rolled her eyes all the way to heaven. 

She had only realised it quite late, when she had been busy peering into her laptop and mentally apologizing to her chiropractor, that they hadn’t left each other’s hands long after the beach had hidden behind the glass domed office buildings. 

“Thank you for the lunch”, she had said softly while he had opened the door for her at the front porch leading to the building’s lobby. 

“Anything for my lovely lady”, he had smirked but the curve had reached his eyes for the first time and she had elbowed him gently in the ribs as payback. 

The flush hadn’t left her windblown cheeks for hours. 

Meenakshi could still feel the shape and the weight of her husband’s hand inside her own, long after the day had already passed— like a tattoo branded against her skin, oddly soothing in all its mystifying glory. 

______________________

Life had been so good lately that Meenakshi had started becoming distrustful of it. The idyllic habits she had unknowingly developed, had somehow blanketed her in a secure bubble, not letting the bitter reality of existence touch her. 

Shauryaman had not instigated a major boardroom breakdown recently, her father in law had not needed to visit his personal doctor as a result and Laconte had secured a multi crore deal with a French company to extend their shipping business off the Amalfi coast. 

Her personal life had improved a great deal too. 

There had been some arguments here and there but it had all been essentially in good faith. And if she wasn’t imagining stuff, her husband seemed to have lowered going out to the clubs and partying all his nights away. 

She saw him more and more, seemingly buried in some of his old cases, law books scattered on the couch and the dining table during quiet evenings and she had finally pushed him to make a personal study room to stuff his books in, like her own.  

Some mornings saw them both in the gym, working out in comfortable silence and sometimes on a few shared beats of music. 

Shauryaman had commandeered the kitchen one day and baked the entire afternoon away. It had smelled like a sweet lover’s paradise when she had come back home that evening. In her husband’s defense, he had quoted that he stress-baked sometimes, though he had flat out diverted all her attempts to figure out what had stressed him so. 

She would deny it till she is blue in the face but she would kill for the oatmeal cookies with caramel crust and chocolate chips. 

And somewhere along the way, they had somehow started a fierce competition of solving the crossword puzzle that came out in the digital version of the NY Times. They would compete on who could finish it first. It was incredibly silly but she enjoyed the mental exercise. 

Meenakshi had always been a beast in puzzles and solving riddles, but she had to admit that Shauryaman was just as good. It had blown all her initial reservations about him being dumb right off the water. 

The man could be cunning as the devil when it suited him. 

It made her wonder, how many other things she had missed or rather how many secrets did the man hide behind his cocky sex addicted superiority complex and mile wide daddy issues. 

The physical barrier between them had also been loosening by leaps and bounds, since that day on the beach. 

She would often find herself having rolled over to his side of the bed, comfortably throwing an arm or leg over his slumbering body even if he did keep his hands religiously to himself. The man had an iron control even when asleep and it sure did give credence to his offense at her accusations against his character, at their wedding night. 

But one night, Meenakshi had found herself completely shattering even that little illusion of distance. 

It had not been her fault. There weren't many things that scared Meenakshi Gaur. But thunder and lightning came at the top of the list. She was terrified of thunderstorms. 

And one rainy night, when the world outside was drenched from the relentless monsoon downpour and thunder had lashed dazzling white against the inky sky, she had sat up straight on the bed, heart hammering hard enough to beat out of her chest. 

Shauryaman seemed dead to the world beside her. 

She tried meditating, distracting herself on her mobile, putting noise cancelling headphones but nothing could stop the relentless shaking in her limbs and the soft whimpers leaving her lips. 

Finally it had been a rather loud bolt of thunder and Meenakshi not being able to hold in a small cry of despair that had woken her husband up. The man had grappled for an invisible enemy in the dark and then had looked up at her with groggy eyes. 

“Akshi?”, his sleep drenched voice had been a broken rasp. 

“Its…nothing..go to sleep…”, she had said, chattering all the while, her own arms wrapped around herself. 

“Are you cold? Do you want me to increase the AC temp?”, he had gotten up slowly but she had backed away, shaking her head. As if on cue lightning had flashed, throwing their dark room into a streak of light for a split second through the heavy blinds. 

It had been followed by a splitting boom and Meenakshi had jumped out of her skin. 

Shauryaman’s voice had been strangely gentle when he had spoken next. 

“Is it the thunder, darling?”

Her terrified brain hadn’t even registered the endearment, only that his voice had sounded softer than the mayhem reigning outside. She had nodded hesitantly and had almost startled when he had tugged at her hand gently. 

“Come here a moment…”, he had whispered and she had inched closer. 

The warmth of his body had been very inviting against the chill in the room and she had burrowed at his side instinctively. A heavy and large arm had wrapped around her shaking shoulders, bringing them down from her around her ears and had scooped her inside a warm chest. 

The material of his sleep shirt had been soft against her wet cheek and had smelled like clean detergent infused with that smoky undertones of his natural scent and the faint fragrance of his cologne. The rain had lashed harder against the insulated glass and she had buried her face inside his chest like a scared kitten. 

“Mama had taught me a trick. Try to count the seconds between one thunder strike and the next. You will see how the time increases between each pair. That signals that the storm is moving away”. 

He had whispered inside her hair and she had found her mind being strangely attuned to the instructions. No one had ever given her such a simple yet logical solution to counter her fear, irrational be it. 

His other arm had come and wrapped around her waist by then, keeping the back of her head to his chest steady and in place. There was something strangely tender in the way he was holding her. Like she was made out of spun glass. 

It was so uncharacteristic that had Meenakshi been in her full capabilities, she would have been completely befuddled. But right now her hind brain had become activated and it was signaling to her body that she was finally safe. 

The way Shauryaman had pressed her to himself, almost curving his bigger, heavier frame around her like a human shield, it made her primitive senses calm down immediately. She could feel the anxiety rocking her heart tune out slowly with his loud and rhythmic heart beats drumming against her smaller body. 

She whined a little, clutching the back of his t-shirt tight and there was an answering rumble which seemed to come deep from within his chest and settled the last vestiges of her frayed nerves. 

Meenakshi had no idea when she had fallen asleep and whether she had dreamt up the barely there press of lips on the crown of her head. 

She had woken up alone on the bed the next morning and Shauryaman had not said anything when she had met him later for breakfast. She had expected him to tease her mercilessly considering how much shit she had given him for his scare that day with that cockroach, but he hadn’t even broached the topic. 

It was almost like last night had been a dream conjured up by her delirious brain. 

Had it not been for her lying bundled under his blanket on his side of the bed, curled into the shape left by the press of his body on the mattress and the lingering scent of his aftershave on her clothes, she would have believed nothing had happened at all. 

Meenakshi didn’t know how to handle this kind of unfathomable kindness from a man she hadn’t even given the benefit of doubt the first time they had met. Not that he had made it any easier with his following actions.  

She had considered him for a long moment and then had just squeezed his loose fingers on the table top in silent gratitude and had left for work. 

There might have been a barely there smile on his face. 

______________________

It was their first wedding anniversary. 

The building had been glammed up to resemble the likes of the Udaipur palace. The guests milling about the hall had a collective net worth more than the GDP of a small country. Champagne flew through swarovski crystal flutes and mild chatter and clinging of expensive jewels echoed from the glittering corners. 

Meenakshi had already completed her rounds. 

Shauryaman had accompanied her for some bit, shaking hands and levying everyone with a smirk that kept on turning more plastic as the evening progressed. She could practically feel the coiled tension in his body even as he kept a warm and surprisingly possessive hand on her waist. 

She had chosen to wear a saree of a deep forest green color that complimented her fair skin and matched the green pocket square inside her husband’s pinstriped slate suit. The blouse was in the same monochrome shade and had a low back and quarter sleeves. 

Her hair was in a bun letting a few styled curls frame her oval face, the partition of it filled neatly with sindoor and she had opted for a simple gold choker and her mangalsutra. There were tiny gold framed emerald studs in her ears. 

The earrings had been a gift from her husband. 

He had come inside her room when she had been busy trying to keep all the pins in her saree from falling off while simultaneously instructing her hapless housestaff on the phone to keep memorising the guestlist and their personal food preferences and dietary restrictions to relay to the private chefs later.

She had seen his reflection on the dressing mirror. 

Shauryaman had a clear look of awe on his face and Meenakshi had had to resist the urge to duck like an idiotic blushing maiden on her first night. Of late, her body seemed to be betraying her just as much as her mind. Especially when he would be near. 

It was like a switch inside of her, had been pressed that she could no longer reach to shut off.

It was maddening. 

And strangely thrilling. 

“You look…”, he had cleared his throat and a faint blush had stained the tips of his ears and it had been annoyingly sweet, “..good. You look good”, he had repeated a little more confidently, as if reorienting himself to their reality just a split second later. 

“You look good too”, she had said immediately and turned to face him, if only to reduce the sudden awkwardness in the air that none of them were used to. He had thrust the small box in her hands then. 

“Happy anniversary, Meenakshi. Congratulations, you have survived me for a year”, he had winked at her, back to his salacious coy self and she had rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop her lips from breaking into a smile. 

“Happy anniversary, Shauryaman. Congratulations, you have managed to not get yourself killed by your wife”, she had retorted back, opening the box. 

He had chuckled and ducked away from the door before she could thank him for the gift. 

Her husband was a strange man indeed. 

But his dark eyes had twinkled when he had seen her come out, wearing the studs and he had offered her his elbow, reminiscent of that day on the beach, all those weeks ago. 

“You look beautiful, my dear”, Harshvardhan had commented, kissing the air by her cheek and she had chuckled and let the photographers snap away. 

Her own parents had pulled her in while she had been playing the perfect hostess. Shauryaman had excused himself after an hour, probably making a beeline for the bar. She only hoped he wouldn’t create a scene today of all days. He had been pretty gracious so far. 

“I know you didn’t want to get married”, her mother had begun, holding her hand and Meenakshi had squirmed at the sheer intensity of her gaze on her, “but I see it has been good for you.”

What a preposterous conclusion—

“I don’t know, Lata. I heard Shauryaman was the reason Gaur lost that deal with AMNS and the Surat Plant went to the Jindals. The man is spoiled rotten”, her father had whispered, kissing her cheeks and she had sighed. 

“I don’t know, baba. He…he is difficult to read on most days and impossible to understand. He hasn’t been bad to me. He does the most stupid reckless irresponsible things and then turns around and does the kindest things possible. At this rate I'm surprised I haven’t gotten whiplash.”

She confided in her father as her mother had already left them to greet other people, losing interest the moment more emotional topics had been delved into. 

This, she was used to, at least. 

Riddhiman looked considerately at her. 

“You know Meenu, people aren’t binomial. You can’t categorize them into two broad labels, good or bad, black or white, sane or insane, kind or cruel— they exist in spectrums, they have so many layers, so many secrets…so many facets.”

Her father had always been the wiser one amongst her parents. 

“Thank you, baba”, she squeezed her father’s hands. 

Meenakshi had excused herself after some time. 

It was strange, she couldn’t see Prakhar uncle anywhere. She had already talked to his wife, Leena. And apologized for her husband’s atrocious behavior all those months ago which the older woman had very kindly brushed off. 

The party was in full swing now and Meenakshi was getting stopped every two minutes by people, known and unknown and she had yet to find Prakhar or incidentally, her husband. She had searched the bar but Shauryaman was nowhere to be seen. 

A sudden noise made Meenakshi turn towards the kitchen, having left the hubbub of the hall behind. It sounded like someone had smashed a dinner plate on the ground. 

“....will destroy you!”

The gravelly rasp was unmistakable. Even in its uncharacteristic yet terrible fury. 

Meenakshi entered the kitchen and gasped, hands flying to her mouth in horror. 

Shauryaman, eyes wild and clothes slightly dishevelled, had that gigantic swiss knife gripped so tight in his hand that his knuckles were white and there was this manic look on his face, like he was a cornered predator about to pounce. His entire body was trembling with barely contained rage. 

He looked mad enough to murder. 

And Prakhar Sahani looked terrified, leaning back from where he was standing close to the former. 

They were both half hidden by the island table in the kitchen. 

“Shaurya!”, Meenakshi cried out and her husband whipped his head so fast it almost looked cartoonish. His eyes had gone unfocused in a scary way before recognition bloomed on his face. 

“What are you— drop the knife!”, she came around the table, fear strangling her throat but hands steady enough to snatch the makeshift weapon away from him, if required. 

“Meenakshi, please. Be careful”, Prakhar yelped from the other side, backing away to almost plaster himself against the opposite wall. 

“Shaurya, please, drop the knife. You are hurting yourself”, she ignored the older man and tugged at her husband’s sleeve and as if breaking from a trance, Shauryaman dropped the knife at last, the sharp blade slicing the skin of his palm in a streak of crimson. 

“Shit!”, she and Prakhar seemed to echo together. 

“Prakhar uncle, please go back to the guests and make some excuse. I will get him some first aid and—”

Meenakshi stopped as Shauryaman suddenly propelled into action, slinked away from the door and practically fled upstairs, leaving a macabre pattern of blood on the marble flooring as the only witness to what had happened. 

“My dear, he is unstable right now, are you sure, you’ll be safe?”, the older man asked worriedly. 

“I will be fine. The guests please—”, she implored him and turned and followed her errant husband up the staircase leaving Prakhar standing confused in the corridor entrance to the hall, beneath. 

What the fuck had even happened?

____________________

The guests were cheerfully tipsy. 

The Gaurs knew how to throw a party and it was evident by the sheer grandeur of the event. 

Harshvardhan Gaur was drinking with the Ruia patriarch. He had already fixed a rudimentary meeting with the business giant and was now laughing at the colorful recounting of his college days that his best friend and the CEO of his company, Prakhar Sahani was regaling the guests with. 

He hadn’t seen either Shauryaman or Meenakshi in a good while now and there was a little concern sparking at the edge of his pleasantly buzzed brain. 

It was then when a loud ominous crash reverberated so piercingly through the hall that everyone immediately shut up at the same time, in absolute jarring shock. 

Everyone had turned as one towards the source of the sound. 

There was his daughter in law—

Meenakshi Gaur, standing by the balustrade above, still resplendent in her dark green saree and glittering gold jewellery but the strangest change had been the sheer apoplectic wrath that had colored her hazel eyes a brilliant fiery amber. 

Her red lips were stretched in a snarl that would have looked macabre and ugly on anyone else but on her, just somehow looked like divine rage. 

“Meenu?”

Major Bannerjee’s whisper went unheard as his daughter descended from the staircase like a goddess on a warpath. 

She made a straight beeline for where Harshvardhan was standing and had the older man not been so completely baffled he would have felt a spark of genuine fear. His daughter in law had shed the graceful, dutiful and elegant skin of the Gaur family and had wrapped herself in the brutal violence of her ancestral heritage. 

Anger had never looked so righteous and so fearsome on anyone before. 

“Akshi, what—”, Harshvardhan began but couldn't finish. 

Because Meenakshi Gaur had walked past him, ignoring him completely and stopped in front of Prakhar.

And before anyone could even figure what was about to happen, she had dug her Jimmy Choos inside the carpet, leaned and angled her body back, assuming the posture of an MMA fighter perfectly, pulled her right arm in a fist, dragging it back against her own ear and punched the other man so hard and so blindingly fast that they had heard the terrible noise of bone crunching under bone and skin, much later than the man had already hit the bartop behind and crumpled on the ground. 

The loud horrified gasps ringing almost in tandem from their gobsmacked spectators, seemed to brush past her like oil over wax. 

She hadn’t even broken a breath or noticed that her knuckles had split under the terrible pressure and deadly force. 

Her voice had been ice when she had spat the words through gritted teeth.  

“Get the hell out of my house.”

The heavy velvet curtains of Uzair's room were drawn tight, sealing out the chaotic noise of Lyari and replacing it with a thick, sweltering silence broken only by the creak of mahogany.

Y/N was pinned to the centre of the expansive bed. Her forehead was pressed against the cool, tangled sheets, while her hips were hoisted high, presenting her drenched, swollen cunt to the man who loomed behind her like a dark deity of ruin.

Uzair didn't offer a whisper of tenderness as he gripped her waist with a bruise inducing strength, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her hips as he prepared to hollow her out.

With a guttural growl that vibrated through his massive chest, Uzair drove forward. He entered her in one singular, violent surge, his long and wide length stretching her to a painful, exquisite limit. The sheer girth of him felt like a hot iron rod, parting her slick internal walls with a friction that made her vision white out.

Her fingers scrambled blindly for purchase, eventually locking onto the ornate bars of the headboard. She gripped the wood until her knuckles turned a ghostly white, her body jolting with every impact as he began a pace that was nothing short of a physical assault.

The sound in the room was primal. The wet, slapping echo of his balls striking her clit and the steady groan of the bedframe under the weight of his hard muscles.

Uzair was hitting her deep, hard and fast, his thrusts so powerful they felt like they were rearranging her guts. Every time he bottomed out, the blunt head of his dick hammered against her cervix, sending waves of dizzying pressure through her abdomen.

Y/N felt completely filled, every inch of her cunt occupied by his pulsing, ridged length, leaving no room for her even to draw a full breath.

Her chest was crushed against the mattress, her breasts jiggling and swaying violently with the sheer momentum of his bucking hips. Her nipples that were already painfully erect, scraped against the textured sheets with a frequency that turned the friction into a burning ache.

Uzair watched the way her body reacted to his cruelty, his eyes dark with a voyeuristic hunger. Occasionally, he would lift a massive hand and deliver a stinging slap to her upturned asscheeks. The sound was like a gunshot and he watched with a sadistic smirk as the pale flesh rippled under the blow, leaving behind the vivid, scarlet branding of his palm.

Just as the pressure in her core began to peak, the shrill, jarring ring of her phone shattered the atmosphere.

Uzair reached out, snagging the device from the nightstand without breaking his punishing rhythm. He saw the name on the screen, a friend calling about the dawat arrangements and a wicked, predatory grin spread across his face.

He pressed the phone into her hand, leaning down until his breath ghosted over her damp neck. "Utha isse," he commanded, his voice a rasping threat. "Aur ek lafz bhi galat nikla, toh yaad rakhna main kya karunga."

Y/N let out a broken whimper against the rumpled silk of the sheets. The absurdity of it was suffocating, he had her hoisted on all fours, impaling her with such ferocity that the mahogany bedframe was singing a dirge of creaks and groans and yet he expected her to hold a coherent conversation.

She turned her head slightly, her hair a wild, dark halo around her face, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes that were hazy with a mix of terror and intoxicating arousal.

"Uzair...please..." she begged, her voice a fractured thread of its usual self.

In response, Uzair’s hand lashed out, delivering a stinging, open palmed spank. She let out a sharp cry, her body jolting from the stinging heat. Before the echo could even fade, he stilled his punishing thrusts, remaining buried deep within her, a heavy, throbbing anchor that made her walls flutter around his dick painfully with the sudden lack of motion.

He leaned down even further, his lips tracing the line of her spine, depositing soft, reverent kisses over the sweat beaded skin of her back that contrasted sharply with the violence of the slap.

His voice vibrated against her skin as he issued his ultimatum.

"Utha phone, varna main ruk jaunga," he threatened, his thumb tracing the swollen, reddened mark he had just left on her flesh.

He knew the torture of stillness was worse than the pounding, he was holding her climax hostage, dangling the promise of his movement over her like a king, waiting for her to submit to his twisted game.

Her heart hammered against her ribs in a panicked staccato as she swiped the screen with trembling fingers. She tried to steady her voice but as Uzair drove into her again, she could only let out a thin, broken gasp.

"Hello?" she managed to croak out, her face buried in the crook of her arm to hide the sob of pleasure.

On the other end, her friend began talking at a frantic pace about guest lists and spice blends, completely oblivious.

Uzair was relentless, refusing to give her a moment of peace. He kept his thrusts shallow and rapid, the head of his dick grazing her entrance before plunging back in.

"Haan...main sun...rahi hoon," Y/N stammered into the phone, her voice hitching as Uzair's hands dug deeper into her hips.

She was on the absolute edge, her internal walls clenching around him in desperate spasms. She wanted to scream, to let the world know how he was stretching her but his threat kept her trapped in a state of forced normalcy.

The torture reached a new level when Uzair suddenly slowed his pace to a languid, agonising crawl. He drew his length out almost entirely, the weeping tip of his dick teasing the sensitive, throbbing folds of her cunt before he pushed back in with a slow, deliberate thrust that felt like a hot blade.

He wouldn't let her hang up, forcing her to endure the mundane conversation while he held her at his absolute mercy. Every time she tried to muffle a moan against the sheets, he would reach forward and yank her head back by her hair, forcing her to look at their distorted reflection in the mirror.

"Don't hide, jaan," he hissed, his lips brushing her ear.

His dick was still buried deep within her but he shifted his weight to give himself more room. His hand traveled down her stomach, passing the sweat slicked line of her pubic bone until he reached the junction of her thighs. He slid his fingers between her legs from the front, his thumb finding her clit, which was already engorged and weeping. He began to part her folds with a rough, practiced ease, his fingers working her with a speed that made her vision go dark at the edges.

The dual stimulation was more than her mind could handle.

Between the deep, heavy throb of his dick inside her and the sharp, focused assault of his fingers on her clit, she went absolutely feral. She forgot the friend on the line, forgot the danger of being overheard and let out a long, high-pitched moan that echoed through the phone.

Her hips began to buck frantically against his, her body seeking the release he was so cruelly withholding. "Uzair...please..." she whimpered, the name slipping out before she could catch it.

On the other end of the line, the silence from her friend was deafening. The girl had stopped talking about catering, the realisation of what was happening likely settling in with a heavy, awkward weight.

But Uzair didn't care, if anything, the presence of an audience only fuelled his depravity. He worked his fingers harder, his thrusts becoming shallow and violent once more, driving Y/N toward a peak that felt like it would tear her in two.

She was pretty sure her friend knew exactly what the creaking wood and wet slaps meant but she was too far gone in her own ecstasy to care.

But the humiliation of the phone call had sparked a defiant fire in her blood. She was suddenly done being used like a mere rag doll for his amusement.

With a surge of strength, she slammed the phone facedown on the mattress and bucked her hips violently, dislodging the heavy weight of his chest from her back.

She scrambled around on the sheets, her movements frantic and slick with sweat and before Uzair could process the shift in momentum, she had her hands on his massive shoulders, shoving him backward with the full force of her frustration and desire until he hit the pillows with a heavy thud, his dark eyes widening in genuine shock.

Uzair let out a surprised grunt, his muscles rippling as he settled into the mattress, looking up at the woman who was usually his submissive sanctuary with a flicker of newfound intrigue. He made no move to reclaim dominance immediately, his curiosity piqued by the dangerous glint in her eyes and the way her chest heaved with exertion.

She climbed over him, her thighs bracketed around his thick waist and slowly began to straddle his lap. She felt the heavy, pulsating heat of his dick pressing against her lower belly.

She reached down, her fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft and began to pump him with a pressure that made him hiss. Her nails caught against the sensitive skin of his dick, scratching light, white lines into the dark flesh that sent jolts of lightning through his frame.

"Look at me, Uzair," she whispered, her voice an intoxicating siren's call as she hovered her drenched, throbbing folds just above the flared head of his dick.

She teased the sensitive opening of her cunt with the blunt tip of his length, a torturous friction that left them both gasping but she refused to let him in just yet.

Uzair's patience snapped like a dry twig in a Karachi storm. He might have been on his back but the idea of anyone but him being the final authority was an insult to his very nature. With a possessive growl that vibrated through the mattress, his massive hands shot up, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips.

"You want to be on top? Then take it all, you little brat!" he snarled, his voice thick with a commanding edge.

Before she could even draw a breath to retort, he hauled her downward with a violent, singular jerk of his arms, forcing her onto him.

She let out a choked scream of pure pleasure as he impaled her to the hilt in one brutal stroke. The sheer suddenness felt like she was being split open from the inside, his thick length stretching her internal walls to a breaking point she hadn't known existed. The friction was so intense it felt like liquid fire pouring into her womb, filling every hollow space of her body. As soon as she was bottomed out, she began to bounce on him with a frantic, desperate energy, her hips moving in a wild, disorganised rhythm that made the heavy mahogany bed scream in protest even more.

Her face was scrunched up in a mask of agonising pleasure, her teeth bared and her eyes squeezed shut as she rode him like a woman possessed by a fever. With every downward slam, her breasts jiggled and swayed violently, the heavy mounds of flesh gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat in the dim, amber light of the room.

Uzair lay beneath her, looking absolutely pussy drunk, his head thrown back against the pillows as he watched her with a raw hunger. One of his hands slid up to capture her right breast, his fingers kneading the soft tissue turning her nipples into hard, aching pebbles.

The phone on the mattress was long forgotten, the connection likely cut or the caller simply stunned into a permanent silence but neither of them cared if the whole of Lyari was listening.

Y/N felt her internal walls beginning to clench and ripple around his dick in an uncontrollable sequence of spasms that felt like a thousand tiny mouths sucking on him. She looked down at his face, seeing the way his jaw was clenched so hard the bone looked ready to snap and the way the veins were starting to pop in his neck. She knew he was on the very precipice of his own violent release.

A wicked, vengeful thought crossed her mind, she wanted to teach this man a lesson for the psychological torture he had put her through with that phone call.

Just as he let out a broken breath and his hips gave an involuntary, violent buck upward to meet her, she abruptly stopped her movement.

She braced her hands against his sweating chest and pushed herself off him with a sharp grunt. The sound of his dick sliding out of her slick, aching body was a wet, echoing squelch in the quiet room, leaving him exposed and throbbing in the cool air, his climax denied.

Uzair let out a roar of pure, frustrated rage, his body jerking with the force of the interrupted climax. He lay there for a heartbeat, his chest heaving like a wounded animal, sweat beading across his brow and matting the dark, thick hair that covered his pectoral muscles.

Y/N's whole body was trembling, the effort of withholding her own release making her muscles twitch and her vision blur at the edges but seeing the look of absolute, murderous madness on his face made every second of the agony worth it. She was the one holding the leash now and she savored the sight of the Baloch lion brought to heel.

"What's wrong, Uzair? Did I stop too soon?" she panted, her voice dripping with a mix of triumph and desperation.

She began to crawl toward the edge of the bed, her movements slow and deliberate, shaking her ass at him in a final tease that highlighted the red handprints he'd left on her skin earlier.

But she had underestimated the speed of a man who lived by the bullet. Before her feet could even touch the rug, Uzair lunged forward with the grace of a predator, his hand snapping out like a steel trap to catch her by the ankle.

He yanked her back toward him with a strength that was terrifying, her body sliding across the sheets until she was once again beneath his looming shadow.

He didn't waste time with the bed this time. He scrambled off the mattress, hauling her with him and then hoisted her up in one fluid, powerful motion that left her breathless. His hands were buried deep in the flesh of her ass, his fingers digging into the red marks he had left earlier, while her legs instinctively wrapped around his thick waist, her ankles locking behind his back to keep her from falling.

Her back hit the cold, hard surface of the wall with a soft thud, the temperature shock sending a fresh wave of goosebumps erupting over her heated skin. The contrast between the frigid wall and the scorching heat of his body was enough to make her head spin.

Uzair looked into her eyes, his own obsidian irises almost completely swallowed by his pupils and then he drove himself back into her without a hint of mercy. There was no finesse this time, only the brutal intent of a man reclaiming his territory and punishing her for her defiance.

The entry was so forceful it knocked the air from her lungs in a sharp gasp, her back arching against the wall as he pinned her there with his sheer mass. His pace was frantic, a rapid-fire succession of deep, punishing thrusts that had her head banging rhythmically against the plaster.

"You think you can play games with me?" he snarled. "I'm going to fuck that smug look off your face."

Uzair leaned in, his eyes dark with a predatory fixation on the sweat slicked mounds of her breasts that were crushed against his chest.

He latched onto her left nipple with a desperate hunger, his teeth grazing the sensitive, engorged bud before his lips sealed around it. He began to suckle with a cavernous pull, drawing the dark areola deep into the heat of his mouth. His tongue began to swirl around the tip in a blurring pace, mimicking the frantic motion of his dick buried deep inside her.

The sensation was a total sensory assault. Her head fell back against the cold plaster, a strangled keen escaping her throat as she felt the direct line of fire traveling from her breast straight to her clit. Every time his tongue flicked against the peak of her nipple, her internal walls convulsed around him in a desperate, milking motion.

She was dissolving, her identity lost in the feel of his mouth working in tandem with his dick that was currently hammering into her with a speed that left her sobbing for oxygen.

Not satisfied with one side, Uzair shifted his focus, his face sliding across the valley of her breasts to find the other twin peak. He caught her right nipple between his lips, rolling the hard nub against his teeth before devouring it. He used his tongue to lash at the sensitive underside of her breast, lifting the heavy weight of the flesh to better access the base. His saliva acted as a lubricant, making the skin glisten under the dim amber light as he alternated between sharp, playful nips and deep, dragging licks that made her knees buckle against his waist.

As he feasted on her breasts, his hands were far from idle. His thick nails dug into the tender, pale underside of her ass, anchoring her firmly against his hips so he could bottom out with every savage upward thrust. The grip was bruising, a physical mark of his ownership, ensuring there was no escape from the way he was stretching her.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips glistening with her moisture.

"Look at how your tits are shaking while I wreck you," he growled, before diving back in to swallow her whole once more.

The dual stimulation was a death sentence for her sanity. Between the punishing weight of his dick filling her to the brim and the localised fire of his mouth on her nipples, she was no longer a woman, she was a pulsing, weeping map of raw nerve endings, utterly at the mercy of the man who ruled her body.

"Uzair...please...it's too much...I can't..." she whimpered, her voice splintering into a cry.

The pleasure had mutated into something violent, a tidal wave that was rising from the depths of her womb to drown her.

But Uzair didn't offer a single shred of mercy. He doubled down on his brutality, increasing the pressure. He was hitting her with such savage force that she could feel the thud of his pelvis echoing in her very chest, each thrust a punishing reminder that no matter how much she fought, he was the only one who held the power in this room.

The world outside ceased to exist, the room shrinking until there was nothing but the stifling heat of their skin and the wet slapping of their bodies meeting with a carnal echo against the wall.

Uzair was a man possessed by a demonic hunger, every corded muscle in his back and arms straining to a breaking point as he chased her pleasure with the same cold, ruthless determination he used to hunt his enemies through the back alleys of Lyari.

"Don't you dare close your eyes," he grunted against her ear. "Feel how hard I'm stretching you open. You wanted to be in charge? Now look at you, you're just dripping mess, taking every fucking inch of me and begging for more."

Her internal muscles were screaming in a state of hyper-sensitivity, clenching around his thick shaft with such desperate force that she could feel the heavy, frantic pulse of his own blood through the walls of her vagina. She was on the precipice, so close that the light of the room began to fracture into a kaleidoscope of grey and gold. She dug her fingers into his boulder-like shoulders, her nails carving deep, bloody crescents into his skin as she clung to him for dear life.

The cold, unforgiving wall at her back was the only thing keeping her upright as he continued to wreck her body with a love that felt indistinguishable from hate.

"I'm going to cum...Uzair, I'm going to, oh god, I can't hold it in!" she screamed, her voice breaking into a wail as the first wave of the climax hit her like a physical blow.

It was a violent, shattering release that started at the very tip of his dick and radiated outward until every limb was convulsing uncontrollably. Her internal walls began to milk him with a rhythmic intensity, a series of deep, liquid spasms that squeezed him so tight it forced a choked sound from his throat. She felt him swell even larger inside her, the head of his dick throbbing and twitching against her cervix as he prepared to follow her over the edge into the abyss.

Uzair let out a guttural roar that sounded more like a wounded animal than a man, his hips bucking one last time with a force that felt like it would drive her straight through the plaster. He buried himself as deep as humanly possible, pinning her against the wall as his cum erupted inside her in thick, scalding pulses.

Y/N could feel the hot, viscous load of his hitting her deepest parts, filling her up until she felt like she was overflowing with him. He groaned her name against the crook of her neck, a sound of total surrender and ultimate victory combined, his body jerking with the intensity of a release that left him spent and hollowed out.

He held her there, suspended against the cold stone, their bodies fused together by a cocktail of sweat, saliva and spent lust.

The world slowly began to bleed back into focus through the suffocating haze of their shared exhaustion, the only sound in the room being the frantic thudding of their hearts. They stayed like that for a long time, draped in the wreckage of their own desire.

She was a dead weight in his arms, her head lolling against the crook of his neck, her skin radiating a feverish heat that hummed against his own. He carried her across the room with a steady stride, the floorboards creaking under the weight of his frame before he gently lowered her onto the centre of the mahogany bed.

As she sank into the tangled, damp sheets, Y/N let out a shaky exhale, her limbs splaying out in a state of total, boneless surrender.

Uzair stood at the edge of the bed, his chest still heaving, looking down at the masterpiece of ruin he had created. He observed her naked form, the way her chest rose and fell in jagged hitches, the scarlet handprints blooming across her hips and the silver sheen of sweat that made her skin glow like polished marble in the dying light. She looked utterly dazed, her lips swollen and parted as she tried to reclaim her breath.

The sight of her, utterly undone, marked by his hands and filled with his cum, triggered a fresh surge of pride in his gut. He leaned down, bracing his weight on his elbows as he hovered over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. His mouth found hers in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and the lingering heat of their shared release. While his lips claimed her breath, his hand wandered downward, his calloused fingers tracing the curve of her stomach before diving between her thighs.

As his fingers brushed against her hypersensitive folds, still weeping and pulsing from the force of their climax, she let out a sharp, involuntary hiss. Her back arched slightly off the mattress, her internal muscles giving one final, weak twitch around the phantom memory of him.

The sheer sensitivity of her body was a testament to how thoroughly he had wrecked her, a physical echo of his dominance that brought a dark, triumphant glint to his obsidian eyes.

Uzair pulled back just enough to look into her blown, hazy pupils, a chuckle vibrating in his throat. He leaned into the shell of her ear, his voice a possessive rasp that brooked no argument.

"So fucking mine."

author’s note returns: I really tried to make it as feral (pun-intended) as possible but writing smut in not my forte (seddd horny noises 😞)

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The mid-morning air in the haveli’s back courtyard was heavy, thick with the scent of incoming rain that never quite broke the heat. Iqra had gone out under the pretense of buying thread, escorted by a disinterested Donga who kept his distance, yelling at Hamza on the phone.

It was near the edge of the old grain market that a hand had reached out from a narrow alley, pressing a folded slip of paper into her palm.

When she looked up, she saw the weathered, orange-dyed beard of the shopkeeper who had recognised her on that fateful day in the bazaar. The old Pathan loyalist looked haggard, his eyes scanning the street with a frantic, desperate intensity. Before Donga could notice, he leaned in, his voice a frantic whisper. “Iqra, bachcha…”

“Mujhe maaf karna," she had started to whisper, her heart hammering against her ribs, the memory of her cruel words in the bazaar burning her tongue. "Main us din... main woh sab nahi kehna chahti thi. Mujhe maaf -"

"Quiet, bachcha." Gul Khan had interrupted, his grip on her wrist tight but trembling. "Main jaanta hoon tumne un Balochon ke samne drama kiya tha taaki meri jaan bach sake. You are the pride of Arshad Bhai. Suno... hum tumhein is jahannam se nikalenge. We are ready. Bas ek madad chahiye. Rehman Baloch ki ek badi consignment aane wali hai agle hafte... it's all cash. Just give us the date and time. Hum unhein tabaah kar denge, aur tumhein yahan se azaad karayenge."

Now, sitting on the edge of the massive bed in Uzair’s room, Iqra stared blankly at the floorboards, the weight of that encounter crushing the air from her chest.

A consignment of money. She knew exactly which ledger that amount belonged to. She had calculated the numbers herself just a week prior. But as she recalled the columns of figures, her mind drifted to where that money was actually destined. It wasn't for weapons. It wasn't for gambling dens or foreign liquor. It was meant for the local Urdu-medium schools in the sector and for the medical funds of the Kalakot dispensary. Rehman Dakait’s money almost always went back into the soil of Lyari.

The invisible ledger in her head began to blur, the neat rows of her hatred tangling with memories she hadn't asked for.

She remembered the cool, soothing touch of Ulfat’s hand in her hair in the quiet of the drawing room, telling her to just breathe. She remembered the sheer terror on young Faizal’s face yesterday when his bicycle chain had snapped, accidentally cracking against her knuckles, and how the boy had nearly cried trying to apologise to her. She remembered Rehman Baloch’s heavy, quiet voice from the study just before the nikaah. Mera bhai agar tumhein zara si bhi takleef de, toh mere paas aana. Main zinda hoon.

And then, she thought of Uzair.

She thought of the raw bands where the silk had chafed her ankles, and the feeling of him completely soft and unaroused beneath his salwar. I can't get hard like this. When all you want is pain. He had chosen to sleep on the hard, cold floor rather than take a wife who was trying to break her own soul against his hands.

Iqra stood up, her movements sudden and frantic. She pulled her dupatta over her shoulders and practically ran out of the room, her bare feet slapping against the marble tiles of the corridor. She didn't go to Rehman. She didn't go to Ulfat. She marched straight into the back courtyard where Uzair was rolling a lit cigarette between his fingers. He snapped his head up at the sound, his eyes narrowing instantly. "Kya hua?"

Iqra crossed the distance in three strides, stopping right across from him. Her chest heaved, her voice trembling but fierce.

"Mere baap ka wafadar mila tha mujhe bazaar mein," she said, the words spilling out of her like a confession. "They are planning to rebel. Unhone mujhse Rehman Bhai ki us consignment ki report mangi hai jo agle hafte aane wali hai. They want the cash."

Uzair’s expression transformed in an instant. The lazy, brooding youth vanished, replaced by the second-in-command of the Baloch gang. The cigarette dropped from his fingers. He stood up to his full, towering height, his jaw working furiously as his mind instantly began mapping the transport routes, the security details, and the potential ambush points.

"Kalaakot ke peeche wale raste se aane wala hai maal..." Uzair muttered to himself, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "Kameene... unki yeh jurrat."

He turned on his heel, his heavy boots gripping the floor as he made a move toward the door to rush straight to Rehman’s baithak and call the enforcers.

But just as he was about to turn the corner, Uzair froze. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his massive frame back around. He looked at Iqra, who was still standing by the desk, her hands balled into the fabric of her kurti, her breath coming in shallow hitches as she watched him. She suddenly felt conscious of her loose hair, her shifted dupatta, her steady gaze and the taste of bile in her mouth.

Uzair’s face softened, the dangerous edge fading from his eyes, leaving behind an expression of profound, unreadable gravity. He took a slow step back into the room.

"Shukriya," he said quietly, his rough baritone carrying a strange sincerity. "Shukriya, Iqra."

That night, the quiet inside the bedroom was heavy, the air cooling as the long-delayed rain finally began to rage against the glass windows.

Uzair entered long after the haveli had gone dark. He walked silently toward the corner of the room, his large hand reaching down to pick up the woven mat he had been using to sleep on the marble floor.

"Nahi," Iqra said into the shadows. She was sitting up in the center of the massive bed, her knees drawn to her chest under the heavy cotton sheet.

Uzair paused, the mat hovering an inch off the floor. He looked at her through the gloom. "I told you, I-"

"Bistar par so jao, Uzair," she cut him off, her voice cracking slightly before she forced it into a hard, rigid line. "Ya toh tum yahan upar aaoge, ya phir main us thande farsh par ja kar so jaaungi. Jo karna hai, karo."

Uzair stared at her for a long, silent moment. He let out a low sigh, tossed the mat aside, and walked over to the bed. He climbed in on the opposite side, his massive frame sinking into the mattress. He remained perfectly still, lying flat on his back leaving a wide, cold expanse of mattress between them. He did not reach out. He did not touch her.

Iqra turned away from him, burying her face into the plush pillow. The darkness behind her eyelids offered no escape.

A flood of memories broke through her defenses. She saw her father, laughing loudly as he swung her around their small courtyard. Then the image shifted, and she saw him slumped in a drunken stupor, reeking of cheap liquor, a shard of glass in her mother's neck. She held back her tears, her chest heaving silently as the ghost of her father tangled hopelessly with the monster of her nightmares.

"Ek baat poochein?" Uzair’s rough baritone suddenly cut through the dark, quiet and tentative.

Iqra didn't move. "Kya?"

"Why did you let us catch him?" he asked, his voice carrying a genuine, unresolved confusion. "Unhein dhoka dekar... aap mere barabar mein aakar kyun let gayi?"

A tear finally escaped, soaking into the soft pillowcase. She turned her head slowly, looking at the sharp profile of his jaw in the dim moonlight.

"Tumhein abhi tak samajh nahi aaya, Uzair?" she asked, her voice trembling violently with a raw, bleeding vulnerability. "Don't you know I have tied my fate to yours, on the day I refused to push you onto the nail?"

She turned back around feeling entirely bare. A soft, quiet sob escaped her throat, and she began to cry. Don't cry. Abbu hates it when you cry. But she could not stop the weeping that she tried desperately to smother against her arm.

The mattress shifted heavily behind her.

"Iqra," Uzair murmured, his voice dropping into a whisper. He sounded… "Main aapko sehlaana chaahta hoon."

She closed her eyes tight until her head hurt. "Jo karna hai karo," she whispered, her voice raw. "Jo tumhara dil chahe."

Slowly, the mattress shifted. A wall of warmth lined her back, his body heat instantly radiating through the thin fabric of her nightdress. He slid a thick, heavy arm over her waist, pulling her back until her back was pressed completely against his broad chest. His breath softly stirred the tiny baby hairs on her neck. She could almost pretend it was just a husband holding his wife in the dark.

Wrapped in his warmth, the frantic pacing of her heart finally slowed, and she hated herself for it. As she began to drift, she suddenly turned her body around to face him, burying her face into the crook of his collarbone. She kept her eyes locked tightly shut, refusing to open them, terrified of what his reaction might be if he saw her seeking his comfort. The steady rhythm of his breathing against the back of her neck pulled her down into the dark, where her monster waited to claim her.

That night, however, the wasteland of her nightmares changed. The crimson fog was gone, replaced by a golden haze. Uzair stood before her, but the bare chest, the sweat, and the dripping blood had vanished. He looked remarkably handsome, dressed in a simple, clean white kurta, his dark eyes looking down at her with a sweetness that made her breath catch. He didn't reach out to hurt her. He didn't force her against a wall.

He simply looked at her, his lips moving as he spoke her name in a low, beautiful whisper. "Iqra... Iqra…”

His large, calloused hands didn’t pin her down; instead, they cradled her face, his thumbs gently wiping away tears she hadn’t realized she was crying. When he lowered her to the ground, the stone wall was gone, replaced by a soft bed. He slid his hand beneath her clothes, his movements slow, almost reverent. When his fingers found her center, there was no brutal surge. He stroked her wet, swollen folds softly, while she whimpered. He gently pressed two fingers into her, thrusting with a patient, gentle rhythm that made her chest ache. Iqra felt the last defenses around her heart dissolve. She stopped fighting, her fingers tangling in the clean linen of his white kurta as she surrendered completely, falling apart beneath his touch as a soft, breathless sob escaped her lips.

He didn't pull away when the waves of her release began to quiet down. He kept his fingers deep inside her, his thumb resting softly against her sensitive pearl. He leaned down, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath sweet and warm.

"The waking world can be like this too, Iqra," he whispered. "Tumhein har baar ladne ki zaroorat nahi hai. Hum aise bhi reh sakte hain."

Iqra looked up into his dark, beautiful eyes, her breath hitching as a strange, hollow ache twisted in her stomach. Even in the golden haze, the memory of fire and blood lingered at the edges of her mind.

"Yeh kaafi nahi hai," she breathed, her voice trembling desperately. "Sirf itna kaafi nahi hai..."

Her husband's gaze darkened. "Kaafi nahi hai?"

Without removing his hand, he suddenly flexed his fingers inside her, curling them deeply against the inner walls of her core. The sudden, deeper pressure against her sensitive flesh made her gasp aloud, her spine arching sharply. He began to fuck her again, but the rhythm was heavy and demanding. “Uzair,” she gasped. “I came already - ah, please - ” It was so intense that it blurred the boundary between an exquisite ache and absolute pleasure. It felt like something beautifully dangerous, a sweet torture that made her tighten around his hand.

He leaned into her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe as she cried out from the overwhelming sensation. "Toh phir... aisa bhi ho sakta hai. Tumhe jo chahiye, wahi milega."

Iqra snapped her eyes open with a sharp, violent gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

The golden mist vanished instantly, replaced by the bright, clear morning light filtering through the windows of the bedroom. The steady, rhythmic sound of the rain had stopped, leaving only the soft chirping of birds outside.

She was still in Uzair's arms. He was sleeping. The warmth of his body was suffocatingly close.

As she carefully tried to shift her weight to pull away from his grip, she felt a cool, damp stickiness between her thighs. She looked down through the tangled sheets. Her nightdress had ridden up, and the heavy cotton fabric of Uzair's salwar pants right at his thigh was darkened by a prominent, wet spot where her cunt had been pressed flush against him through the night. The physical proof of her dream was smeared right into his clothes.

The occasion was momentous; a celebration of Hamza Ali Mazari’s one-year anniversary with his wife, Yalina, to honour their union. Since Yalina was, of course, Jameel Jamali's daughter, the guest list was a mix of Lyari’s underworld and the city's highest political circles.

Yalina Ali Mazari was dazzling. Young, effortlessly beautiful, and dressed in a midnight blue lehenga that shimmered under the courtyard lights, she was the absolute life of the gathering. She did not have the mature grace of Ulfat Baloch, even looking bored and irritated most of the time, but her cheeky smiles and sharp words at anyone who got too comfortable were incredibly endearing. Eventually, Yalina drifted toward the sofa where Iqra sat stiffly in a deep maroon kurta. Somehow, amidst the small talk, the conversation veered into the logistics of organising the massive event.

"Hazaaron log hain, aur catering ka hisaab samajh hi nahi aa raha tha," Yalina said, rolling her eyes playfully. "Pata nahi vendor ne kitna upar-neeche kiya hai paisa."

Iqra knew it was an attempt to connect with her using the only public detail about her. The turncoat accountant. But she wanted to talk to someone so badly that she couldn't stop herself from answering, looking at the structural layout of the tables and "Vendor ne plates ka rate bees percent zyada lagaya hai. Agar aap total head-count aur waste margin ko calculation mein daalein, toh unhone paanch laakh ka ghabla kiya hai."

Yalina’s eyes widened in genuine delight. "Arre, tumhein numbers ki itni samajh hai?"

Her husband suddenly appeared from behind a nearby pillar. "Humara hisaab-kitaab yahi rakhti hain. She knows it all better than any of us."

It was ridiculous. Being complimented over some stupid catering charges. But Yalina quickly jumped to another topic, asking her what college had been like, whether she had any stories to tell. It hurt to remember those times, but she talked anyway. 

As the night progressed, Iqra found herself watching Yalina. The politician's daughter was glowing, her  her eyes reflecting a pure, simple happiness to be married. Hamza Ali Mazari - the very man who had shot his way through her father's ambush to save Rehman Baloch - stood beside his wife with a gentle smile. He adjusted her dupatta when it slipped, fetched her water, took her pictures and looked at her as if she were the only person in the crowded courtyard.

Iqra felt a sharp, bitter pang of jealousy. Why does she get to be this happy? Why does her marriage feel like a celebration, while mine started like a execution?

She looked around the sprawling room. Across the courtyard, Rehman was arm-in-arm with Ulfat, throwing his head back in a merry, booming laugh as he raised a glass with his inner circle. Everywhere she looked, there were happy couples, families, and laughter. Even Uzair was completely at ease, trading jokes and slapping the shoulders of his gang mates, genuinely happy for his friend. The fortress of her enemies was full of joy, while she felt like a ghost walking through a festival.

Then, her gaze landed on a table. Jameel Jamali sat there, adjusting his expensive waistcoat, smiling his stupid smile.

Fury, hot and suffocating, flared in Iqra's throat. Haraamzaade. Jamali had been her father's greatest ally when it was profitable, whispering promises of political protection into Arshad Pappu's ear, only to switch sides the exact moment the wind blew in the Baloch gang's favor. Now, he sat here, eating their salt, completely unbothered by the blood on his hands.

"Oye, dekh na... Balochon ka chhota sher ab kis ke saath ghum raha hai."

The voice was loud enough to cut through the ambient music. Two middle-aged associates of Jamali, clearly drunk on imported whiskey, were staring directly at Iqra from a nearby lounge area.

"Arshad Pappu's little girl, isn't she?" the second one sneered, a vulgar grin on his face. "Incredible planning, I must say. First they killed her slimy father, and now she's warming their beds. Serves her right! Suna hai bade mazaak udd rahe hain bazaar mein iske thappad ke."

The insult hung foul in the air.

Before Iqra could even process the burning humiliation, the laughing, joking man across her vanished. Uzair set his glass down on a table with a deafening thud. The entire courtyard seemed to drop five degrees as he turned his full, towering frame toward the two men. Oh, Allah, please give him the good sense not to make a scene. 

He didn't yell. He didn't even pull a gun. He simply walked over and stopped right in front of them, looming like an oncoming storm.

"Apna munh band rkhho, warna yahan se tumhare jism ke tukde bahar jayenge," Uzair said, his voice a low, terrifying vibration that silenced the immediate radius. “Kidhar rehte ho dono?”

The two men, sobered up by the situation, hastily mumbled out an address. “Great.” Uzair said. “Aaj mere yaar ke liye mehfil hai, aaj main kuch nahi karunga. Kal subah taiyaar rehna, main aake tum dono ke haath-pair tod dunga.” There was silence, for a moment. Iqra looked at Yalina, wondering if she was upset about the ruined celebration. Hamza had her arm around her, and she looked almost pleased. “Jameel Saab!” Uzair called. “Ar-arrey Uzair, they're just drunk and stupid! Forget about them! Mera bachcha hai na tu, yaar?” Ignoring Jamali's extended blabbering, her husband said, “Unke hospital ka bill humare yahan bhej dena.” Jamali started to say something, but Rehman just pushed back his chair.

Everyone was quiet after that.

Uzair left a final parting shot, his eyes locked onto the men with the absolute conviction of a man defending the dignity of his household. "She is the pride of this house. Mind yourself."

The two drunk politicians turned pale, their grins instantly evaporating as they stumbled backward, offering frantic apologies. Uzair didn't spare them another glance. He turned back to Iqra, his expression taking on that mild frown again. “Your sandal strap has come undone.” Gratitude warred with irritation. Really? You protect my honour in front of a crowd but can't wait to tell me about my sandals? “Thank you.” She muttered, pulling her skirt slightly to the side and beginning to bend.

“Wait.” Uzair murmured. Before she could snap, he knelt on the grass and tied her sandals. A jolt went through her at the sight.

An hour later, as the guests began to stream out of the heavy gates, Rehman caught Iqra near the inner veranda. He looked tired but clear-eyed, the celebration finally winding down.

"Iqra," Rehman said quietly, stepping away from his guards. He looked at her with that heavy seriousness that she had come to find comforting. "I've told you earlier as well. Aaj sab ke saamne ek tamasha hote hote bacha. I'm asking you once again… are you happy in this marriage? Agar woh tumhein takleef deta hai, toh mujhe batao. Main abhi sab theek kar doonga."

I believe you, Iqra realised. I didn't then. But I do now. 

She stood beneath the amber glow of the veranda lamp. She looked back at the courtyard, where Uzair was currently helping an old servant lift a heavy crate of empty bottles, his bandage straining slightly against his shirt. She thought of the walks in the bazaar, the golden dream, the wet spot on his salwar, and the fierce, unyielding way he had just stood between her and the venom of the world outside.

She met Rehman’s gaze.

"Nahi, Rehman Bhai. Aaj ke tamashe se to unhone hi mujhe bachaya," Iqra said, her words steady and unwavering. "I am his wife." She took a breath. “I have no regrets.”

“Is that true?”

It will be, soon. “Yes.”

Rehman watched her for a long moment, searching her eyes for something. “Thand hai. Andar chali jao.” He inclined his head to her once, and walked away into the house.

Iqra turned and walked back toward the bedroom, the memory of the monster crumbling to dust with each step.

Iqra sat in front of the mirror, unpinning her hair. The amber glow of the bedside lamp caught the sharp angles of Uzair’s face as he threw his ivory sherwani onto the chair. He didn't turn to face her immediately, but she could see him standing with his back to her, his large shoulders rigid beneath his thin undershirt.

"Maine sun liya jo aapne Rehman Bhai se kaha," he said, his rough baritone cutting through the quiet. He turned slowly, his dark eyes fixing on her in the mirror. "Ab mujhse kahein. Aap chahti kya hain? From this marriage, from me? You call me a murderer, yet you call yourself my wife."

Iqra stepped out of her chappals, her bare feet pressing into the cool marble. She met his gaze, her voice steady, stripped of the frantic armor that usually guarded her words. "Main is rishte ko nibhana chahti hoon, Uzair. I want to make this marriage work."

Uzair let out a harsh laugh, stepping closer until his towering frame cast a shadow over her. "Aap hosh mein to hai? Main wahi aadmi hoon! Maine aapke baap ko maara tha. And I don't regret it in the slightest. Kal agar woh mere saamne zinda khada ho, toh main - ."

"Tum unhe phir se maar doge. I know." She didn't flinch. "Aur woh waise bhi marne wale the. His deeds, his habits... unhein kisi na kisi din koi maar hi deta. Jaise kisi din tum bhi kisi goli ka shikaar ho jaoge. That is the truth of this life. I can't ruin my life by running away from monsters I can't escape."

Uzair turned away with a shake of his head, his hand running through his dark hair. "You've gone mad. Aapka dimaag kharab ho gaya hai."

"Mera dimaag bilkul theek hai," Iqra said, moving quickly. She grabbed his broad shoulders, her fingers digging into the muscle, and forcefully spun him back around to face her. "Mujhe acche se pata hai mujhe kya chahiye. Aur main jaanti hoon ke tumhein bhi yahi chahiye." For a moment, they were quiet. Uzair's shoulders heaved under her fingers, and his gaze made her throat dry up.

To prove her words, she lowered her hand, her palm deliberately brushing against the front of his grey linen salwar. Please, don't let it be like last time. To her relief, beneath the fabric, a thick, hard bulge that pulsed against her fingers. He wasn't soft tonight. The heat of him burned straight through the cloth into her palm. She inhaled sharply. Uzair’s breath hitched, his chest expanding as he took a sharp, ragged breath.

Iqra dropped smoothly to her knees on the rug before him. Her hands reached for the thick silk drawstrings of his salwar. The moment her knees hit the floor, Uzair recoiled as if he had been burned. He grabbed her by her upper arms, his iron grip physically lifting her, pulling her back to her feet. "What do you think you're doing? Mere saamne ghutnon par nahi baithengi aap. Khadi ho jayein abhi ke abhi!"

"Peeche hato, Uzair!" she snapped. A fierce, hot rage swelled up within her. She slapped his hands away from her arms and pointed toward the wall behind him. "Uss deewar se lag kar khade ho jao. And hold on to my hair. Do you need orders for everything?” 

Uzair’s pupils dilated, a raw, primal look taking over his features. The fierce commander of Lyari obeyed without a word. He stepped back until his broad shoulder blades hit the plaster wall. His large, calloused hand reached out, his thick fingers tangling deep into the long, dark waves of her unpinned hair, gripping the strands firmly near the base of her skull. Slowly, he tilted her face up toward him. His eyes are beautiful, Iqra realised suddenly. Or perhaps she had always known.

She knelt back down, her breathing turning shallow, his hand dropping down to remain in her hair. With a  pull, she untied the drawstrings and stripped the heavy linen fabric down his muscular thighs, then helped him out of his boxers, baring him fully to the dim light of the room. Ya Allah, that size…

She froze, her throat going entirely dry. Standing rigid and fully engorged before her eyes was his thick length, the tip cut, shining and slick. It was massive, dark, and throbbing with thick veins all over, a terrifying testament to the hunger he had suppressed for weeks. A sudden wave of nervousness fluttered in her stomach at the sheer size of him, her hands trembling slightly as she hovered near his thighs.

She forced herself to look up. Uzair was staring down at her, his head tilted back against the wall, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide and completely consumed by the sight of her at his waist. Iqra swallowed hard, her voice shaky.

"Hum dono ko thoda kaam karna padega..." she whispered, her fingers gently wrapping around the hot, pulsing base of his shaft. He hissed and knocked his head back against the wall. "So that you fit inside me. Kyunki main aaj tumhein is kamre se bahar nahi jaane dungi jab tak tum mere andar poori tarah aa nahi jaate.”

The clean scent of the room faded, replaced entirely by the musk of his skin. Iqra leaned forward and opened her mouth against the smooth, pulsing crown of his length.

When she first took him in, her throat tightened instantly. He was too thick, too huge, and the taste of him made her head spin. He groaned. She pulled back slightly, her lips slick, her eyes watering as she looked up at him.

Uzair’s head was thrown back against the wall, his jaw clenched so hard the bone looked ready to snap. His fingers, still tangled deep in her hair, tightened instinctively, anchoring her close. He didn't push her down, nor did he force her. He kept still, but his entire body vibrated with a fierce restraint as he let her set the pace. 

Gathering her courage, Iqra tried again. She used her hands to steady the heavy base of his shaft, her smaller fingers curling around the hot, burning skin while she lowered her mouth back down. She began with slow strokes of her tongue, tracing the thick, raised vein that ran along the underside, learning the contours of his size. He did not cry out, but his choked gasps and hisses made her blood roar. She discovered that if she used her lips to seal around him, drawing him in just past her teeth while her hand stroked the remaining length, his chest would heave with a violent, ragged breath.

"Ahh… Iqra," Uzair growled, a low, guttural sound that seemed to tear from the very bottom of his lungs.

The passive stillness in his frame cracked. The gangster, the murderer, was trembling beneath the touch of her mouth. His hand in her hair shifted from a stationary grip to a slow, guiding pressure, his thick fingers massaging her scalp, his palm gently tilting her head to show her the angle he needed.

"Aise…bilkul aise," he rasped through gritted teeth, his breath coming in short, panicked counts as she tilted her head to take him deeper, letting her throat relax to accommodate him. "Slow…you're doing so well. So good…ahh…"

Hearing his praise in that wrecked voice sent a heavy, throbbing ache straight to Iqra's own core. She grew bolder. She used the wet warmth of her mouth to coat as much of him as she could take, bobbing her head according to his gentle pulls on her hair, while her thumb stroked the skin on the underside.

Through glassy eyes, she could see Uzair’s hips twitch against the wall, as if he badly wanted to thrust. But he stopped himself, his knuckles turning white where his other hand gripped the edge of the teak desk beside him. He looked down at her through hooded eyes, his face flushed.

"Iqra… bas," he choked out. He tangled both hands in her hair now, gently pulling her mouth away from his cock. "Nahi toh main yahin khalaas ho jaaunga…”

The taste of him was intoxicating. She couldn't bear his pulling away. "Doesn't it feel good?" she almost snapped, feeling the raw ache between her own thighs.

"Bahut achha lag raha hai," Uzair rasped, his voice dropping into a ragged, desperate register. He reached down, his large thumb wiping a drop of sweat from the corner of her mouth. "Isi liye bol raha hoon. I want… I want to come inside you." 

Iqra let out a soft, breathy laugh. A spark of mischief rose inside her. "Mujhe bata dena jab paas ho," she whispered. She didn't wait for his instructions. She took him back in, her lips sealing tightly around his thick width as she began to suck harder, using the vacuum of her throat to draw him down.

Uzair’s chest heaved violently, his hips shuddering against the plaster. "Iqra... not so hard… don't swallow," he warned through a clenched jaw. "Aadat nahi hai aapko... gala baandh jaayega." Driven by a sudden, fierce urge to push him past his limits, she took a breath, then deliberately swallowed around his cock in her mouth.

Uzair cried out, a loud, unbridled sound that echoed off the high ceiling. The sudden constriction caught Iqra off guard; her throat spasmed, and she began to choke slightly, pulling herself off him with a sharp cough, her chest heaving as she sucked in air.

Uzair immediately leaned down, his face tight with concern as he gripped her shoulders. "Are you insane? Maine kaha tha na - "

"I liked," she interrupted breathlessly, grinning. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked up at his fully engorged, throbbing length, which was glistening with his fluids and her spit.

As she lowered her head to put her mouth back around him, she paused, her eyes locking onto his dilated pupils. "Yaad rakhna... tell me when you're close."

Uzair didn't last more than a few minutes. The little experience she had of these things was at least enough to please him.

"Iqra... Iqra, stop," Uzair begged, his voice cracking completely as his hips locked tight against the wall. His fingers dug into her scalp, trying to gently pull her head back. “I'm…I can't -” Instead of pulling away, Iqra looked straight up at him through her lashes. She sank her teeth in - the barest, sharp hint of a graze against his sensitive skin - and sucked him in as deep as her throat would allow.

The bite broke his control completely. With a loud roar that tore from his chest, Uzair filled her mouth. His hips thrust forward helplessly, his entire body going rigid as wave after wave of his thick, hot release pumped into her throat. It was bitter and musky. It felt like something almost holy, as it slid down her throat. Iqra kept her eyes wide open, staring directly up into his face as she swallowed the heavy, bitter heat of him, refusing to let go until the final pulse subsided.

Slowly, she pulled her mouth off, remaining on her knees before him. Her lips were wet, and she could feel thin smears of his essence glistening on her chin.

Uzair collapsed back against the wall, his chest heaving as if he had just survived a fight, his eyes half-closed as he tried to claw his breath back. "Kaisi zaalim ho tum." he cursed softly, his voice a broken, breathless wheeze. He's stopped with the “aap”, Iqra noted proudly. "Kyun kiya aisa? Mana kiya tha na maine."

She wiped her chin with her thumb. "Main dekhna chahti thi," she whispered, her voice steady. "I wanted to see if your eyes would roll back into your head… the way they do when you take a drag of your filthy cigarettes."

Her husband let out a low, gravelly growl, his dark eyes slowly opening to fix on her with a fierce, burning heat. She shivered, registering how slick her thighs were beneath her skirts. He reached down, his large hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb resting against her racing pulse. “Tumhare saamne cigarette ka nasha kuch nahi hai."

Iqra placed her hands on his thighs and pushed herself up to her feet, her bare skin brushing against his. She looked up at him.

"Toh phir…” she murmured, her hand drifting down to smooth over her own hips. "Ab asli kaam ke liye taiyaar ho? Ya tumhara saara dum nikal gaya, Baloch?”

Uzair didn’t answer with words. The easy, teasing warmth in his face vanished, swallowed whole by a dark, unyielding gravity. His large hand slid from her neck down to the pins of her blouse, and with a single, downward wrench of his arm, the fabric tore open.

He didn't wait for her to gasp. He lifted her bodily off her feet, his iron-hard forearm locking beneath her thighs, and flung her back onto the center of the massive mattress. Before she could even scramble to sit up, his heavy weight dropped over her, pinning her hips to the sheets.

“Main aaj raat tumhein baandhne mein waqt barbaad nahi karunga, Iqra,” he growled, his voice a low, rough baritone that vibrated right against her skin. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his chest heaving. “So stay still. Don't thrash.”

Iqra was already shaking, a violent, helpless tremor running through her limbs as her core pulsed under the sudden, suffocating heat of him. “Dum hai to jo chaho karo,” she whispered defiantly, though her breath was shallow.

Uzair lowered his mouth to her bare chest, his focus turning fiercely, relentlessly attentive to her breasts. He caught one rounded peak between his lips, drawing the soft flesh in deep, his tongue swirling aggressively around the sensitive crown before his teeth nipped the very tip. Iqra’s spine arched completely off the bed, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing from her throat. He didn't stop, moving from one side to the other, sucking and biting with a heavy, deliberate pressure until her nipples were swollen, dark, and so hyper-sensitive that even the ambient breeze from the open window felt like a brush of fire against her skin. Then he raised her hips and slid her lehenga down before throwing it away. 

He slid down her body, his hand moving blindly past her stomach to find her core. The moment his blunt fingers brushed against her folds, he froze, a low, thick sound escaping his throat. She whimpered. 

She was completely drenched. The slick, hot wetness of her own arousal had coated her thighs, a heavy torrent of moisture triggered solely by the act of servicing him on her knees.

“Abhi se yeh haal hai to aage jaakar..” Uzair muttered, his dark eyes flashing as he pressed two fingers into her tight, burning heat.

The entry was fast, his thumb immediately locking onto her swollen pearl, grinding heavy, relentless circles against the flesh. The dual friction was devastating. Iqra’s head thrashed from side to side against the pillows, her hands clawing frantically at the sheets as he drove her higher and higher within minutes. She couldn't fight it, couldn't brace herself. With a loud, unbridled wail, her body shattered, her inner walls contracting violently around his hand.

Uzair pulled his slick fingers free and immediately positioned his massive, throbbing length between her parted thighs. He rested his palms on either side of her head, his chest slick with sweat as he looked down into her glassy, dazed eyes. He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, she thought.

Slowly, deliberately, he began to sheathe himself within her.

The moment the thick, blunt crown of his shaft pushed past her entrance, Iqra let out a sharp, strangled cry. Even with the moisture, she was incredibly tight, her narrow body stretching to its absolute limit to accommodate his massive width. Her hands flew to his broad shoulders, her fingernails digging deep into his skin; but not to stop him. “Uzair… please…don't stop moving.”

But he stopped, his jaw working furiously, his veins bulging against his neck. Without pulling out, he reached his hand back down between their tangled bodies, his thumb finding her clit once more through the slick mess. He began to stroke her slowly, forcing her body to meet the intensity of the pain with pure, primal pleasure.

Iqra gasped into the quiet room, her hips bucking upward as a second, blinding climax tore through her lower abdomen. The release did exactly what she needed - her narrow walls loosened, slicking completely around him, giving way to his size.

Taking advantage of the sudden surrender of her body, Uzair pushed forward with a single, heavy thrust, burying his length all the way in until his pelvic bone slammed hard against hers.

Iqra gasped, her eyes widening as she felt the sheer, suffocating fullness of him stretching her core to the absolute maximum. She braced for the relentless, brutal pounding that usually followed in her darkest fantasies.

But the movement never came.

He locked his arms, his massive frame trembling as he held himself perfectly still inside her. His breathing was a ragged, harsh wheeze, his muscles coiling like steel springs as he fought the primal urge to take his own pleasure. He looked down into her eyes, his dilated pupils burning with a deep, fierce sincerity.

"Iqra..." he rasped, his voice breaking with the sheer strain of his restraint. "Main tab tak ek inch bhi nahi hilunga... jab tak tum mujhe yeh waada nahi karti... ke tum mujhe tumhe dard nahi pahunchane dogi. Don't use me to punish yourself.”

Her chest heaved, a hot, choking sob tearing from her throat as she struck his bare, scarred shoulder with a weak fist. "Kameene... haramzaade..." she wept, her face twisted in a mixture of raw frustration and  pleasure, along with something else she couldn't name. "Hato mere upar se! Mujhe nahi chahiye tumhara yeh sab drama!"

Uzair didn't budge. He stayed locked inside her, his veins bulging against his neck, his muscles visibly vibrating from the sheer, crushing effort of holding his massive weight perfectly still. "Promise me, Iqra," he rasped through a clenched jaw, his dark eyes burning down into hers with an unyielding intensity. "Pehle waada karo, warna main yahin ruka rahunga."

The suffocating fullness of him stretching her inner walls, combined with the wait, finally broke her. She closed her eyes, more tears spilling over her lashes. "Theek hai! Theek hai, waada karti hoon!" she cried out, her voice breaking. " Oh, khuda, please just move!"

The moment the promise left her lips, Uzair let out a grunt. He pulled back slightly and then thrust forward, starting a slow, heavy rhythm that made Iqra’s spine arch off the sheets. Every deep, deliberate slide felt like it was rearranging her guts. But the slow pace was a tease her body couldn't handle.

"Uzair... faster," she gasped, her fingers clawing frantically into the skin of his back. "Faster, please!"

Uzair paused mid-stroke, his breathing stuttering as he looked down at her flushed, tear-stained face. "Soch lo," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "If I end up hurting you, you'll regret it."

"I like it when you - ," she started, but the moment she saw the sudden darkening of his expression she quickly corrected herself, her voice trembling. "I'll be fine - I know you'll -” she swallowed the last remnants of her pride. “Tum mera khayal rakhoge. I know you will.”

The frantic reassurance was all he needed to unleash the beast. Uzair snapped. He grabbed her waist with one hand, anchoring her flat against the mattress, and began a brutal, unyielding pace. He slammed into her with the raw, terrifying force of the monster of her dreams, his heavy thrusts hitting her cervix with a wet, echoing rhythm that knocked the air completely from her lungs. Simultaneously, his hand reached back down between their bodies, his blunt fingers pulling and aggressively stroking her swollen pearl.

"Uzair! Uzair!" Iqra screamed his name into the empty room, her vision blurring into pure, blinding white light. The sheer velocity of the pleasure was too much; her inner walls spasmed violently, contracting in a tight, desperate vice around his length as a shattering climax tore through her. She squeezed him so hard he let out a choked roar.

But he was nowhere near done.

Instead of slowing down, the tight constriction of her release drove him into a frenzy. He resumed his brutal pace immediately, his thrusts turning deeper, harder, and entirely relentless. Iqra’s body was hyper-sensitive now, every slide of his thick skin against her raw walls feeling like a brush of white-hot fire.

"Bas... Uzair, ruko! Slow down, please go slow!" she begged, her voice hysterical as she thrashed her head from side to side against the damp pillows, trying to pull away from the impact.

Uzair didn't relent. He leaned down, his sweat-slicked chest flattening her breasts, his hot breath scorching her ear. "Kyun? I thought you liked it when I hurt you," he growled through gritted teeth, his pace never wavering. "Now be good for me and take it."

He kept overstimulating her, his fingers relentlessly working her pearl while his massive shaft claimed every inch of her interior until she swore she could feel him in her throat. Iqra was crying openly now, tears of pure, unadulterated ecstasy and physical exhaustion streaming into her hair. She couldn't help it - her cunt was screaming in protest, but her lips betrayed her, letting out ragged, pathetic moans of praise. "Oh, Uzair, it feels so good - stop - no, don't you dare stop..."

With a final, crushing thrust that buried him deeper than he had been all night, Uzair filled her up, his own release pumping into her core in thick, hot waves. 

The feeling of the burning liquid inside her triggered a violent spasm inside her. Iqra came one last time, the overwhelming, explosive release shattering what little sanity she had left. She became completely hysterical, a mix of wild, broken laughter and heavy sobbing tearing from her chest as her limbs went entirely limp beneath him.

Uzair slowly, carefully pulled his length out of her, the wet, sliding sound echoing in the quiet room. But the moment his weight left her, a sudden, blinding panic seized her. Iqra reached out with all the remaining, trembling strength in her arms, her fingernails clawing into his forearm, holding him back with a desperate, frantic grip.

"Nahi! Mat jao!" she cried out, her voice raw and cracking. "Stay... mujhe chhod kar mat jao, Uzair!"

Uzair looked down at her, his expression softening as he saw her shaking violently beneath the sheet. "I need to clean you up, Iqra. Takleef ho rahi hogi."

"I don't care! Don't you dare move!" she insisted, her grip tightening on his arm as she pulled him back toward her.

Uzair let out a soft, defeated breath. "Theek hai. Kuch der yahin hoon."

He climbed back into the bed, sliding his arm beneath her neck and pulling her shivering body flush against his bare chest. Iqra immediately buried her face into the crook of his collarbone, her fingers latching onto his shoulder as if he were the only solid thing left in a collapsing world.

Uzair held her tight, his large hand moving in a slow, soothing circle against her bare back. Slowly, her body calmed down from the violent tremors.

"You did so well," he whispered into her damp hair, his rough baritone carrying a quiet, genuine tenderness.  "Bahut pyaari ho tum, meri jaan.” 

The endearment made her want to cry. She pressed her lips to his neck and whispered five names for the last time.

“Kya kaha tumne?”

“Kuch nahi.”

When she woke in the morning, she couldn't remember having a single dream.

The sheets were cold on the other side of the bed when Iqra blinked open her eyes. She lay still for a moment, listening to the unfamiliar rhythm of her own breathing no longer frantic, no longer guarded by the shadows of a blood feud. The past few weeks since their ultimate reconciliation had worked wonders. She slept dreamlessly every night, too peaceful (and tired, and sore) to imagine monsters and footballs.

She got up, bathed, and combed through the long, dark waves of her hair, braiding it loosely today. She dressed in a simple, olive-green cotton kurti, the soft material brushing against the faint, fading marks on her throat from last night.

Her husband was standing on the long, arched balcony that overlooked the inner courtyard and the outer gates. He was leaning his massive forearms against the concrete balustrade, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, the blue smoke drifting lazily into the morning air. He had already changed into a fresh white pathani, the collar left unbuttoned.

Down in the courtyard, the sharp thwack of a leather ball echoed. Faizal was running barefoot through the mud, laughing loudly as he maneuvered a football past Siyahi, while Donga stood near a concrete pillar, acting as a makeshift goalkeeper and shouting terrible, good-natured insults at the boy.

Iqra walked up beside Uzair, her shoulder brushing lightly against his arm. She looked down at the scene, the domestic peace of the fortress still a strange thing to witness.

“Inko subah-subah koi kaam nahi hai kya?” She asked?

“Arrey, you don't understand!" He laughed. "Exercising is good for men like us. It keeps us fit. Rahi baat bachche ki, unki umar to khelne ki hi hai. Main jab bachcha tha, bhai mujhe pehle khelne bhejte the, uske baad hi padhne bolte the.”

After a few moments of quiet, she looked up at his profile. "Uzair… ek baat batao. Tum Rehman Bhai ke saath kab se reh rahe ho? Tumhara apna ghar…?"

Uzair took a long drag of his cigarette, his eyes tracking the football below. "Main bohot chota tha jab hamare Ammi-Abbu ko Pathaniyon ne maar diya tha," he said, his rough baritone flat, devoid of emotion as if reading an old ledger. "Rehman Bhai bade the. Unhone mujhe sambhala, pal-pos kar bada kiya. Woh mere sirf bhai nahi hain."

Iqra jolted slightly, her hand tightening on the concrete railing. She hadn't known that. To realise that Uzair, too, had stood in the very same ashes she had… it sent a strange, quiet wave of compassion through her chest.

Uzair didn't meet her eyes. He flicked a cylinder of ash over the ledge, his jaw tightening. "I know what it is like, Iqra," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, strained register. "What I don't know is how you can still choose to build a life with me.”

Iqra went silent. In her mind's eye, she looked around the haveli - at the kitchen wing where Ulfat was likely supervising inventory, at the study where Rehman looked over her accounts, and down at young Faizal who was currently high-fiving Siyahi after a goal. She thought of her father's head in the air, drops of blood flying like rubies. She even thought of her mother, dead at the hand of her husband. She thought of loneliness, of fear, and of safety.

"Meri yeh nayi zindagi… itni bhi buri nahi hai, Uzair," she said softly.

"Par kya yeh kaafi hai?"

Iqra looked back down at the courtyard, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "Ek din ho jayega."

To shake the heavy, suffocating solemnity from his face, she stepped closer, her shoulder bumping his as she gave him a sly, teasing look. "Wo sab chhodo. Yeh batao, kya tum mujhe kahin lekar nahi jaoge? People go on honeymoons after their wedding, you know. Ya Balochon mein sirf dhanda hi hota hai?"

Uzair’s brow pulled up, a sudden, wolfish glint returning to his pupils as he looked down at her open lips. He was as eager to lighten the mood as she was. "Honeymoon?" he muttered, a low chuckle escaping his throat. "Mera mann toh tumhein kisi khoobsurat jagah le jaane ka hai… Dubai, let's leave tomorrow! Suna hai wahan ke hotel bahut badhiya hote hain, aur kamre… kamre itne bade ke tum jitna marzi cheekho, awaaz bahar nahi jaati."

Iqra’s cheeks flushed a violent crimson, but she didn't back down, playing along. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a filthy, teasing whisper. "Kamra bada ho ya na ho… tumhara dum toh do minute mein nikal jaata hai na?” 

Uzair growled, his hand instantly shooting out to grip her waist beneath her dupatta, pulling her flush against his hip. “Accha… do minute? Parso jab hotel ke kamre mein band karunga na, toh paani maangne tak ki awaaz nahi bachegi!"

“Uzair!” She laughed. “Aren't you supposed to leave for Balochistan next week?”

“Arrey, Bhai sambhal lenge! Waise bhi -”

"Tere bhai to tab sambhal lega na, jab usse iss plan ke baare mein kuch pata bhi hoga."

The dry, booming voice cut through the air like an iron rod.

Uzair and Iqra sprang apart instantly, as if they had been struck by lightning. Iqra quickly pulled her dupatta over her chest, her face burning hotter than the noon sun, while Uzair cleared his throat frantically, looking everywhere but behind him.

Rehman Baloch stepped out from behind a massive concrete pillar, a completely deadpan, unbothered expression on his face. He walked over to the railing, not even looking at his brother and sister-in-law’s panicked faces.

"My own brother and sister-in-law make plans and I don't even know about it. Aise kaise chalega?" Rehman said, his tone dry enough to turn timber to ash. He looked down at the courtyard, where Faizal was still playing.  “Bhai,” Iqra started, “We were just -”

"At least keep your…conversations out of earshot of your nephew. Woh bachcha abhi khel raha hai, usko yeh sab sunne ki zaroorat nahi hai. If the wind blows your words to him, both of you will regret it."

Iqra covered her face with her hands, letting out a pathetic groan. "Rehman Bhai… please, aur sharminda mat kijiye."

Rehman let out a soft, amused huff through his nose. He looked at Uzair. "Dubai ki tickets main book karwa raha hoon - kal ki na mile, to parson ki. In any case, our business is expanding there. Have a look at the accounts kept by our men there. If you can spare the time, of course.” He gave them one final, warning look. "Par ghar mein tameez se raho. You have an entire wing to yourself." 

Her husband couldn't contain himself. “But Bhai, what about the time I caught you and Bhabhi in the factory throne room -” Iqra grabbed his wrist, digging her fingernails in until he shut up. Rehman was looking at his brother with eyes that promised death. “Bhai, inka matlab hai ki - hum dono aapke shukrguzaar hai. Aapka shukriya.” 

“Teri biwi ne iss dafa tujhe bacha liya. Agli baar aisi faltu baatein ki to munh tod dunga, bete.”

With that, the older brother turned on his heel and walked back into the corridors, his heavy sandals thudding softly against the marble.

Iqra dropped her hand, looking at Uzair who was currently trying and failing to suppress a grin. She nudged his ribs with her elbow, her voice a mix of disbelief and lingering embarrassment. "What was that? Tum sach mein mujhe lekar ja rahe ho? Sirf isliye kyunki maine mazaak mein keh diya? Don't you value your time?” She wanted, suddenly, to throw her arms around him and kiss him. But she was unfortunately extremely shy outside their rooms.

“Mere rooh ka qatra-qatra tumhara hai, meri jaan. Mera waqt kaunsa bada cheez hai?” He pulled her forward into the shadows. Then he stepped back to stop blocking the light, letting the rays of the sun hit her face. 

Oh, to hell with everything. She surged forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, rising up on her toes and pressing her lips to his. He responded immediately, pulling her close and kissing her back.

“Chachu yaar!” A voice sounded from the courtyard. “Subah subah sabke saamne? Ja raha hoon Abbu ko batane!”

They pulled apart. “We're fucked.”

THE END 

A/N: aaaaaand we're done!... with the main story. i do plan to post smutty oneshots of this couple every now and then because GOD do they fuck wild. to everyone who has shown love to this fic, please know that you guys are the entire reason this fic got finished so quickly. I love you guys. see y'all the next time these two decide to fuck like rabbits. <3

tagging: @cakiebleh @ninnimouse @debsreads21 @uzairpaglu @chai-aur-chaand @donewithmath @gehra-hua @miraclejin1204 @hereforfanfictionsfr @tanipartner @anxiousbeeing @mrgrungusthefrog

Akshaye was honestly taken aback by his own courage in inviting her back to his room. He hated interviews with all his heart, he hated journalists, he hated the entire PR machinery and yet when his hands were moving involuntarily to put across his message to her, he hadn’t stopped for a moment to recall his disdain for the world of journalism.

She kept drawing him towards her like a moth to flame. Her rather authentic persona, unlike the fabricated ones journos have always put up unarmed him, and worse her beauty, he was sure would be the downfall of his steady set of beliefs regarding celibacy. He figured she was new at her job, but even then those younglings would be stuttering and not pulling out thought-provoking questions out of their hats.

She was a wildcard. And he craved to know more about her. He was always turned off inauthentic personas, those hiding behind a mask of ingenuity and glowing with ulterior motives and in the sea of famished diligence, crashing into her had been no less than spotting an oasis in a desert. 

To make it worse, if his mind was making two moves ahead, his body was 10 steps ahead, signalling his raging desire for her. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, the way her dress hugged all her curves perfectly, her auburn hair fell over her forehead, as if a waterfall cascading the vast greenness of the valley and the neckline barely concealing her spilling cleavage but decent enough to pass off as professional, hell he was answering with clipped sentences, wanting to wrap up the interview as quickly as possible ever since he felt his jeans tighten at her vision.

He sighed, lifting up his arms to take off his shirt, and dressing in a much airy loose shirt, leaving the top few buttons unbuttoned, making his chest hair peek out a bit. He lighted a cigarette, aiming to clamp his burgeoning thoughts somehow, before he heard the knock on his door. 

Fuck 

The door clicked open and Saumya was met with a sight which had her thoughts derail into filth. Soft cargo pants hung low on his hips, paired with a black Henley casually unbuttoned from the top, revealing just enough of his chest and the faint trail of chest hair peeking through to make her thoughts take a sharp, deeply inappropriate turn. A half-lit cigarette rested lazily between his fingers, smoke curling around him in slow spirals, while his hair was still slightly damp from what was very obviously a fresh shower. And the spicy, warm scent of the aftershave it hit her all at once, wrapping around her senses so completely that for a second she genuinely forgot how breathing worked.

Like she had accidentally stepped into one of those embarrassingly detailed fantasies her brain occasionally cooked up at 2 a.m., the kind she firmly blamed for waking up flustered and with her panties suspiciously damp in the morning. 

How the hell was she supposed to survive a longer interview with him?

Because A. she had barely escaped the first one with her dignity intact.

And B… Mr. Sex-on-Legs himself was now standing in front of her looking determined to turn this into the most difficult mission of her life.

Mission Control Your Hormones

“Hey thanks over coming over”, Akshaye muttered, as he gestured to invite her inside to his suite. 

Yeah I wish I came over you 

“Yeah—-um, it is my pleasure”

It sure is Saumya. 

He led her further into the living space of the suite, and Saumya had exactly three seconds to pretend she was taking in the luxurious interiors before her attention drifted straight back to him. A large mahogany table sat at the center of the room, polished to perfection, its sleek surface reflecting the warm yellow lights above. The entire suite screamed understated luxury, quiet, expensive, intimidatingly elegant, much like the man currently pulling back a chair for her with casual ease.

He’s also a gentleman…..yaar kitni baar dil jeetoge akshu 

“Please,” Akshaye said, and Saumya sat down far too quickly, muttering a rushed “thank you” while internally trying to remember how normal human beings functioned around attractive people.

He moved toward the opposite end of the table and took his seat there instead. Not beside her. Directly opposite. And if Akshaye were being completely honest with himself, that distance had been very intentional. Because another minute seated too close to her, and he genuinely would’ve started doubting his own self-control. The interview downstairs had already tested him enough. Between the flushed cheeks, nervous little Hindi slip-ups, and the way she looked at him like she was simultaneously analyzing him and trying very hard not to climb him, his restraint had been hanging by a thread for the past hour. It was a miracle that he had not kissed her right there and then. 

Tu shaant reh, Akshaye, he told himself, leaning back slightly. Pehle baat toh hone de. Seedha paap pe mat utar.

Akshaye suddenly turned toward her with an unexpectedly bright smile on his face.

“So,” he said enthusiastically, shifting slightly closer, “batayiye, kya puchna hai aapko?”

Saumya blinked at him.

Absolutely no way this was the same Akshaye Khanna she had walked into interview downstairs. That man had been guarded, reserved, answering questions like every extra word physically pained him. Meanwhile this version of him was sitting here with actual excitement in his eyes, smiling openly, looking genuinely curious about whatever she was going to say next.

It was deeply disorienting.

His eyes were practically twinkling now, the smile lingering easily on his face in a way she doubted most people ever got to see. The sharp intensity he usually carried had softened completely, replaced by something boyish and warm that made her chest ache a little.

Bhagwan ji… iska smile dekh ke mera blood pressure kyun fluctuate karta hai?

“You’re very different off camera,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Akshaye tilted his head slightly. “Accha?”

“Haan. Interview mein toh aap aise behave kar rahe the jaise har question ke saath aapki life expectancy kam ho rahi ho.”

That pulled a laugh out of him immediately.

“Most interviews mein hota bhi wahi hai.”

“No seriously,” she continued, still staring at him suspiciously. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Akshaye Khanna?”

“Hm,” he pretended to think. “Maybe mujhe bas tumhare questions pasand aaye.”

The way he said tumhare so casually nearly took her out on the spot.

Saumya Khanna does have a ring to it. 

Before she allowed her bain to entertain more delusional fantasies of her even more delusionally hypothetical marriage with Akshaye, Saumya, gathering the last remaining tidbits of her professionalism, pulled herself together and began asking questions like a seasoned journalist, donning her mask of authenticity with surprising ease. 

And Akshaye, now completely at ease in her company, responded just as comfortably without resorting to the one-word-answer game he usually played with journalists, old or new. His answers weren’t fancy, but they landed deep, laced with an unmistakable genuineness. His tone, which had earlier carried that familiar air of disinterest and detachment, began to shift slowly, turning more animated, more curious leading him to smile at several moments, and this time, the smile actually reached his eyes. And Saumya….God…..her heart did an entire acrobatic routine in her chest. Because that smile? It was disarming to her panties, it made her wonder why he didn’t smile like that more often… and also how she was supposed to survive if he did.

As the last few interview questions faded away, the conversation loosened naturally, slipping out of structured answers and into casual disdain for the industry. By now, they had moved out to the terrace, Akshaye wanting a smoke and “some actual air that doesn’t smell like hotel polish,” as he had muttered dryly.

Mumbai stretched beneath them in scattered lights and distant traffic, the warm night breeze curling softly around them while they stood beside the balcony railing, Saumya with a chilled Diet Coke in hand, the recorder long abandoned somewhere inside the suite. Once things went off the record, the real opinions began spilling out almost immediately.

“Honestly,” Saumya sighed dramatically, swirling the ice in her glass, “half the films these days feel manufactured in a lab, like someone sat with a checklist; shirtless entry, random foreign location, emotionally unavailable hero, heroine with no personality except skimpy clothes, unnecessary jingoism and bas, ₹100 crore collection ready.”

Akshaye let out a soft huff of laughter beside her, cigarette balanced lazily between his fingers. “You forgot the remix song.”

“Oh right,” she nodded seriously, “Very important. Heroine shaking her waist in a silver lehenga while absolutely nothing related to the plot happens.”

“Critical storytelling element.”

“Well item songs are a national requirement.”

“And why,” she continued passionately, now fully committed to the rant, “does every hero need to enter like he’s the second coming of Christ? Dust flying, ten men flipping in the air, background dancers behaving like they’ve witnessed divine intervention…”

“I hate those,” Akshaye said with genuine irritation. “With passion.”

“And why is there wind indoors?” he continued, now sounding personally offended. “Kahan se aa rahi hai hawa?”

“EXACTLY!” she nearly yelled. “Curtains udd rahe hote hain, cars blast ho rahi hoti hain, background mein thirty men screaming hero’s name like he cured malaria.”

“Meanwhile hero bas paan khareedne gaya hota hai.”

That got a proper laugh out of him.

Bhagwan ji, yeh aadmi agarr mere saamney wapas hasa then do not blame me for the woman I become

“And anyway,” he added dryly, “if I ever have one of those hero entry scenes in a film, I want someone to shoot me.” Saumya burst out laughing so loudly she nearly spilled her drink.

“Done,” she nodded solemnly. “I’ll personally do the honours.”

Maar bhi dungi par uske pehle aapko kha jau?

“But seriously,” she sighed, calming slightly, “doesn’t it bother you? Everything feels so business-oriented now that creativity just dies somewhere.”

“It was always business,” he replied calmly. “People are just less subtle about it now.”

“That’s so depressing.”

“It’s practical.”

“And actors still keep saying yes to terrible scripts,” she muttered.

“Rent bharna padta hai.”

Saumya turned toward him slowly. “Don’t you live in a penthouse?”

Akshaye took another drag very thoughtfully before replying, “Exactly. Uska rent bharna padta hai.”

She stared at him for two full seconds before bursting into laughter.

“That is the most rich-person problem I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“I’m suffering.”

“In luxury.”

“Pain is pain.”

“But people are equally at fault too, I feel. If they like an actor in a certain role, they think the actor should be moulded only for certain characters, and then people wonder why actors complain about typecasting,” Saumya continued dramatically, now fully invested in her rant.

That made him turn toward her properly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Tum itni personally offend kyun lag rahi ho?”

Saumya immediately regretted opening her mouth. “Nahi, matlab… generally bol rahi hoon.”

“Generally?” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Tum actor ho?”

She looked down at her drink, suddenly finding the bubbles popping up very interesting. “Uh… haan. Thoda sa.”

“Thoda sa?” he repeated, deeply unconvinced. “Journalist side hustle hai ya acting side hustle?”

A reluctant laugh escaped her. “Acting main hai. Journalism bas… bills bharne ke liye.”

That genuinely surprised him. Most struggling actors he met carried desperation loudly, but she carried hers like an inconvenience she refused to let define her.

“So where have I seen you?” he asked, studying her more carefully now. “Tum familiar lag rahi ho.”

Saumya nearly choked on her Diet Coke. “Nahi nahi, aapne nahi dekha hoga.”

“That confidence is concerning.”

“I’m between projects,” she muttered quickly, suddenly fascinated by the condensation on her glass. “Matlab… unemployed with elegance.”

Akshaye burst out laughing at that, the sound richer and far less restrained than the polite chuckles he usually gave during interviews. “Achha, toh yeh haal hai?”

“Sir, struggle aesthetic maintain karna padta hai,” she deadpanned. “Warna Bandra mein koi seriously nahi leta.”

As she spoke, a light breeze caught a few stray locks of her hair, and he found himself observing her with an interest that was steadily deepening. Her honesty was blunt, her laughter was unforced, and her reactions were entirely visceral, making her beauty feel remarkably refreshing and, increasingly, irresistible. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed as a realization took hold, as if a missing piece of a puzzle had finally slotted into place.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, pointing at her with the cigarette. “I know where I’ve seen you.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, piecing it together. “Jab We Met.”

“You played Kareena’s sister.”

Saumya stared into her Diet Coke with the focus of a scientist discovering nuclear fusion. “This weather is really humid, na?”

“Roop,” he continued triumphantly. “You were Roop.”

Saumya sighed into her drink. “Aap bohot observant ho. Thoda kam bhi ho sakte the.”

He looked unfairly pleased with himself. “And here you were acting like you’ve never faced a camera before.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t remember.”

“No can do,” Akshaye replied easily, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I always remember the memorable ones.” And just like that, Saumya felt heat rush straight to her face.

Haan haan beta abhi blush bhi karle, abh aur kya hee bacha hai sharminda hone ke liye (too soon Saumya, too soon)

“So,” Akshaye asked after a moment, taking another drag of his cigarette, “are you in for any roles these days?”

“No,” Saumya replied with a tired sigh. “Whatever comes my way is too flowerpot-type. And the meatier roles… well, they don’t even see the light of day with these nepo kids hoarding them all up.”

Akshaye looked at her then, a mixture of amusement and curiosity flickering across his face. “Oh?”

“Well yeah, come on,” she scoffed lightly. “Don’t act like it doesn’t exist.”

“It obviously exists,” he said without hesitation. “I’m literally a product of it.”

Love a man with self-awareness

“At least you admit it!”

“What’s the point of denying obvious things?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged dramatically. “PR training? Delusion? Collective national gaslighting?”

“Strong possibility.”

“Half the interviews these days feel like hostage negotiations anyway,” she muttered. “‘No no I struggled a lot,’ sir your father owns three studios.”

A hint of amusement graced his features. 

Pataka hai poori

“But honestly,” she added after a moment, quieter this time, “I’ve always had a tiny crush on you since Himalay Putra… so I’m willing to forgive nepotism just this once .”

His brain sizzled before registering, maybe God was being lenient on him today.

“Tiny crush?”

The way he repeated it immediately made her regret having functioning vocal cords.

Tiny?? Saumya you used to come on your fingers uss aadmi ke Filmfare interviews VHS pe rewind karke 

“Well…” she cleared her throat awkwardly, suddenly finding the city lights below extremely interesting to observe, “tiny-ish.”

Chal beta itna boldiya hai toh poori duki maarde

“I’m honestly surprised you’re still single with a face card like that,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Akshaye chuckled softly at that, shaking his head. “Well, what do I tell you? That’s precisely the problem with our industry, Saumya. Everyone’s just after faces. Hearts and souls are secondary. Loyalty is a very fickle quality here.”

Saumya’s expression softened instantly. “I don’t mean to intrude, but did someone…?”

“You could say so,” he replied quietly. “But I’m past that now. I’m focused on my work, nothing else matters.”

Akshaye fell silent for a moment after that, his gaze drifting toward the city below. “People confuse attention with intimacy all the time.”

“And that’s why you’re still single?” she asked carefully.

“Partly.”

Chal beta chance maarle apni

“So what are you like… as a partner?”

Akshaye leaned one shoulder against the railing, the cigarette glowing softly between his fingers as he looked at her for a long moment before answering.

“I’m a romantic,” 

“I get attached very easily,” he continued calmly. “And once I care about someone… I care seriously.”

“I’m also very possessive,” he added huskily, taking a slow sip of his drink while holding her gaze. Her breath caught slightly at his intense gaze. She felt a sudden gush of wetness rush to her pussy, heat pooling in her tummy. 

What the hell, why did he look at her while saying that??? Saumya tu waapis delusion main toh nahi chali gayi

“I can get obsessive too,” he admitted quietly, eyes flicking toward her briefly before returning to the skyline. “Bohot junoon hai mere andar, probably more than most people can handle.”

She briefly got some erotic visuals of them tangled in bed, his hips glued against hers, wildly ramming his cock into her, keeping her headlocked, whispering absolute filth in her ears, making her wetter by the second, she shuddered, trying to squeeze her thighs for relief, as he went on making her life a living hell. 

Bhagwan ji, yahi uthane ka iraada toh der kiski

“And I like making my partner feel wanted,” he continued, his voice roughened now, every word curling through the cigarette smoke like slow heat. “Emotionally…”A pause followed, deliberate enough to make her pulse stumble.

“…and physically.”

Saumya’s breath hitched; she was embarrassingly wet now; her core was throbbing, sweet  juices flooding mercilessly through her panties making them dangerously damp. More visions flooded her mind, of them glued together in different positions, sounds of skin slapping slick with sweat drilled her ears, not stopping the harcore fucking they were at. She forced herself to squeeze her thighs unsuccessfully as she took in Akshaye’s words, one at a time. If she were to get home without combusting, she had to leave at this very second, because her chikna lychee here was casually talking about being obsessed with keeping his partner satiated, while her body was dying, and with one final lustful dart aimed straight at her unraveled core, “I take keeping my partner satisfied very seriously,” he breathed, his eyes ogling her frame, stepping closer to close the distance. 

She let out a small moan, muffled by clearing her throat. Her thighs were trembling from the sheer force at which her nectar was leaking through her panties. She could smell the scent of her hot liquid pooling around her inner thighs and a realization dawned upon her, if she could smell, he could too…suddenly she moved, too quickly and…….

SNAP!!!!!!

Her heel snapped clean through the middle. One second she was standing there trying desperately to preserve what little composure she had left, and the next the ground vanished beneath her. A startled gasp escaped her as she lurched sideways straight into Akshaye, his eyes widened as he instinctively caught hold of her waist before the sudden force sent both of them stumbling backward together, “SAUMYA—-”

Neither had enough time to recover. They crashed onto the pull-out couch behind them in a tangled blur of limbs and uneven breath, Saumya landing first against the cushions while Akshaye fell over her a heartbeat later, catching himself just enough to keep his full weight from crushing her. Akshaye lifted his head first, his gaze locked onto hers immediately, and whatever dry remark had been forming in his mind dissolved on the spot. 

Her olive-green eyes had darkened completely now, the thin ring of colour around them nearly swallowed whole by blown pupils, her dress, disrupted by the fall, had ridden up against her thighs, the fabric gathered carelessly. Akshaye's hands reached the dress to pull it down, his fingers darted closer, splayed on her inner thighs, looking straight into her eyes, “Ms. Tandon....." his fingers now slick between her thighs,"does your pussy get dripping wet for every person you harbour a tiny crush for?”

A/N : OK MY PRETTY BBGURLS THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE UPLOADED TOMORROW 👅 ENJOY THARKI LOG 😝

Tags : @tere-naal-nachna, @ossiespinsladen, @y0uneversawmehere, @myvarya, @layinglowkey, @dilfconisuer, @baddiefication101, @bollywoodfandoms8, @girlonfloralcrack, @desigirlwritesxx, @mohinixoxo, @jkdaddy01, @chwrryelz, @buzzwheezeunsolveddororo, @angelllk1ssed, @misteriadare, @golgappalicious, @sanpiece, @cloudmast, @goodnightkatherine @pavbhajisupremacist @ulfatbaloch @lessbutliving @shippingtheshippers @tanipartner @sparksfromhell @desigurlie @obsessedwidskincare @depressedgiftedburnout @suvarnarekha @mandaakiniii @misteriadare @subhu-99 @tojisloft @alyislost @rayylovesf1 @bitchy-bi-trash @rohirats @rosesandpeoniesthings @harrystyleskiwi9 @aaglagibastimainhumapnemastimainb @shadylovedhurandhar @goodasaysboo @maystella @moonxinthesky

It all started because of a strip of land. 

It wasn’t even that big of an area. 

But unfortunately it encompassed a narrow trisection that passed through one of the most secure routes connecting Lyari to the coast. Anyone who could gain complete access to that road would be able to not only secure their shipments but also triple their profits by cutting down the transport cost and time. 

Thus most of the businessmen in town were behind it. 

And so were its masters.

Rehman Dakait had maneuvered deals ten times more complicated with the heavyweights of the murky world of both business and politics with the annoying ease of a seasoned player and yet acquiring this one measly piece of land was proving to be quite a headache. 

The land owner used to be a small-time working class man who had a shop in the market. He had died from tuberculosis a long time ago and his widowed daughter had inherited the land. Now one would think, for Sher-e-Baloch himself, getting the land out of a hapless widow who lived inside his own territory, would be a piece of cake. 

So had Rehman. 

But he hadn’t anticipated the sheer level of trouble a single woman with no apparent power or influence could cause for him. 

He had sent one of his more polished enforcers, a lad named Saqid to secure the land and offer the widow a more than fair compensation for it. 

“She refused”, Rehman said deadpanned, repeating the dumb statement his mighty enforcer had just told him instead of asking a question like one would expect. 

Saqid on the other hand looked like he had seen a ghost. 

“You mean to tell me, you couldn’t acquire a measly strip of land from a puny woman half your size and probably one third your weight, despite the twenty lakh in your pocket?”, Donga,one of his more intelligent men, asked the imminent question instead. 

“Bhai, I swear, I tried everything. Sweet talking, cajoling, threatening— the entire works. I told her you were the one asking and no one in town has the guts to deny anything to you but she was adamant. I even offered a twenty percent hike on the money still..”

“And she still refused?”

Saqid nodded miserably and then for some reason looked strangely shifty. 

Rehman was leaning on his chair, observing the little beads of sweat that had collected on his man’s forehead. He was nervous. Not the kind of fear that facing one’s boss without having completed the job would be. But an odd kind of primal terror that Rehman has rarely seen on the faces of his battle hardened boys. 

“Bhai, there is..something strange with that woman—”

Donga rolled his eyes so hard they almost dropped off his sockets and swatted Saqid on the back of his head making the latter yelp and stagger in front. 

“Don’t tell me even you have bought into that bullshit cock and bull story”

Rehman just raised a single eyebrow. And that was a gesture enough. 

Sajid looked away embarrassed. 

“Pallavi Thakur was born in wealth. Her family migrated from India to Bangladesh and then found themselves in Pakistan. Her father was a deeply religious man but he had his vices. He had apparently gambled away most of their wealth when Pallavi was very small. Later he got her married to a local strongman.”

The entire warehouse was silent now, all ears perked up to Donga’s outlandish rendering. 

“Mysteriously, the man was found dead just after his wedding night. Not a single wound on his body, only all his blood had been drained off. Pallavi was sent back to her father. Then the old man was found dead a few days after and the doctors ruled it as tuberculosis. Then I heard Arshad Pappu had sent his minions to snatch the land from her somehow and all of them were dead before the week was out”, he paused for dramatic effect. 

“There is something seriously wrong with that woman. Some say an ancient Goddess protects her. That it is a blessing and a curse at the same time.”

Donga had a habit of spinning tales out of nothing, putting forth a rumour or story in an increasingly theatrical way to dazzle his audience. 

Rehman indulged him usually. 

But this time, his frustration had overpowered his benevolence. 

“Don’t feed me stupid shit, Donga. Boons and banes are human constructs fed to people to keep them in line, either out of gratitude or fear. And Gods don’t come down on earth to shield mortals and their immaterial lives.”

Donga looked appropriately chastened. Sajid was still sweating. The rest of the boys were trying their level best not to end up accidentally meeting his eyes. 

Rehman sighed and got up from his throne in a fluid move. 

He was the apex predator in this town. And no razor mouthed widow and her imaginary protectors are going to keep him away from what he wanted. 

If Rehman Baloch wanted something, he would get it, by hook or by crook. 

“Fine”, he drawled through the clenched cigarette between his teeth, “I will do it myself.”

________________________________

The house was as modest as it gets. 

Rehman had rung the bell and was waiting at the doorstep trying to bore through the heavy teak door with his vision alone. The afternoon sun was sweltering and his anger was steadily on the rise. 

The thing with Rehman was that the more furious he got, the icier his disposition became. 

The wondrous widow and her so-called protector wouldn’t know what hit them. 

The doors opened the next moment and something chilly immediately ran down Rehman’s heated blood. It had been instantaneous, jolting him a little. 

Pallavi Thakur was a strikingly beautiful woman. 

Delicately built, a wheatish gold complexion with raven black wavy hair reaching her curvy waist, she was donning an unsettlingly milk white saree that wrapped around her slender figure like an amorous lover. 

Yet what had arrested Rehman’s vision were her eyes. 

She had large fish shaped eyes, lined with kohl and slate coloured irises and the look in them bespoke of a million galaxies spinning nebulously. There was something deeply melancholic in that gaze and yet it had a strange amalgamation of innocence and a sharp wit fighting for dominance. 

Rehman had rarely found himself tongue tied, in any situation. 

Not even a firing squad, neither powerful men, nor any of the seductresses all ready to throw themselves at him on a moment’s notice. 

And yet he felt like whatever temper and sharp words he was about to spit had evaporated right out of his mouth. 

His throat had dried up like the desert.  

He must be looking like a fool, gawking like a goldfish. 

Those hypnotising eyes flashed with sharp recognition before the corners crinkled slightly in a smile that didn’t reach that plush cupid’s bow. 

“What can a beggar offer a king?”

Her voice was a melody that chimed like delicate anklets wrapping around his suddenly thundering heart and yet somehow made something unnerving tighten its roots around his vulnerable throat. 

“A few minutes of her time… madam”, he finally managed to utter. His voice had turned into gravel. 

Pallavi cocked her head like a considerate sparrow and then a small smile painted the corner of her pink stained lips. 

Rehman had never believed that fairies existed. 

At least till now. 

His hands were sweating and he wished he could rub them in his black kurta. But he couldn’t show how much he was affected by the opposite party before the negotiation had even begun. 

He was feeling like an insect pinned to a board in front of that gaze. 

How is it even possible? 

This tiny mite of a girl, a whole head shorter than him and making him fumble like a teenage boy seeing a girl’s ankles for the first time. 

“Well then, I will be honoured to host the Sardaar in my humble abode”, her eyes twinkled as she performed a tiny bow, almost mocking and just walked back inside the house, as if expecting him to follow her. 

Rehman stepped in and felt a violent force suddenly arresting his entire body. He looked around panicked, for a moment, expecting the police or his innumerable enemies to jump from the shadows and laugh at him, for being trapped because of his own foolishness. 

But there was no one. 

The living room was a modest affair but his eyes were drawn to the numerous portraits of the Hindu gods and goddesses adorning the peeling walls. Their faded eyes seemed to jump at him from the frames, almost daring him to make a single misstep. 

Goddamn, he shouldn’t have listened to Donga’s idiotic stories before coming here. 

Now he was imagining things. 

Like the way the air seemed to thicken around him, proving a slight difficulty in breathing. The heavy scent of incense was a scratchy sensation at the back of his throat. It stung his eyes and burnt the back of his tongue. 

Pallavi placed a single china cup in front of him and took the opposite seat. 

Now in the dim afternoon light coming from the courtyard beyond, he could see the stack of brown beads she was wearing around her wrist. There was a single spot of something whitish on the hollow of her throat. 

“That is the only thing remaining that my father hadn’t managed to gamble away”, Pallavi whispered, eyeing the tea cup in his hands, “that and this land.”

Right. The land. That piece of earth that had started all his troubles. The reason why he had come to her. Not for staring at the poor woman like a creep. 

“Fiftey lakhs”, Rehman whispered and sipped on the beverage inside the porcelaine. The cup was inlaid with real gold and the blue pattern made over it reminded Rehman of Persian pottery. 

Pallavi laughed. 

It hit him right in the center like a boulder aimed for his ribs. 

It should have made him feel humiliated. 

“So much money, Dakait sahab. When you can always snatch it by force.”

“I would rather not go into unpleasantries that would inconvenience us both. And then I have heard what your supposed protector does to people who try that route.”

The woman was staring at him in a way that made him feel exposed. It wasn’t a very nice feeling. The paintings staring from above judgementally were already making him feel strange. 

“So you believe in the rumours?”, she asked, a raised eyebrow. 

“I believe in caution”, he put the cup down gently. 

“Be as it may, I cannot take your offer”, she arranged the ends of her saree, straight back and graceful. Her hair was a silken river at one side of her body. 

Rehman hadn’t noticed the pink hibiscus tucked into those curls at the other side of her head when she had opened the door. 

“Sixty”

She was mum. 

“Seventy”

He continued undeterred. 

“Ninety”

She just smiled beguilingly. Patience was something that unfortunately Rehman didn’t have in endless supply. 

“One crore.”

She had to be a right fool to not take it. He had to be a right fool to even offer so much. Was it even about the land anymore or was this just his arrogance refusing to back down at being opposed for the first time since he had sat on the throne of this decrepit town?

No, Rehman doesn’t operate on ego. His entire empire would become vulnerable if he gave credence to his emotions and not cold logic. Maybe, this was just morbid curiosity. 

Pallavi sighed and looked at the ceiling. 

“For you it might be a piece of dirt and gravel that would help your business interests. To me it is sacred. You can offer me your entire kingdom, Sardaar and I shall still not part with it.”

The words rang clear in that congested little room. 

Open defiance. 

So the damsel had teeth. 

“I understand you might want to keep it, considering most of your possessions had been sold off by your father. But holding onto a rootless rock during a thunderstorm will only make you drown. That land is not fertile. It is blocked by my routes and people more powerful than me have interest in it as well. It would only cause you further grief.”

He leaned back in his chair, opting to ignore the steadily rising pressure at his nape. He didn’t believe the bogus Saqid had spewed. It had to be the oppressive heat that was irritating him. Or his steadily rising blood pressure. 

Pallavi’s pulchritudinous face was a mask of stone by then. Her eyes were flashing madly. The steel grey of her luminous irises, twin embers of volcanic residue trained with almost a military precision on him. 

A lesser man would have squirmed. 

“Your concern is duly noted.”

And promptly thrown into the trash, it seemed. 

“So you won’t sell the land to me?”, Rehman narrowed his eyes, jaw still loose with practised nonchalance. 

Pallavi stood up gingerly, letting the crisp fall of her white saree straighten, as if dismissing him already. 

The sheer gall of this girl. 

“I shall not sell it to anyone, sir”

Rehman got up. The pictures stared at him beadily from their perch. The air was getting too heavy for his liking. He needed the open scorching dust of the streets. The dank walls of this house were pressing onto him from all sides. 

“Such a shame. Then I shall take your leave, madam.”

He gave her a half mocking bow like she had at the beginning. 

Pallavi joined her palms together in a gesture Rehman knew the Indians predominantly used to greet someone or see them out. 

The sheer fucking gall of this beautiful brave girl. 

_________________________________

The strange happenings started right after. 

Rehman had called a minister who had called his ward secretary who had called another guy who knew a guy, it was an entire channel—as it has always been with him, who had started imposing unearthly amounts of taxes on Pallavi’s little shop. 

His boys had surrounded the land and had started building their fences easily, it was not like Pallavi could afford to put security. And even if she did, the gang would just either buy or threaten them out. 

Money worked so much better than fear ever did. 

Rehman on the other hand was almost cursed with seeing Pallavi Thakur everywhere he looked. She came in his dreams, mischievous eyes and sharp smiles. She was the face of every girl he accidentally gazed upon. He could barely breathe without her image filtering in front of his eyes like a goddamned curtain permanently fixed to his irises. 

This was a strange disease that had no seeming cure. 

Never before has the thought of a woman afflicted him so. 

He was almost stricken with it. 

Struck down by thunder and a brand deep into his soul, she appeared like a particularly annoying scar that refused to scab over. 

Rehman couldn’t afford to get distracted like this. 

She didn’t matter. 

She was just another cog in the wheel he has crushed for his own benefit. 

And yet he couldn’t unsee those marble eyes, that light caramel skin, those silky waves, the silhouette of those curves from that swanlike fabric draped over her. Her laugh that had lit an inferno beneath his skin. Those witty words tangling like knots into his heart. 

He was in a feverish daze. 

And then the incidents started happening. Falling one by one like dominoes in a game he could no longer see the end of. 

The minister met with an accident. A truck t-boned his swanky sports car. The ward secretary threw himself off the roof of his own office. People cried suicide. The other two men involved died one after the other in strikingly weird situations. 

The income tax officer levying the duties on Pallavi’s shop was found drained off all his blood in a gutter beside the municipality building. 

Rehman refused to see the pattern that was clearly visible. 

He poured over every evidence, every chit of paper he could get, talked with all the investigating officers, racked his brains for nights together and yet he couldn’t find a single suspect of outside interference. 

It was like the killer if there even was any was invisible, existing in two places at the same time, scarily overpowered and had influence till the upper echelons of the Karachi elite. 

And then his boys started hallucinating. 

The three men he had appointed to oversee the construction of the tunnel underneath the land came back, white faced and slashed all over and shit scared, one afternoon. 

They had apparently been attacked by an invisible entity. 

Strange demonic noises had been coming from beneath the earth. 

And then they had seen a jackal emerging out of the woods that lined both sides of the land. It had glowing amber eyes and was the size of a full grown tiger. 

Rehman had whacked Khurram right on his head, as hard as he could. 

“How many times have I told y’all to not mix drugs with alcohol? Idiots, the lot of you! Must have gotten attacked by a wild dog or something and had conjured up jackals with glowing eyes and demonic noises.”

They had made timid protests but Rehman had sent them back the next day. This time fully armed with their best Kalashnikovs. 

They had found their dead bodies two days later. Torn up into shreds and spread all over the land like it had been anointed with their blood and guts. Rehman had directed the forest department to search for wild animals— especially jackals. 

“There are no hints of animal bite marks, Sardaar”, the forensic expert had stammered under the Dakait king’s spectacular glare. 

“The strange thing is, none of their guns have fired a single bullet. Why wouldn’t they fire, if they were being attacked? It makes no sense, Bhai”, Uzair had said puzzled.

The half built tunnel had collapsed mysteriously as well. 

Rehman was at his wits end. 

Quite literally. 

It couldn’t be. 

It was simply not possible. 

All it had been; a bunch of bullshit carefully curated to scare everyone away. 

And yet the evidence of the same lay in body bags and pieces in the morgue. 

Pallavi Thakur still came in his dreams. This time, she looked a little sad to him. She smiled rarely and always seemed to want to say something to him but he would wake up before she could finish her words. 

Rehman didn’t even need the land that much. But he would not be scared away by petty tricks and hidden assassins and fucking glowing jackals. 

_____________________________

It was a mid afternoon sun glazing the streets of Lyari when Rehman almost got his teeth knocked out because his car had stopped abruptly from seventy to zero and he had almost slammed face first with the dashboard. 

“What the fuck Donga!”, he snarled at the bigger man who was gripping the steering wheel of the car white knuckled. 

“Sorry Bhai..but I think I just ran over a kid—”

The blood drained off Rehman’s face so fast Donga was afraid he would faint. But before he could do anything, Rehman was out of the car and hurrying in front. 

It was a girl, maybe seven or eight, mercifully alive. There was blood on the ground and the girl was crying up a storm. Rehman’s hands shook as he dropped to his knees and gathered the shivering wailing kid against his chest. 

“Hush hush..there there, nothing will happen, sweetheart. You are fine—”

She was eerily dark, her skin almost the color of ebony, her hair was a mass of curls tied into two pigtails with bright red ribbons. She was wearing a school uniform and her large almond shaped eyes were the most striking shade of pale honey and ochre brown hitting the sunlight, like the flames of a firestorm. 

There were abrasions on her knees and elbows and she was sobbing clinging to Rehman as he picked her up off the ground, looking around for her guardians.

A strong fragrance of frangipanis and sandalwood incense appeared before she was right beside him. 

Rehman startled and found himself just as dumbstruck as he had been the very first day he had seen her. 

Pallavi was looking frantic, batting all over the girl’s quivering body as the child kept crying in the crook of Rehman’s neck. Her inky waves of hair were tied into a practical looking bun at her nape, a few strands kissing her cheeks. She was still donned in that white saree but had pinned the pallu to a cream jacket she had worn with it. 

Her wrist had those strings of brown beads, tied with what he could now see were saffron and red threads. 

“Arre…arre..what happened, Krishna? Why are you crying? Oh maa…did you get hurt, shona?”, she asked the crying kid who shook her head violently. 

“She came in front of the car”, Rehman explained while walking towards the tea stall at the side, the girl named Krishna, sniffling loudly against his kurta. 

“What!?”, Pallavi gasped as she followed them both. 

“Don’t worry, she didn’t break a bone. No internal bleeding, I checked. Just a few scratches”, Rehman put the kid down on the bench and gestured for the owner who hurriedly gave him a bottle of water. 

“Hush hush, baby. You will be fine. Why did you run on the road? How many times have I told you not to go on the road?”, Pallavi scolded the child gently but had picked her up to sit with her, on her lap. 

She didn’t seem bothered about the dirt and blood staining her white saree at all and wiped the girl’s pearly tears gently. 

“Kuch nhi hoga, meri jaan, thoda dard hoga..”, Rehman whispered as he set about cleaning the gravel and dirt off the bloodied wound on the girl’s knees with the water. 

Krishna sobbed a little but quietened down slowly through Rehman and Pallavi’s soft ministrations. 

Rehman tied the bigger of the abrasions with his handkerchief neatly. 

“There, all done.”

Pallavi nudged Krishna, looking at her meaningfully. 

“T..thank you”, Krishna stuttered, looking wide and teary eyed. Rehman caressed her cheek lightly and got up finally. His heart had stopped galloping by then. He could see Donga and Mansoor staring at him, leaning against the car that they had now parked on the opposite side. 

“Pallavi bibi, walking back home from school?”, Rehman asked, finally. 

The woman looked at him slightly startled and then flashed that annoyingly pleasant smile. 

“Why am I not surprised? Of course you know—”, she muttered, brushing Krishna’s hair with her fingers. 

Of course he did. 

Not a single leaf moved in Lyari without Rehman Dakait’s permission. 

Alongside managing the small business her late father had left her with in the form of that tiny grocery shop, Pallavi also taught third graders in a public school for free. From the girl’s attire, he could deduce the school had been dismissed for the day. 

“I had been walking this little devil home after school for the past few days. Her mother had fallen ill. Today I had stopped to talk to Munshiji and Krishna had wandered off by the time I was done. I don’t know why she would run out into the road like that, she is usually very well behaved ”, Pallavi said, patting Krishna’s head. 

“I am glad we could stop in time”, Rehman said and he was genuinely glad. He had almost had a heart attack when Donga had said they had run over a kid. 

“Good reflexes”

Okay, now she was clearly teasing him. Those dark metal eyes were glinting coyly. 

“You should thank my driver for that”, Rehman countered, smirking. 

“Maybe I would have, had he not been speeding in the middle of the market like it is an express highway”, she said loftily, getting up with Krishna clinging to her like a small monkey. 

Rehman raised an eyebrow. 

She wasn’t wrong. 

Yet he should stop himself from enjoying this girl’s cheek, a bit too much, especially when it's clearly directed towards him. 

“How is the acquisition going, anyway?”

Oh now she is playing with fire. All those strange deaths flashed in front of Rehman’s eyes. His boys were amongst them. And that was something he couldn’t digest lying down. 

And despite how beautiful Pallavi Thakur looked, holding a dusty child on her hip, a stained white saree and those wavy tresses flying in the sunny breeze— she needs to know not to kick a sleeping tiger. 

His chiselled face hardened like carved granite. 

“I don’t know how your assassin managed to kill so many people but they shouldn’t have gone after my boys. Tell them to beware, when a lion hunts, he is silent and the prey wouldn’t even know when their throats would be torn open.”

There was an odd expression on Pallavi’s face at that, a mixture of resignation and a hint of fear. But somehow it didn’t seem like it was him she was afraid of. There was something in this case, this woman— that he was missing. 

“I know you won’t believe me, when I say it but I still feel like I should warn you. Leave that land alone. There are forces at play here that not even lions can fight against”, she whispered. 

“I am not easily scared off, madam, I hope you know that.”

“I know. And that is what is scaring me the most.”

The words were sincere and that was perhaps what was the most confusing thing of it all. He had expected Pallavi to be furious at him. Or rather, hateful. It would have been, after all, deserved. He had illegally snatched her land, harassed her by increasing the duties on her only means of livelihood, knowing that she could barely afford rent on most days. 

But she looked strangely detached from all of it. 

Like the land she had so fiercely guarded, refusing to sell even for the price of a few diamonds, seemed like an afterthought at most. 

Or else, it was just confidence. 

That, in spite of every twisted ploy Rehman manages to cook up, he would never succeed. The arrogance was irritating but also strangely familiar. 

And now, it wasn’t the question of profits and business anymore, it had become about his reputation. Everyone knew he was trying to take over the land and his business rivals and opposing gangs shouldn’t come to the conclusion that he got defeated by a mere girl and a baseless rumour. 

“Do you like horses?”

The sudden squeak of a question startled both of them. Krishna was staring at him from Pallavi’s shoulder, with those pair of unsettlingly large eyes. It looked like she was not at all bothered about the injury that had made her wail for the past fifteen minutes. 

“I..admire them”, Rehman answered, a little warily. 

Kids had the strangest intuition regarding people and most adults might think they are speaking nonsense, which they might do most of the time but sometimes their words rang with an unnerving truth. 

“Pallavi didi has horses”, she replied almost sagely. 

Rehman raised an eyebrow questioningly. 

“They aren’t mine technically. I have a stable where people can keep their horses for a minimal fee. I like animals and had learnt riding long back”, her eyes held a strange distant look and for some reason Rehman knew she was thinking of her home in India and maybe Bangladesh, “would you like to show dada, the horses?”

Rehman raised his other eyebrow. Maybe because of the sudden invitation or maybe because of the nature of the addressal. Or both. 

A sudden blush stained Pallavi’s cheeks and the bridge of her nose that somehow accentuated the tiny nearly invisible freckles on her face and Rehman felt his heart skip a few beats like an annoying broken drum. 

“If you have a minute to spare, of course. I know you keep busy, being Sher-e-Baloch and what not—”, she was rambling, clearly embarrassed. Rehman was amused. This was the first time he had seen her this flustered. 

But he took mercy on her and cut across her rambling. 

“I shall be honoured to see your beasts, Thakurain”, he gave her a mock bow, acknowledging back to their first unintentionally shared tradition. 

“What did you just say?”, Pallavi’s eyes widened like saucers. She had paled all of a sudden, almost dropping her hold on Krishna who squawked inelegantly and clung on to the older woman. 

“Isn’t that what they called you, back home? Thakurain… the noblewoman?”, Rehman asked a little hesitantly. He was certain that it was the correct term. Hopefully, he hadn’t accidentally and completely unknowingly offended her. 

Pallavi stared at him for a few seconds. Almost like she had seen a ghost. Then she shook herself off and laughed a little forcefully. 

“Ahh, those days are long past, Sardaar. I am just a peasant girl right now. Thakurains were daughters and wives of conquerors.”

“A simple peasant girl does not have the courage to defy kings, madam. You will always be a Thakurain. The blood of conquerors doesn't dry up just because their wealth has.”

The silence between them was interspersed by the occasional barking of vendors and the cars passing by. Pallavi was cocking her head like that of a sparrow, again. She seemed to be reading him. Boring into him with those sharp irises of hers. It was like being flayed alive.

“That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me in a long time”, she whispered. 

“Well then, most people are fools.”

Rehman wore his sunglasses back, if only to hide his gaze somewhat and swept his hand at the side to gesture at his car, that they could take to this stable Krishna wanted him to apparently see.

This time when Pallavi smiled at him, there was no mockery in the twist of her plush lips. Only a shy pleasure. And something else he couldn’t decipher. It just made his stomach tie itself into knots. 

Shit. 

He was so fucked. 

_______________________________

The mystery of the chain of deaths seemed to have been shelved despite Rehman’s influence in the Karachi police department. Someone higher up had blocked him and he couldn’t find out who. 

He had set up camp with Donga and Siyahi and a few of his most trusted men outside the land for two days straight yet they hadn’t heard any voices or caught a glimpse of that glowy eyed tiger sized jackal. 

It should have driven a man, who had always held the strings of his life by methodical and clinical precision, mad with helplessness but Rehman had found himself being increasingly distracted of late. 

So much so that even Uzair had noticed it. 

“Bhai, I don’t need the details but seriously, whoever has managed to take over your heart and mind like this— I need to meet them”, his little cousin had said cheekily, pleasantly warm from the whiskey they had been sipping in one of those endlessly boring parties. 

“I will smack you in front of everyone, Uzair. Shut up”, he had grumbled into his drink, trying his level best to forget how much he wished he was back in that slightly unsettling courtyard of the Thakur house, sipping chai with Pallavi while Krishna regaled them with her daily misadventures. 

He was slipping. 

Hard and fast. 

And no matter how much he griped at his brother, he knew that it had started to become visible. 

That day they had gone to the stables and he had let himself be dragged by the suddenly energetic eight year old, all around the place, pointing at her favourite steeds and their names. Pallavi had followed at a more sedate pace, giggling and joining in at appropriate times. 

“I never apologized to you for the harassment your shop faced”, he had said a little subdued. 

“Water under the bridge. You did give me a prior warning”, she had teased, brushing the mane of an ochre brown horse. 

“That shouldn’t be a reason for forgiveness—”, he had countered, nudging the nose of a silver spotted white stallion, curiously. 

“Well, help me around the stables once in a while and I shall consider us even”, she had fired back nonchalantly, smiling at Krishna’s unbound energy as the latter jumped around the straw bales. 

He had smirked at her. 

Turning a gangster to a stable hand— not bad, Thakurain, not bad at all. 

Rehman had then gone around and acquainted himself thoroughly with a black and white beast, a right beauty, by the name of Fariq who had left horse hair all over his kurta as he had nuzzled his great head with his chest and face. 

He belonged to some whatsisname businessman who was all too happy to get rid of it when Rehman had proposed to buy it off his hands. 

“I did not expect to send you off with a horse, when I brought you here, trust me”, Pallavi had laughed, petting Fariq on his white mane. 

“Trust me, I had no intention of buying one”, Rehman had winked at a jubilant Krishna.

He had left Fariq in the stable itself, asking Pallavi to keep looking after the animal for him and had increased the rent twice, despite her protests. 

“I want you to feed her the premium products. No skimping”, he had instructed and handed her the advance. 

“As if I would ever do something so base to my poor dears”, Pallavi had sniffed haughtily and kissed Fariq on his forehead. 

Rehman would throw himself off the mountains in Balochistan before he admitted he was a tad jealous of a horse. 

Idiot. 

It had been months after the incident. 

Rehman was spending his days, almost as he always had— looking after his several operations, trying not to accidentally kill his annoying little brother despite his penchant for irritating him up to no end but the new addition to it being— trying his level best not to fall in love with Pallavi Thakur. 

And he was failing. 

Badly. 

He found himself talking with her about the most trivial of things on some days. The white cat he had accidentally adopted, that left fur all over his throne. The boys ruining his mental peace on most days and being the main reason for his increasing blood pressure. The politicians he wished he could shoot on sight. The daily problems of Lyari had kept him awake at night. 

But he also found himself discussing things he had never spoken aloud with another person. 

His traumatic upbringing and early days in Haji Laloo’s gang. His constant fear for his younger cousin being hurt because of his crimes. His need for absolute control over every situation. His inability to hold onto relationships and the demon inside of him that he sometimes feared would take over his entire being. 

“I am afraid, one day I will get desensitized to everything. And when that happens, there will be nothing left to redeem in me”, he had said aloud one afternoon, sipping on that masala chai he had begun to get a taste for while Pallavi embroidered little blue flowers on a piece of saree that she would then send to her store for selling. 

“No matter how unfeeling you think yourself to be, Rehman. You are still human. And humanity is imminent to feelings. You cannot become numb no matter how hard you try. That is the beauty and the tragedy of life”, she had said, a faraway look in her eyes. 

“But what if I do”, he had whispered. 

Pallavi had looked straight at him then, a scary conviction steadily burning in those pale orbs. 

“I will never let you. I promise.”

It had been one of the better promises made to him. 

Pallavi told him such fantastic tales from her childhood that half of them seemed make-believe. He didn’t quite care if they were. She had a penchant for spinning engaging stories, almost as good as Donga. And she always somehow managed to link it with some deep philosophy or the other. It was frustrating but also intriguing. 

Just like the woman, herself. 

But the stories always had such a strong nascent scent of heartbreak and longing for her childhood, for her homeland that it made something uncomfortable bubble up inside his heart. 

He wanted to protect her, hide her in his arms and somehow pull that melancholy right off her eyes. 

“Why do you always wear white?”, he asked her, one evening sitting at the steps of her humble store. 

“It was a tradition in my home. Widows always wear white. They also shave their heads and live like austere sages, devoid of the pleasures of life. I didn’t want to live like that. I guess the white is a little like an armour. It makes people uncomfortable”, she replied seated beside him on the steps, a half coy smile dangling from those irresistible lips. 

“You are a strange woman, Thakurain. You live under the shadow of some mysterious protection charm, look after horses, run a business, teach little children for free, observe fasts and offer ablutions to gods, fight with monstrous monarchs and then invite them to tea at your home”, he counted, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

She had grinned at him, a pearly set of little incisors hinting at repressed mirth as she threw the mass of waves on her back from the side and had handed him that same china cup. 

“Beware, my monstrous monarch. Who is to say that I am not slowly poisoning you?”, she said, eyes twinkling in amusement. 

There must have been something in her smile, or in that heavy incense filled air that had him blurting out some semblance of his true feelings despite his legendary self control. 

“I shall gladly drink poison if it's by your hands.”

He gulped down a mouthful of the tea the next moment, scalding his own tongue, if only to stop his face from bursting into flames at the clear freudian slip.  

Pallavi instead of throwing her own cup of hot beverage on his face like he had expected, only blushed rather heavily. It was a pretty sight and made her look more bewitching and god if only his stupid heart would stop running away from him like a mad donkey.

“Oh you incorrigible flirt”, she swatted in the air, trying to swallow back the flush that only spread down her swan-like neck and vanished beneath the dove white fabric covering the alluring swell of her breasts. 

Rehman wanted to follow that trail with his tongue. 

So he deliberately let his tongue be burnt by swallowing another mouthful of that hot tea as punishment for his less than noble thoughts. 

“I have never pretended to be anything but a rogue, madam”, he inclined his head if only to hide the color on his own cheekbones and neck. 

“A charming rogue, nonetheless”, Pallavi blurted out and quickly focused on the cup cradled in her hands. 

Maybe it wasn’t as one sided, as he had been thinking. 

They met each other's eyes for a second before looking away quickly. 

The winter sunlight was a nice blanket over their trembling figures as they sipped the spicy ginger flavoured tea in a more sedate pace, opting to enjoy the comfortable silence instead of acknowledging the words passed. 

__________________________________

Rehman was slowly starting to believe that there might indeed be some larger conspiracy afoot in that accursed piece of land. It had been almost a year and the tunnel he had tried to construct had collapsed three times. Three different third party construction companies have come and gone, his boys who were sent as guards with HK416s to oversee, had all fallen deadly sick within days of the patrol. 

“I think…maybe we should leave it alone”, Uzair said finally. 

“Don’t tell me even you have started buying into that bullshit”, Rehman snapped, laying over the blueprint of the tunnels he wanted to build underground and the map of the land, one by one on the desk in front. 

“Bhai, sometimes the universe tries to give us a message and maybe there will be some logic to it that we cannot see at the moment, but isn’t it wise to at least accept it when something has been repeatedly thrown in our faces?”

“What? Accept that some Djin or demonic entity is killing the men?”

“Pallavi, herself doesn’t seem too bothered about the land at all. And we have tried everything we could, guys and guns and surveillance and three different contractors, ministry officials, private parties— what else is left?”

Uzair’s words had wisdom. But for Rehman who has never believed in anything supernatural, be it Gods or monsters, the defeat scathed like something personal. He was still debating on the merits of calling it quits when his phone rang. 

It was Maqsood. 

“SP Sahab, kaisi khidmat kar sakte hein aapka?”, Rehman drawled into the line, eyes still trained on the maps in front. 

“Bhai, woh aapne kahaan tha Pallavi Thakur pe nazar rakhne ko—”

Rehman straightened immediately. All pretences of false camaraderie dropped within a split second. 

“Speak”, he barked into the phone. Uzair straightened up immediately from his slouch. 

“There has been a coordinated attack on her house a few hours ago. The police are there already. She is fine. Strangely enough the attackers are all dead. We—”

Rehman was already walking towards the car. 

“Bhai?”

He slammed the door close to the first car he could see and drove off, dropping the mobile on the floor carelessly. Though Maqsood had said nothing had happened to her yet his mind was already a splintered mess. 

The attackers were all dead.

How?

The house was a circus by the time he reached. The police were everywhere and so were the assailants spread all over the courtyard. The unsettling thing was how there were patches of fresh blood pooling from the bodies yet none of them had any visible wounds. 

And perhaps even more unnerving were the faces of the dead men, frozen in the rictus of some terrified horror. 

And in the middle stood Pallavi Thakur, pale faced, clearly shaken but firm. Her white saree bellowing in the wind, unstained and pure. Like she was some goddess herself, descending from the heavens to witness the carnage left at her name. 

Her hair was freshly washed it seemed, still half wet and smelling of mogra and jasmines. 

She saw him the moment he stepped over the courtyard. Something broke in her stilted expression. 

Rehman covered the distance separating them in two long strides, unbothered about the police officers, snapping pictures of the corpses and conversing slowly amidst themselves. She was in his arms, the moment he was close enough to touch. 

It was a jolting contact. They had never even touched each other before, not even a single graze of hands. It had always seemed somehow strangely inappropriate to Rehman. It felt like he would defile her if he did touch her accidentally. 

But now it was a moot point. 

Pallavi was clinging to him, sharply. Her nails digging into his back muscles through the kurta. Her half dried hair was leaving drops of moisture on his chest and shoulders. She was still cold from the shower and she was trembling. 

His arms had come around her naturally. Wrapped around her slender frame protectively. He cupped the back of her head once, grounding and steady and felt her lips spasm against his chest. 

“Thakurain, looks like your protector reached here before I did. I don’t know whether I should be grateful or jealous”, he murmured against her hair. Pallavi snorted muffled in his arms and that was exactly what he had been aiming for. 

“I don’t know…why they would want to kill me—”, she whispered finally, separating from him a little. And then, as if she had suddenly realised how close both of them were, she jumped apart, face turning an endearing shade of crimson as she tugged at the edge of her saree and looked everywhere but at his face. 

“That useless piece of land, proximity to me…could be anything”, Rehman said but his eyes had caught something on the ground. It was a footprint made from the blood stains dragged off a wet patch from one of the bodies. 

It was bare foot. 

A tiny bare foot. 

Too small to be of an adult. 

“Had there been any child in the house during or after the attack?”, he asked and Pallavi stared at the place he had been staring for a good long moment. 

“I don’t know”, she said finally. 

It was a lie. 

Rehman looked upwards at the alcoves made in the courtyard where the pictures of the Hindu pantheon lay hung, almost unassumingly. Suddenly his eyes got stuck to one picture. More specifically, one particular figure in that picture. 

His heart slammed into a jarring stop almost immediately. 

The heavy scent of sandalwood incense was cloying enough to overpower the metallic tang of the blood pooled everywhere. 

His head spun violently for a moment. 

It couldn’t be. 

“I have to go”, Rehman said faintly and Pallavi looked at him startled. 

“Where?”

“To the land..that forest. I need to see for myself.”

“Rehman please—”, there was a sharp distinct note of fear in Pallavi’s voice. 

Rehman ignored the sudden entreaty in her tone and turned back and almost sprinted out of the place. His head was aching so hard, he almost saw purple spots in front of his eyes. There was a dull blunt pressure in his lungs. 

He had to see for himself. He had to. 

_____________________________________

The night was chilling and the forest canopied on both sides of the road, stretching like tendrils of a monster’s claws into the moonless sky abovehead. 

Rehman stood in the middle of the path, the ground still stained with the rusted blood of his three men from months ago. His car was parked haphazardly a few feet behind him. The stars were absent tonight, almost mocking him with their absence.

The symphony of the crickets was the only noise audible. 

Rehman could hear his own heart pounding. 

The flashes of images attacking his mind laid into one brilliant jigsaw puzzle finally solved. Yet despite the fearsome picture it was forming, his mind still couldn’t comprehend the astounding meaning of it. 

The sandalwood incense, the demonic noises, the glowy eyed jackal, the hibiscus tucked in Pallavi’s hair, the brown beaded bracelet, the dark skinned curly haired girl with honey eyes, the small footprint in the blood, that portrait of the—

A sudden reverberation under his feet almost made Rehman stumble. He could hear it now. The faint sounds coming from beneath the ground. A strange cacophony of continuous lilting. Like wraiths curling air between their tongues and forcing it out. 

The wind had picked up speed. 

And Rehman was half convinced he was inside a nightmare, trapped by his own mind. 

A sudden howl broke his trance and he snapped his head at the side. 

He saw the pair of eyes before the entire silhouette sharpened in the darkness. They were twin embers glowing like tongs of an ancient fire licking in those magnificent irises. This was the stare of an ultimate predator and humans like him could only make a poor imitation of it. 

The jackal was not the size of a tiger. 

It was bigger. 

Its shiny glossy coat shimmered with a myriad of colours. Rehman couldn’t even focus on one for too long. His eyes hurt. There was fear and awe building simultaneously inside his mind, his body locking up completely. He couldn’t even move a finger. Some fractured part of his brain was still deducing. 

So this is why his men couldn’t even fire their state of the art guns in defence. 

Though Rehman was skeptical whether any man-made bullet could have made a scratch at that beast’s hide. 

The jackal was advancing towards him slowly, gracefully. A hypnotizing rhythm. There was an unearthly beauty at seeing death literally materialize in front of someone. 

And only when he could lift his gaze from the beast did he finally notice the being perched on the gigantic jackal’s back. 

Krishna was a tiny figure atop a beast. Yet she seemed to loom larger than both the animal and Rehman and perhaps the entire forest, earth and sky covering them. 

Her pair of honey irises were flaming vermillion, those almond shaped eyes trained like twin lasers on his face. Her hair, usually tied in those twin pigtails was completely loose and blew in the wind behind in a swathe of curly darkness. It was like her ebony skin was one with the night sky above. She was wrapped in a blood red fabric, a saree tied in a strange way he had never seen before and a chain of brown beads around her neck. 

There was a single red hibiscus tucked behind an ear. 

She was breathtaking. Enchanting. Otherwordly. 

His chest was a bright hot brand, collapsing into itself, the force of it snapping all his ribs one by one. And yet he couldn’t focus on the pain. His entire body was locked onto the single gaze of the little girl— the Goddess in front. 

“Rehman Dakait… what do you have to offer?”

She whispered. She screamed. The voices were melding and stretching like a tunnel passing through him and seemed to reverberate in all the four directions. 

She had a child’s voice, a woman’s voice, Pallavi’s voice, his voice, his dead mother’s voice, the voice of a random street vendor he had seen last week— it was like she had encompassed every living being’s vocal chords in one seamless net. 

Either he had gone mad or was high on a cloud of mushrooms or dead. 

Krishna grinned and it was frightening. The white teeth cast like a row of blades that she could use to chomp his entire neck off. There was blood dripping down the sides of her mouth. 

The air was a sludge at this point. The sandalwood and hibiscuses choked his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. A sharp cloying copper flooded his mouth and then he was bleeding. There was the moon, shining in the curls of the dark skinned girl, peeking at the universe from its inky cage. 

There was a strangely curved broad sword in one of her hands all of a sudden. 

His knees were feeling weak. They buckled violently and then he was on the ground. The jackal was sniffing over his face, the sandalwood had turned into blood inside his throat. He was coughing. 

Krishna was saying something. An undecipherable language. An ancient verse. 

It was strangely soothing. 

He wished he had been able to tell Pallavi, at the least. 

Rehman felt a pressure on his chest, a light touch. Like someone had placed their hand on the center of his sternum and then there was a white blinding pain and sudden blessed darkness. 

He hadn’t heard the scream which had rented the air right after. 

“Maa!”

When he came to, dawn had given way in the eastern skyline. The birds were back chirping in delight and the forest floor felt strangely soft. 

It was almost like he was lying on something else. 

Or rather someone else. 

There was a faint constant muttering above him. He was being rocked. No, the lap he was lying on was rocking gently with the person who seemed to be deep in some sort of prayer, head faced upwards and joined hands and—

Pallavi. 

The fragrance of mogra and jasmines and sandalwood was unmistakable. 

He had thought she was praying. There was indeed a distinct note of acute pleading in her voice and she had her hands joined in that ritualistic way, Rehman knew Hindus did when chanting their ablutions to their Gods but she wasn’t repeating any mantras. 

“Maa..maa…maa…maa..maa…..maa maa…”

Was she calling her mother?

Rehman tried speaking but ended up coughing. His throat was a desert and yet there was not a single hint of that blood clinging to the walls like he had expected. Had he dreamt up the entire thing? 

“Rehman!”, Pallavi exclaimed, finally noticing him squinting up at her. 

He only got a glimpse of her beautiful lovely face, strangely pallid and tear stained and those wavy locks were dishevelled like she had run through a storm— before she was right over him, having bent close to his face. 

“Oh thank you..maa…thank you…oh thank god..thank god, Rehman….oh god, Rehman..”

She was pressing desperate kisses all over his face, her tears dropping like a shower of benediction over him and her arms were tight around his strangely lax body. 

Was he in heaven then? Had he died after all? The Gods must be pleased with him for some reason and decided to send a spirit with Pallavi’s face to receive him. 

Or maybe he was dreaming again. 

“Pallavi”, he managed to stutter finally and she reluctantly left her spree of kisses and sat up straight, stroking his hair off his face with tremulous fingers. 

“Bhai! Oh thank god!”, Uzair’s thick voice nearly made him sit up straight, if only his limbs would coordinate with him. 

“Don’t try to get up. You have lost a lot of blood”, Pallavi whispered, her mesmerising grey eyes tinged with red and it was with a staggering clarity he suddenly knew that he hadn’t dreamt up anything. 

Last night was real. 

Oh merciful god—

___________________________

It took Rehman nearly a week to be able to stand up straight for more than half an hour without collapsing out of weakness. The doctors were all befuddled with how he had ended up with so much of his blood outside his body without even a single needle pin incision. 

And more baffling was perhaps the sudden lack of the numerous scars that had littered his entire body once. It was like they had never been real at all, marking the gruesome violence of his life on his skin. 

He wasn’t sure whether the doctors would lock him in a mental asylum if he told them the truth. 

The only plus point of being bedridden for most of the week had been Pallavi seated beside him, holding his hand and stroking his hair through the pain and the dizziness and the constant nausea. 

When he had finally been coherent enough to stay awake for more than a few minutes, he had dragged the mildly protesting woman to himself, wrapped her trembling figure in his arms and lifted her rapidly reddening face to himself. 

“And now tell me please, Thakurain, before I lose my mind— why was your Goddess so enraged at everyone? That also for a measly piece of land.”

Pallavi sighed and finally settled against his chest and closed her eyes, as if preparing herself. 

It was a long story, after all. 

__________________________

Ganganath Thakur was a dewan of the Chauhans. After Muhammad Ghori captured Prithviraj Chauhan, the Thakur family ran away to Bengal to serve under the Sena dynasty. Ganganath was given the province of Nudiya to rule over. 

For years they lived in prosperity before Bakhtiyar Khilji sacked Nudiya and forced the Thakur family to flee to the southwest where the Sena dynasty still held power. 

For centuries, the Thakurs held prominent positions in the governance of Bengal, first under the Senas, then the Mughals and then under Siraj-ud-Daulah till he lost to the East India Company in the battle of Plassey. Then they were forced out till they only had control over a few villages in rural Bengal and what would come to be modern day Bangladesh. 

The Thakurs were unwilling allies to the British and funded the revolutionaries in secret. And slowly as years under the colonizers passed, they lost vast measures of their generational wealth both to the Independence effort and to the excesses of the descents of Ganganath who turned out to be right wastrels.

It was Chandranth Thakur who had discovered the idol and the chant that was inscribed in a manuscript hidden in their ancestral vault. 

It was an idol of Devi Bharavi— a fearsome wrathful form of Goddess Kali. And the inscription bespoke of how to awaken the Goddess and receive her protection. It had apparently been in possession of the Thakur dynasty since the time of Ganganath. One of the many myths running in the family was that the idol was gifted to the dewan by the queen Sanyukta when he had saved her husband from a lion in a hunting expedition. 

The Goddess was rumoured to have protected the Thakurs for generations from petty rivals to innumerable conquerors wishing harm upon their family. The only caveat to the boon was that the protection charm had to be weaved around a young unmarried woman, belonging to the Thakur blood and that idol had to be buried underneath the earth in a particular position. 

Chandranath, terrified of being caught by the British or the various debt collectors he had on his back, thanks to his gambling addiction had anointed a young Pallavi, his own daughter, to have the protection charm— that had been a single string of Rudhraksh beads wrapped around her wrist three times over. 

Later, the British had chased the declining Thakur clan to Chittagong where they had stayed for a couple of years before Chandranath had lost all their savings and had to run from the new debt collectors, again. He couldn’t return to the country, having left many an angry moneylender waiting for him and he couldn’t stay in Bangladesh as well. 

Thus he had travelled all the way into Pakistan. 

It had always been Chandranath and Pallavi and despite her father’s many faults, she had loved him well. When he had started his usual gambling spree here, Pallavi, disheartened and fearing for their lives, had bought a strip of land in what she had assumed would be an unmarked forest and had buried the idol underneath. 

Chandranath had gotten Pallavi married shortly after. Even after knowing what would befall the groom, because of the boon. He had received enough money from that bastard to while away for a good six months. Pallavi had tried protesting but who could she turn to in a place like this. 

She had cried for hours before the wedding. Thinking about her mother who had died young and her friends whom she had had to leave behind everywhere and the loneliness that was stretching its claws like breathless clamps around her throat. 

As expected, the moment the doors had closed, her newly wedded husband had advanced towards her, lust clear in his eyes but before he could even touch her shadow, he had dropped on the floor, convulsing in agony before a permanent stillness. And that pool of inexplicable blood drained right out of him. 

She was a widow. 

Society marked her as some demonic entity and she was forced to flee from her in-laws' house, back to her gambling drunkard father. 

Yet Fate had always been strangely karmic. 

Chandranath under the influence of alcohol and the rage of a heavy loss had demanded his daughter to return the idol to him so that he could sell it and get more money to lose to his wily poker friends. Pallavi had been aghast and had begged her father to understand and then straight up denied it when pressured. 

Overcome and in the haze of a drunken humiliation he had struck his own daughter. 

And that had been his end. 

He had been found dead on his own bed, choked full of his own blood yet no other marks of violence or poison. The doctors had declared it tuberculosis and had moved on. 

Pallavi was distraught but now more than ever she couldn’t remove the protection charm if only to defend herself from the parasites circling her to gain access to that land which had suddenly become important for the new port access. 

She had met Krishna one lonely night returning from her shop, when the shadows had looked too dangerous in the filthy bylanes of Lyari. The girl had followed her home and left just before she had entered the courtyard. Almost vanishing into the mist. 

Pallavi hadn’t thought much of it then. 

But then she kept seeing her whenever she would feel threatened and some part of her knew. Through all her enemies dropping like flies, she knew. Yet her human mind still struggled to comprehend it, refusing to believe completely, if only to stop from collapsing into itself out of sheer terror. 

There is only so much divinity that mortals can sufficiently handle. 

Then she met Rehman. 

She had heard of him of course, the invincible, infallible bastard king. The messiah of the Balochs and the lion of Chakkiwara. She had expected the offers and the ensuing harassment and had even expected the land being taken away by sheer force. 

What she hadn’t expected was to see Rehman cradling Krishna, terrified that he had hurt her. She hadn’t expected to find a man behind the monster. The one who would hush a child and clean her wounds so tenderly, who would laugh with her about horses and help her clean stables. The one who would notice her. 

Who would look at her like someone worth talking to, consulting with even, like a Thakurain— a noblewoman, not a widow or a helpless fruit ripe for the taking. 

Who would respect her enough to not even graze close to her shadow if he could help it but also stare at her with such ravenous hunger that it made her own stomach flip. 

She hadn’t expected to want another human, a man, with such fervour. 

She hadn’t expected sleepless nights and that irritating flush that wouldn’t go down in his presence. She hadn’t expected to look forward to just sitting in silence and sipping tea with another person. 

She hadn’t expected the strings of Fate to be so cruel, to show her something she could have so easily yet something she would never dare to touch at the same time. 

Pallavi knew of her boon and her curse. 

She could only yearn from a distance. 

And then Krishna seemed to hover around Rehman, almost like she liked him too. 

That was of course before Rehman had tried blowing up the land using explosives if only to dig a freaking tunnel below it. That had disturbed the Goddess immensely and had ended up signing his death warrant. 

That night, Pallavi had practically dragged a panicked Uzair Baloch to the forest after Rehman had run out of her house, looking like he had seen a ghost. 

She had reached the moment he had slipped into unconsciousness, dropping on the ground with a thud that would haunt her nightmares for life. And he had been bleeding like all of them before. 

Maybe this had been her punishment for getting distracted from her duty. For dreaming of such sinful things. Of even thinking of breaking the protection charm, if only to be able to touch another man. Only this time, instead of the relief that she had felt every time those miscreants and monsters had fallen to their deaths, her heart had physically torn itself in half. 

Pallavi had flung herself over his sprawled form and had buried her screams for mercy and forgiveness into his almost still chest.

“No Mother! Please! Please not him! Please! Forgive him. Forgive me! Forgive us! Mother please!”

She had cried and prayed, rocked with Rehman’s cooling body for hours till dawn had streaked in gold over them and Uzair had stopped whimpering from beside them. 

Till he had opened his eyes, thanks to her prayers being answered and she had finally snapped. 

Years of loss and loneliness and yearning and sheer desperate relief. 

The idol was still buried and the protection charm was still tied around her wrist only this time, Krishna was nowhere to be seen, not even when she had packed her meagre belongings and had practically settled in the Baloch haveli. 

____________________________

Rehman was quiet for a long time after, feeling Pallavi’s breaths hit the skin of his collarbone through the open buttons of his kurta. 

She had exhausted herself, speaking for so long. 

“What did you see in the alcove that terrified you so?”, she finally asked, drawing circles on his chest with a gentle finger. 

“I saw the picture of Goddess Kali and I saw a Jackal at her feet. She was drinking blood and was wearing a string of red hibiscuses around her neck. The exact same shade of Krishna’s ribbons. And her eyes… I hadn’t thought of it then but I remember Khurram saying the jackal had eyes like gold.”

Pallav turned in his arms to look up at him. Her eyes were beautiful. Grey orbs swirling inside the milky way. He brushed the tendril of her wavy hair back from her face. 

“Do you think, if I ask your Mother for your hand first, She might spare me when I try to kiss you?”

“Rehman! For God’s sake!”

Pallavi blushed immediately as always and swatted at his chest sharply and then buried her heated face in that exact space, starting to quiver again. This time, hopefully more out of excitement than fear. 

“I love you, Pallavi Thakur and you have turned me into a believer. It isn’t so hard to think a Goddess might come down on earth and punish your offenders”, he said into her hair and kissed her head. 

“You almost died because of me”, she whispered, clutching his kurta in a vice grip. 

“I lived because of you. And I may have deserved it a little. I did try to snatch your land by force”, he stroked her hair, tangling his fingers into those waves like he had always wanted to. 

“I won’t win this one, will I?”

“No, but you, Thakurain are the only one who has won my heart—”

Pallavi looked up then, keeping her chin on his chest and her slate eyes danced in that familiar mischievous heat. She pressed an almost shy kiss to his cheek before whispering her agreement there. 

“Well, that, Sardaar— is all I will ever want.”

________________________

Pallavi was a vision that could make angels weep in envy. 

Her usually open hair was tied with sparkling diamonds into a messy braid twisting like a bejeweled snake down her curvy waist further accentuated by a gold chain. The dark blood red of her saree complemented her amber skin magnificently. 

A dozen gold bangles had replaced the brown beads on both of her wrists. They chinked like the bells of heaven as she walked hand in hand with Rehman, deeper into the forest. 

The fragrance of mogra and jasmines had wrapped around Rehman like a comforting blanket, tangling with his spicy musk like a pair of lovers at dusk. His cream sherwani had a matching maroon shawl over a shoulder that grazed his bride’s open pallu as they trudged up the dry earth to reach the clearing finally. 

“I can’t feel the pressure in the air anymore”, Rehman whispered. 

“I have opened the rudraksh. The protection charm is broken”, Pallavi said, turning towards him, taking both of his hands in hers now. 

She closed her heavily kohl lined eyes and reminisced the image of Bharavi, the divine Mother who has protected her and her family for generations. 

“Maa, tomar kripa oshesh, rokkha korbe Maa, amra shudhu bhalobeshe felechi, amader rokkha korbe…”

Rehman couldn’t understand what she was saying but the words still weaved like unbroken ropes around him, almost like an invisible shield netted and locked. He squeezed her hands comfortingly and closed his eyes too. 

He didn’t believe in God. He never has. And years of defiance wouldn’t break because of a single incident. He still had difficulty believing whatever he had seen that night. Whether Krishna was actually the Goddess, or was it just a trick of his exhausted mind. 

But he believed in Pallavi. 

Her faith was important to him. 

And for her, he is ready to bow down to any belief. 

If it was protection that entity had provided, all he would pray is that she keeps protecting his wife. And that is exactly what he asked of this goddess, in his mind as well. 

A sudden giggle broke his concentration. 

He snapped his eyes open and saw Pallavi staring wide eyed at the side. He turned slightly, still holding her hands and followed her gaze till he saw her. 

Krishna was standing in the middle of the clearing. Her charcoal skin glowing almost eerily under the moonless sky. That pair of molten gold irises were sparkling in hypnotic fervour. There was a brilliant smile on that heart shaped face outlined by those wild open curls. She was barefoot, that red saree tangled around a body which seemed shapeless yet had a sharp silhouette at the same time. 

“Maa?”, Pallavi gasped. 

Krishna giggled again, dimples forming in those dark cheeks. But before they could move, she had vanished into the inky darkness of the tree line behind. There lay a bunch of dew fresh hibiscuses on the ground where she had been standing. They were the color of blood and the color of the sindoor filling the slight partition of Pallavi’s hair. 

The heavy scent of sandalwood was abound in the chilling night air. 

They came back to the haveli, now mercifully empty, yet glittering with the aftermath of the ceremony. The daze hadn’t left both of them completely. It was only after Rehman had closed their bedroom door, when the haze from the forest snapped to give way to their new reality. 

Pallavi was standing in the middle of the room, looking like a damsel waiting to be ravished and a queen waiting to conquer at the same time. 

It was a strangely pleasant look on her. 

His wife. 

His goddess.  

“I think She did gave us Her blessing…”, Rehman tugged Pallavi to himself and she went obliging and tucked herself into his arms, leaning her head in the crook of his neck and stared into the distance, as if searching for the laughing child as the wind blew her silent giggles into the earth outside.

“I think She did too”, she agreed, softly. 

“So… I will not get struck down, if I kiss you now?”, Rehman teased gripping her waist tightly. Almost a touch possessive. 

“You have been testing my patience for months at this point”, he whispered darkly in her ear and felt her shiver delightfully in response. 

Pallavi glared up at him which only made her look lovelier, if that was even possible. But her eyes were swirling with mirth and love and she tugged his collar down in an uncharacteristically bold way. 

“I think, I shall be rather cross with you husband, if you still don’t”, she whispered right over his lips, angling her head suggestively, those marble eyes getting heavier. 

Rehman smirked and closed the distance between them finally. 

It was only after that he had kissed her senseless and unwrapped her like a present specially handmade for him. The red silk pooling at her feet as she swung between endearing bashfulness and surprising eagerness, leaving her lipstick stamps liberally from his throat till his abs. 

He had made her scream and cry his name over and over again till he was sure everyone within a ten mile radius knew whom she belonged to, left his marks thoroughly all over her naked shivering body, opening up to him with all its hidden secrets like a flower turning towards the sun, the altar of his ardent devotion— when Pallavi was sleep drunk and sated, curled in his arms, having smeared the sindoor all over his chest, her wavy hair spread over them like a blanket of crushed silk. 

“I am glad I bought that piece of land”, his wife chuckled against his skin. 

“I still can’t believe you refused to sell it for a crore”, Rehman grumbled caressing her back gently. 

“Well, if I had, we probably would have never ended up together”

“Don’t discredit me, Thakurain. I wanted you the day I saw you. I would’ve trapped you one way or the other, ancient boons and pieces of earth notwithstanding.”

“I like your arrogance.”

“It is not arrogance if it is strategic confidence.”

“That is not a term. You just made that up right now.”

Rehman laughed, turning them over and Pallavi giggled, wrapping her arms around him, smiling in that familiar coy and slightly embarrassed way. 

“I love you, Pallavi Thakur”, he whispered. Her eyes softened immediately before a lazy smile spread over her beautiful exhausted face. 

“And I shall endeavor to tolerate you for the rest of my life, Rehman Baloch”

Rehman laughed again and covered her giggles with his lips for the nth time. 

It will be a long night. 

The promotional circus for Mere Baap Pehle Aap had stretched Akshaye thin, as a wire pulled too tight, humming with quiet irritation. He had never cared much for the ritual of media mingling as the same recycled questions, polished and repackaged every hour, circled him like persistent flies. His personal life, his choices, his silences, everything was fair game, prodded and picked at with relentless curiosity. At this point, he was convinced he could save everyone the trouble by recording his answers once and handing out copies as party favours. It would certainly spare him the monotony of repeating himself until the words lost all meaning.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl into the stale air of the room, buying himself a few seconds of quiet before the next round began. Somewhere outside, the crew shuffled and adjusted lights, their muffled voices bleeding through the walls. The interviewer was getting ready, setting the stage for yet another performance he had no interest in giving. 

Mumbai’s humidity had clung to him like an unwelcome second skin. He had already taken one shower, but it had done little to tame the discomfort, so he’d retreated for another. Now, dressed in a plain black T-shirt and worn-in jeans, he stood before the mirror for a moment, running a hand through damp hair. He exhaled, grounding himself. This time, he told himself, he’d keep it together. No snapping, no sharp retorts, no matter how tempting the questions might be.

Just one last interview, and he’s done with this hellscape. 

On the other side of the room, the makeup artist kept dabbing compact onto Saumya’s cheeks, as if powder alone could blur out the harsher truths of the entertainment industry. Saumya’s entry into films had been anything but a cakewalk. She’d been boxed into the same stereotypical “vamp” roles, walked out of projects that came with unspoken conditions, and been turned away for not fitting the neatly packaged idea of what an “ideal” Indian woman should look like. Frustrating didn’t even begin to cover it.

When she finally caught a break last year, playing Kareena Kapoor’s sister in Jab We Met, it had felt like fresh air after years of suffocation but the industry had its own rhythm, and she soon realised that getting momentum was one thing, holding onto it was another battle entirely. So she adapted. TV roles, anchoring gigs, anything that kept her visible, relevant, afloat, as work wasn’t scarce, but the kind of work that meant a masterpiece still felt miles away. Her magnum opus, it seemed, was taking its own sweet time to find her.

Which is how she found herself here today. Her roommate (yes Mumbai rent wasn’t cheap at all), pale and feverish since last night, had practically begged her to step in and take this interview gig, “You’ve done anchoring, yaar, this will be easy for you,” she had insisted, and if it was not for her roommates very persistent nature and not to mention the actor she was to interview, she would have declined. 

“Maya, main nahi jaa sakti. Meri kal subah shooting hai, tumhe pata hai in star logon ke nakhre main nahi jhel sakti,” Saumya said flatly, trying, failing, to resist her roommate, who was now full-on deploying puppy eyes like a weapon.

“Mujhe pata hai, but he’s not like other stars,” Maya insisted, inching closer. “He’s actually really humble and sorted. Thoda sa khadoos hai, okay, no-nonsense type… but that’s just his vibe. What I’m saying is, it won’t be a hassle. Pleaaase, Saumyaaaa. I’ll owe you big time.”

Saumya sighed, already losing the battle. “Theek hai, if you say so. Waise… kaun hai yeh mahashai?”

Maya grinned like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. “Akshaye Khanna.”

Saumya breath hitched, “What??? Maya, no. Absolutely not.”

“What, babygirl?” Maya wiggled her eyebrows, enjoying the chaos she’d unleashed. “I thought you’d jump at this opportunity.”

“Maya, I cannot take his interview,” Saumya whispered, panic creeping in. “Tumhe pata hai meri uske liye kitni tharak jaag jaati hai. I won’t be able to decide if I wanna talk to him… or just jump him”, the blush creeping up her cheeks faster than she could stop it. 

“Yaaaar, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance!” Maya groaned dramatically. “Imagine interviewing your crush, sitting that close. Aur suna hai he’s single these days… so maybe, you know… shoot your shot?” she added with a mischievous snicker.

“Maya…” Saumya warned, narrowing her eyes. Maya had been acutely aware of the massive crush she harboured on Akshaye, which used to border on orgasmic on some days.

Right on cue, Maya burst into an exaggerated coughing fit, clutching her chest like a tragic heroine. “Saumya… if I could, I would… please…” she wheezed, laying it on thick.

Saumya stared at her for a long second, closing her eyes in defeat. “Yeh sab drama karne ki zarurat nahi hai,” she muttered, “Main le lungi uska interview. Just give me the questions you prepared.”

And just like that  Maya sprang up instantly, looking perfectly fine, which earned her a sharp eye-roll from Saumya as she handed over a small diary, practically glowing with victory. Saumya flipped through it, her eyes scanning quickly. “Damn, Maya… these are actually really good. Proper thought-provoking stuff. He’ll love these.”

“Hmmm,” Maya hummed, a sly smile playing on her lips. “And by the end of it… maybe he will love you too.”

“Kya??” Saumya’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

“Kuch nahi!” Maya shot back quickly. “Bas ready ho jao, meri maa. Interview hai The Taj, 7th floor, Room No. 705.”

Before Saumya could question her further, Maya planted a quick kiss on her cheek and darted off for another round of nebulization, leaving behind a diary full of questions… and a situation that was about to get very, very interesting.

So here she was, her body thrumming with excitement, nervousness and tingling with a strange kind of desire she couldn’t put a name to. She had been just 13 when she saw Akshaye for the first time in Himlay Putra. Soft, almost delicate features placed so perfectly against sharp, masculine lines, it genuinely looked like God had taken extra time while designing him.

Bhagwan ji ne isko special edition bana ke bheja hai kya?

And then in the same year came Border, and she was completely in love with the man, crushing hard, dreaming shamelessly. The young officer he played; charming, naive, achingly real and lodged himself permanently in her heart. And when he died?

Matlab kyun??? Kyun???

Saumya had cried like it was a personal betrayal.

13 saal ki bali umar mein hi heartbreak de diya aadmi ne.

She had sat through questionable screenplays and downright poor scripts just to catch a glimpse of him and when Dil Chahta Hai had come out, it had taken the entire film industry by storm, introducing a new genre of filmmaking, a new outlook of India, and, honestly, a much-needed change from the patriarchal setup of films. Saumya had fallen head over heels for Akshaye. Back then, at 17, she was taken aback by the sheer maturity and vulnerability he portrayed as a male lead. While the media nitpicked, the industry pulled back, for something which was beyond his control; hair loss, it had not stopped him from pursuing his true passion, acting, even despite the dwindling roles offered due to his sudden change in circumstances. 

Personally, Saumya thought he looked hotter and more desirable with the buzz cut he sported now, not that the floof he had before was any less of a leg opener; he just went from a loverboy to daddy, much to the delight of her inappropriate thoughts. Following his journey with Humraaz, Deewangee, Hulchul, Hungama and now Race, solidified him not only as a gifted actor but also a bona fide star in the years to come. 

Finally adjusting the mic on her dress, a black one piece with a neckline sitting just above her spilling cleavage, hugging all her curves, she placed herself on the chair, her hands shaking slightly, as she shuffled the papers containing the questions, waiting for Akshaye to arrive. Glancing toward the door, she signalled to his media person with a small nod, her voice steadier than she felt. “Can you call him in, please? We’re ready to begin.” 

Yeah ready to get steamrolled by hotness

Saumya had spent years mocking those cringeworthy Bollywood scenes with violins swelling out of nowhere, hawa mein udte hue phool, slow motion mein hero ka entry like he owns gravity itself. “Itna bhi kya drama hota hai yaar,” she used to scoff.

And today ?

Aaj madam khud ussi film ki background dancer ban chuki thi.

Because the moment Akshaye Khanna walked in, her brain went still, her heart thudding with the ferocity of a predator, and her body paralyzed in sheer desire, bas beta, ab background mein “Tujhe Dekha Toh” baja do koi.

He was dressed simply in a black T-shirt and jeans with a strong cologne that followed him in, invading her senses with the sharp smoky scent he was emanating, her brain short-circuited like a fuse during Mumbai’s heavy monsoons. Her gaze—beizzati karne pe tuli hui—slowly, shamelessly travelled across his entire body, taking in everything: his fitted shirt clung to his hard chest, wrapped itself around his narrow waist, his muscled thighs sculpting his jeans.....brain.exe has stopped working. The way he stood, the way he carried himself, the sheer audacity of looking that good without even trying had her actively restraining herself from drooling head-on, further embarrassing herself at the first instance.

Saumya control, maal hai pr tu interview lene aayi hai

Before her imagination could go full Bollywood montage, running in mustard fields, chiffon saree, unnecessary wind machine, reality barged in like a strict English teacher.

“Miss Maya? Hi, I’m Akshaye.”

His voice, slightly rough and gravelly from the smoking and hours of conversations he had had before, hit her straight in the spine. He extended his hand, calm, composed… completely unaware ki yahan saamne wali ladki ka system reboot ho raha hai.

“Oh—I’m sorry, Mr. Khanna,” she blurted, internally slapping herself. “I’m Saumya. Maya wasn’t well today, so I’ll be interviewing you.”

Waah!  Kya entry maari hai. Pure professionalism. Bharat Ratna de do koi.

She shuffled on her feet, trying to look like a functioning adult, and shook his hand, which was a big mistake or life-altering event, Saumya was still deciding, because the moment their hands touched, a sharp spark shot down her spine, almost knocking her off her feet. 

Ab toh bijli ka bill bhi mera hi aayega.

Saumya cleared her throat, settling in, shuffling her papers, as she got ready to embarrass herself for the nth time that day, praying she did not stutter in front of her full-blown teenage crush. 

“Shall we begin?”

Akshaye gave a soft nod, settling into the chair opposite her with an ease that felt… irritatingly natural. There was a stillness to his actions that made her feel hyper aware of his gaze, sending another round of shivers down her spine.

“Your film Mere Baap Pehle Aap is releasing soon,” she began, eyes flicking between her notes and his face. “What drew you to the script?”

“I liked the simplicity of it”, pausing for a beat, “it doesn’t try too hard and is very self-aware”, pausing again, “unlike most today”, which made Saumya look up. 

Theek hai, thoda sa attitude hai. Noted.

She nodded, scribbling away in the notebook just to look occupied, “And your character, would you say you relate to him personally?”

“Not really,” a beat passes, ‘but I understand him”, Akshaye concluded, without any further elaboration

Bas? Itna hi? Bhai thoda toh content de do, main kya likhun, ‘he understands’? Wah.

“Haan matlab—sorry,” she caught herself, clearing her throat, “Could you elaborate on that?”

Akshaye’s eyes flickered in amusement at her slip-up. She was nervous, he could tell, though he was not entirely sure whether it was due to inexperience, because the furious blush he had seen disappearing a few seconds ago was screaming something else. He was certain he had seen her somewhere before; there was a certain old-world grace, reminiscent of actresses from another era, those who did not need spectacle to command attention. It lingered in the line of her features, in the way she carried herself despite the nerves she was trying so carefully to conceal. His gaze drifted, almost against his own better judgment, tracing the details of her face, trying to recall her, but his memory refused to cooperate at the moment, which was mildly annoying.

Still, he decided to indulge her, switching to Hindi instantly, “mera matlab yehi hai ki, we don't need to relate to someone, what drives the actions of a person, the motivation behind is enough to hold my interest, and I guess that’s what attracted me towards this character in the first place.”  Saumya’s olive greens widened for a second, firstly at the instant switch he had in his personality while talking in Hindi, and secondly, at how he had finally managed to speak more than two words at a time. 

“Well yeh kitna acha perspective aapne samne rakha hai, not many would think that way”, she managed to squeak out taking a deep breath and continuing, “Purely out of fan indulgence,” she said, immediately feeling the heat crawl up her neck, “In Border… the transformation you showed, from a naive officer to a hardened soldier but still vulnerable…..it was amazing.”

“And you were just nineteen… toh matlab, did you prep for that? Ya bas… ho gaya?”

Ho gaya??? Kya bol rahi hai tu? Yeh koi Maggi hai kya?

“Well bas hogya”, Akshaye chuckled, replaying to her words, “I do not have a method to prep, whatever acting I do is purely instinctual and anyways, as you mentioned mai bas 19 saal ka tha, I didn't know any better to overthink”, he finished with a small smile.

Yaar yeh kitna cute hai, she could feel her heart galloping out of her ribcage, ek smile ne dil pe teer maardi. Brushing aside her traitorous thoughts for the nth time that day, she was pretty sure that he was a philosopher in his past life because of how he was dropping pearls of wisdom so casually.

Continuing with her steady flow of questions, she finally landed upon the meatiest one, “You’re known to be quite private… and a little closed off,” she treaded carefully, “Do people often misinterpret that as rudeness?” 

Akshaye took a pause, to take a sip of water, before flowing in, “Yes, absolutely”, stating without any defences, “and does that bother you?” Saumya chimed.

“Not at all, I would care if I were trying to be understood, but I don’t.”

Yeh aadmi aise banger one-liners drop krke itna nonchalant kaise ho skta hai?

As she went on to the next question about being available to the media and how networking is so important to catapulting your presence in a cutthroat industry, wanting insight from an insider about this strategy employed by seasoned professionals to access meatier projects, Aksahye started answering with practiced ease, this time using his hands to elaborate his points. Suddenly, Saumya was no longer listening; her entire attention was directed at his long fingers, veiny hands, and how they were swaying lightly in the air, making controlled gestures, and, involuntarily, her thoughts entered the territory of tharak, thinking how good they would feel against her skin, inside her……Pause. 

SAUMYA INTERVIEW CHAL RAHA HAI. 

She blinked rapidly, dragging herself back into the moment like someone yanking Wi-Fi back after a disconnect. He was still talking…..”and if were given the option of attending these parties or leaving the industry, I’ll leave the industry, mai jo hoon, woh hoon.” Her eyes snapped back to his face, nodding with sudden, aggressive sincerity. “Right,” she said a little too quickly, “that makes complete sense.” 

“One last question before we wrap up….what kind of roles would you like to play in the future? Anything specific on your bucket list?” Saumya breathed all too quickly, wanting to wrap this up before her body does it for her.

Chalo, dekhte hain kya bolte hain.

Akshaye without resorting to his usual clipped, economical style, answered, “I like being unpredictable,” he said, leaning back slightly, a hint of animation slipping through. “Patterns bore me. I hate being typecast. So I’m always looking for something that feels different from what I’ve already done. But if I had to pick… I’d love to play a proper badass gangster. High-octane, slightly unhinged… you know, those Joker types.”

Arre waah, aadmi mein excitement bhi hai.

“You don’t want to play the hero?” she asked, now genuinely engaged. “They’re usually the fan favourites.”

An expression of amusement lit up on his face, reaching his beautiful browns “No. Heroes are boring. Too righteous. Too predictable. Everyone already knows they’ll save the day.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Villains, on the other hand…..they’re unpredictable, morally ambiguous…and if you give him a hot wife jiske upar woh deewana hai—” he added casually, the hint of a smirk slipping in, “then there’s no way he doesn’t become the fan favourite.” A high-pitched laugh escaped Saumya. This was a man sitting in front of her, who knew what the girls wanted, down to the D of dark romances, and his ridiculously soft yet deep masculine voice was sending powerful vibrations down her body, particularly in her nether regions if she was being specific. The hilarious laugh she let out was just to cover up an involuntary moan that had slipped out softly. Edging on the tip of decency, just short of descending into a full-blown horny crisis, she prayed that those 10 minutes be wrapped up as soon as possible

"Thank you for your amazing answers Akshaye, I hope you had a good time"

The interview had finally wrapped, and for Saumya, it felt like she had just survived an adventure that was equal parts rigorous, mildly torturous, and deeply entertaining for her inner fangirl. If anything, she was walking out of this as an even bigger fan of Akshaye Khanna, which, frankly, should not have been possible, but here they were. Wishing him luck for the film, she thanked him for his time, trying very hard to keep her voice steady, and just before wrapping up, she quickly asked for an autograph. Handing over Maya’s diary and a pen, she watched as he signed it calmly, unbothered, and then, almost as an afterthought, scribbled a bit just below it before handing it back and bidding her a simple goodbye. Just as she was capturing his beautiful face to her memory, mourning over the conclusion of her tharak andolan, curiosity got the better of her, opening the diary, her eyes skimmed the page, and then she stiffened.

Once.

Twice.

…yeh kya hai?

Her eyes widened, between horror and disbelief, as she reread the same line of numbers again……..and again

His actual, personal phone number and just below it he had rather neatly scribbled….

Saumya, your questions were really good. I wouldn’t mind answering them again without time constraints. I’m in Room 801 till today.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

She snapped the diary shut, spun on her heel, and speed-walked out of the room. The second she hit the corridor, she fumbled for her phone and dialled, dashing towards the women’s restroom to contain her impending crashout. 

“MAYA.”

“Haan bol—interview ho gaya? Zinda hai tu?”

“MAYA USNE MUJHE APNA NUMBER DIYA HAI.”

Silence occupied the restroom and the conversation like death waiting for its next victim. 

“…KYA???”

“NUMBER DIYA HAI APNA PERSONAL PHONE NUMBER,” Saumya rushed out, now pacing frantically across the marble tiles of the Taj restroom. “MAIN KOI DELUSION MEIN TOH NAHI HOON NA?? TU PINCH KAR MUJHE.”

“SAUMYA TU JHOOTH BOL RAHI HAI.”

“MAIN KYUN JHOOTH BOLUNGI?? MAIN KHUD KO SAMJHA RAHI HOON ABHI TAK KI YEH REAL HAI.”

“Wait—wait—wait—how?? Why?? Kya bola usne??” Maya’s voice sharpened, but there was a very obvious spark underneath.

“He said I asked good questions…..AND…..AND….he wants to answer them again…MAYA USNE MUJHE BOLA TO TO COME TO HIS ROOM IN AN HOUR.”

It seemed like silence had become their third-favoured companion, as it occupied the conversation quite some seconds before the two of them snapped back to reality. 

“Saumya.”

“Maya.”

“Calm down and listen to me.”

“I cannot calm downnnn,” she almost whined, now briskly walking through the entire circuit of the restroom, with the impatience of a racehorse.

“I slipped condoms in your purse.”

Saumya halted instantly, almost losing her balance, as she took in the famous last words of her roomie.

“…TU NE KYA KIYA???”

“Precautionary measure, Okay?? I believe in being prepared.”

“MAYA MAIN INTERVIEW LENE AAYI THI, ONE-ON-ONE SESSION KE LIYE, NA KI… NA KI… YEH SAB KE LIYE.”

“Arre toh one-on-one hi hai na,” Maya said, snickering. “Bas thoda… horizontal ho sakta hai.”

“MAYA!!!”

“WHAT?? I’m just saying…..agar banda itna interested hai ki apna number de raha hai aur room bula raha hai… toh clearly Q&A sirf acting pe nahi hoga.”

“MAYA BAS KAR.”

“Okay fine…..but at least check kar purse.”

“…main nahi kar rahi.”

“CHECK. KAR.”

Saumya slowly unzipped her purse, her hands rummaging through the vast expanse of essentials, before her fingers felt the familiar size of a box of condoms. She grabbed it, pulling it out of her purse, as her eyes widened again. 

“…oh my god.”

“MILA??”

“MAYA, THESE ARE XL SIZE.”

A beat passes, and she can hear Maya clearing her throat, as if trying to explain the next big mistake she committed.

“Haan… I heard he’s……”

“MAYA STOP.”

“.....well-equipped.”

“Oh god…….”

“Yeah, that’s what you’ll be screaming in an hour,” Maya retorted as a sharp giggle bounced off the phone 

“MAYA I SWEAR MAIN TERA MURDER KAR DUNGI.”

“No baby, tu mujhe waapis aakar itni chummiyan degi, that is if he lets you come back,” Maya shot back, clearly enjoying herself way too much.

Saumya pressed a hand to her forehead, “Maya… what if he just wants to talk?”

“Then talk.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“…then don’t talk,” Maya said, and then immediately added, “ya phir talk thodi der, and well, I heard Taj’s mattresses are really comfortable.”

“MAYA!!!.”

“I’m kidding—thoda,” she softened, though the grin was practically audible. “Just read the room, okay? Aur please… aankhon se uske kapde utaarna band karna.”

“MAIN AISA NAHI KAR RAHI THI.”

“Saumya, tu uske haath dekh rahi thi na?”

“…chup ho ja.”

“HAAN! Maine pehle hi bola tha ki mai iske saamey apne aap par kaboo nhi rakh paungi aur tune mijhe sher ke pinjre mai bhejdiya.”

“Well, I can’t blame you, woh hai hee ekdum chikna lichi.”

Saumya groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Mera dimaag kharab ho raha hai.”

“Good,” Maya said cheerfully. “Thoda kharab hona zaroori hai varna story boring ho jaati.”

“Yeh story nahi hai, yeh meri life hai.”

“Abhi tak boring thi, ab interesting ho rahi hai.”

Then Maya’s voice softened, just a little, “Go freshen up. Aur haan… confident rehna. He noticed you, okay? That’s already something.”

Saumya leaned back against the wall, breathing out slowly.

“…okay.”

“Call me baad mein aur mujhe saari DETAILS chahiye.”

“Tu bas isi ke liye zinda hai na?”

“Bilkul.”

“Shut up.”

“Never.”

Saumya disconnected the call with a long, heavy sigh and leaned over the basin, staring at her reflection. She was a complete mess. Her hair had long given up on whatever styling product had once tried to tame it, now frizzing out into full rebellion. Her dress was creased in all the wrong places, thanks to her body practically vibrating with adrenaline for the past half hour. And her makeup? Smudged beyond repair. At this point, she looked less like a journalist and more like a raccoon that had lost a fight and was now scavenging through a trash can outside a porch.

She exhaled slowly, grabbed a wet tissue and carefully wiped away the uneven makeup, trying to recover a smudge of dignity. A splash of cold water followed, once, then again, before she began reapplying her makeup, this time keeping it light and practical, something that wouldn’t melt off the second she stepped back into Mumbai’s humidity. She straightened up, adjusting her dress, smoothing out the creases as much as possible, before absentmindedly pushing her bra up slightly, just a little, pausng athe motion.

“Aur haan Saumya, don’t forget to show off those boobies,” she could hear Maya’s voice echo off the walls of the restroom. 

She rolled her eyes at her own reflection. “Shut up, Maya,” she muttered under her breath, though her hands didn’t entirely undo the adjustment. Her hair, however, was still being absolutely uncooperative, an unruly mane that refused discipline, so she dampened it slightly, running her fingers through it, coaxing it into a civilized entity. She reached for her lipstick next, the bold red one, the one she wore when she needed confidence more than anything else, and carefully reapplied it, steadying her hand this time, followed by a quick spritz of her jasmine perfume. She was not entirely put together but definitely not the same girl who had been spiralling two minutes ago at the mere thought of being alone in a room with her lifelong crush. Her stomach flipped again and a familiar tune started playing….

Hum tum ek kamre mein band ho, aur chaabi kho jaaye…

“Arghhhhhh”, Saumya yelled, almost caught between a sob and a whine, ready to throw hands. 

Trying to assuage herself from the crumbling confidence supported by her raging desire,“You can do him, Saumya”— HUHHH?? She froze mid-step, eyes widening in horror, brows furrowed indignantly, “Tum pagal ho kya?” she hissed under her breath, immediately correcting herself, “You can do it, Saumya.”

She took a shaky breath and tried again, “Itni door aayi hoon… just to lose it before meeting an actor? Mummy papa ko proud nahi banana?” she rambled, attempting to motivate herself but accidentally triggering something worse, Haan, proud toh banana hai… kitne khush honge aisa damaad paake. 

“FUCKKK,” she whispered at her own reflection, eyes shutting in embarrassment, pressing her lips together, she inhaled deeply, trying to collect whatever scraps of sanity were still available, “Bhagwan ji… sab aapke upar hai ab,” she muttered, a quick, slightly desperate prayer slipping out as she gave herself one last look. Before she could spiral again, she turned and rushed out, stepping into the elevator, her momentum being her only ally. The numbers ticked down painfully slow, her heartbeat syncing with each one, and the doors slid open. Stepping out, she walked down the corridor and stopped in front of the door. Her hand lifted and paused mid-air, taking a deep breath, letting her heartbeat settle for a moment before knocking softly. 

Jai Mata Di, let’s rock.

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adityadharfilms: You are not ready for this! Loved the passion everyone had on #Day1 of the shoot of #Dhurandhar 🤍 #akshayekhanna saumyas_world danish_pandor ranveersingh rampal72 actormaddy duttsanjay saraarjunn liked by saumyas_world, danish_pandor and 732476 others

fangirl1: SO I WAS RIGHT???? AKSHAYE AND SAUMYA *ARE* PLAYING HUSBAND WIFE??? adityadharfilms: 🤷🏻‍♂️ who knows? fangirl1: ?? YOU??? youre the director???? fangirl2: no ur right im NOT ready for akshaye khanna and saumya tandon together on screen 😭 im gonna die of bi panic omg 😇💦 rampal72: Crazy kardenge 🤪💥

Saumya adjusted her skirt for the fourth time. She was used to sets, used to the lights, and the impeccable cast that Mukesh Chhabra and Aditya Dhar had picked were all very welcoming, but there was something about the way Akshaye Khanna sat - slumped slightly, grey stubble on his cheeks, nursing a cardboard coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the room - that made her feel like a nervous debutante.

He hadn't said much during the reading, but every once in a while, he’d look up, his eyes sharp and unreadable, to suggest a change.

When the director finally called a break, Saumya reached for her phone to check her notifications. She smiled when she saw Danish's comment, and replied to it. Taking a breath, she leaned slightly toward him, and cleared her throat. "Um, i was gonna tag you in my post, you know, but I couldnt find your account?"

He looked at her, slightly amused yet deadpan. "Yeah, no wonder. I don't have an Instagram account."

Oh. "You.. don't have an insta account?"

He had to supress a smile at her incredulous face. "No, ma'am."

....UM. This man was like, 10 years older than her, why the hell was he calling her 'ma'am'? And why the hell did she like it? "I- anyways, you NEED one! Please, I can already tell the movie's going to be a blockbuster, and you have so many fans here as well!"

"Madam, if I open an account there, mujhe social media manager bhi toh rakhna padega na. Kyuki I toh am not going to be regular there like the rest of you."

"Arre, kamaal karte ho! Kaun bolraha hai ki you have to be regular and post everyday? Mai toh sirf bolrahi hu ki, with the film on the way, we'll have to tag you in our posts, aur aapko bhi ek do promo posts daalne hai. Bas! Phir jab chahe post karo, ya na karo, woh aapka decision!"

He looked at her for a long moment, one of his eyebrows raised. "You know, they really should have casted you as Geet in Jab We Met instead of as her sister."

Saumya gasped, her mouth hanging open for a split second - people still remembered her in that role?- before a flustered, high-pitched laugh escaped her. "Excuse me? I am NOT that much of a chatterbox, Mr. Khanna!"

"Maybe not yet, but definitely that persistent," he corrected, his voice like sandpaper on velvet. He set the empty coffee cup down on the mahogany table with a definitive thud. "And clearly, I can't Tarun Saluja my way out of this argument. Toh.."

"Toh...?" Saumya leaned in, her eyes sparkling with a mix of triumph and mischief.

Akshaye let out a long, weary sigh - the kind of sigh a man gives when he knows he’s about to enter a world he doesn't understand. "Fine. But on one condition: I am not doing those... kya kehte hai? The dance videos? The ones where you point at text in the air?"

"Reels! And don't worry," she giggled, already sliding her chair closer until their shoulders almost brushed. "No dancing. Just a profile. Lao, phone do apna."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a device that looked surprisingly modern for someone who claimed to be a digital hermit. As Saumya took it, her fingers grazed his, and she felt a tiny, traitorous jolt of electricity. She ignored it, focusing on the screen.

"Okay, username... @/akshaykhanna was taken, obviously, but- wait, you spell yours with an 'e', dont you?"

"Yeah, I do. I see you've done your homework well, Ms. Tandon."

"Well, thank you," she did a mock-curtsy, " @/akshayekhanna is available. Do you like it? It's classic."

"Whatever you like, Saumya." He was watching her now, not the phone. He seemed fascinated by how quickly her thumbs moved across the screen, a blur of manicured precision.

"Ooookay, put in your email really quickly" -she handed him the phone, snatching it back the second he finished typing it in- "okay, now what do you want the password to be?"

"I don't know.. like, password in all small, no space?"

She just shot him a look.

"OKAY, okay." -He raised his hands in a quick surrender. "I dont know, okay! Um, whatever you like. Oh, you know what?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"You know, cus you're basically coercing me into doing this, you should just make it like, 'saumya' something."

"And you know what, done. saumya143, all small, no spaces. Remember that." She pointed a well-manicured finger at him.

"Alright, alright. Wait, why 143? Is your birthday 14th march or something?"

She giggled, like she knew something he didn't- which, well, he didn't. "Umm, no, but you know... something like that."

Now it was his turn to narrow his eyes. "Saumya. What does it mean?"

"Its like.. a code, okay! Nothing bad, trust me. Look it up at home or something."

He just sighed. "Okay then. Keep your secrets."