His Burden, His Blessing

Sinful

Natasha called the next morning, her voice bright and full of infectious energy. She insisted I take the rest of the day off to shop and get ready for the hospital party. Although the thought of spending hours finding an outfit to impress strangers or worse, my husband was far from exciting, the prospect of spending time with Natasha was genuinely appealing. She was a breath of fresh air, a welcome distraction from the suffocating silence of my life.

I was easily granted permission to take the half-day off, and I quickly texted Natasha, arranging to meet her at the mall.

Natasha, predictably, chose a showstopper: a beautiful, deep red satin sleeveless dress with a daring thigh-high slit, paired with matching stilettoes. She was insistent that I should get something similar, but I shook my head, my inherent discomfort with tight, revealing clothing taking over. I wasn't sure I would look flattering in a fitted dress, not with my current size and shape. Instead, I gravitated toward one of the few outifits I felt truly comfortable in: the saree.

I settled on an elegant and timeless combination: a black net saree paired with a matching full-sleeved blouse. The blouse was made of sheer black net fabric, which provided coverage while still offering a hint of allure, and the saree itself was undoubtedly see-through. I wasn't particularly bothered by that; the elegance of the fabric felt like a shield. I decided to pair it with the simple black pencil heels I already owned.

Next, Natasha dragged me to a salon. I obliged, allowing myself to be pampered. My dark hair was styled into loose curls, and my makeup was perfected with a dramatic black eyeliner and a striking red lip, a bold choice for me, but one that instantly pulled the entire, sophisticated look together. Natasha opted for a classy chignon and a matching red lip. When we were done, we had barely two hours until the event started, and we parted ways to head home and meet our respective dates.

The text I didn't receive was the one I expected, but still hoped for: a message from Zeyansh informing me he was on his way to pick me up. I wasn't surprised, because I knew my place in his priorities, but the disappointment was a dull, familiar ache in my chest. With a sigh, I adjusted the drape of my black net saree, grabbed my keys, and left the silent apartment. I was driving to my husband's event, alone. The disheartening reality was sharp, but I steeled my resolve in the quiet solitude of my car.

When I arrived at the grand, imposing venue, I stopped the car and stared at the glittering facade. My social anxiety immediately clawed its way back. At the last major party we attended, Zeyansh had at least waited for me outside, offering a brief, detached buffer before plunging me into the crowd. Today, I had received a single text just before I arrived: Already inside. He had left me to fend for myself.

A wave of self-loathing washed over me. I hated myself for wishing I had someone to help me through this, hated myself for being so emotionally dependent on the man who had abandoned me. But the miserable fact remained: I truly had no one to call my own. All the temporary gutsiness I had gathered over the last twenty-four hours vanished.

The memories of the last party, where my own husband couldn't keep his eyes off a woman who wasn't me, was a fresh wound. I had dressed solely to please him then. I was solely there just for him. This time, that would not be the case. I was here for me, myself and I alone.

Maybe I could just leave now. A small, pleading voice surfaced. I could feign food poisoning. I could enjoy Natasha's company another time. The thought was instantly calming, a gentle balm on the panic attack that was steadily rising.

My mind made up, I was about to turn the car back toward the exit when I felt a sudden warmth touch the bare skin of my back, right at the delicate spot where the blouse ended.

I gasped, jumping and whirling around in a startled reflex. The last person I expected to see stood directly behind me: Aditya Singh Rathod.

Here we go again.