𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 : 𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒇𝒊𝒂 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

{35}•ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀsɢᴜʟʟᴀ•

ANIRUDH

I clenched my jaw, forcing my gaze away from them. This is ridiculous.

The way they looked, their lips stained with syrup, their cheeks puffed out like two little chipmunks. I should not be standing here, watching them, and I sure as hell shouldn't be finding it cute. But I do.

I inhale sharply, forcing myself to exhale through my nose. This isn’t good.

My wife.

The words echo in my head. They don't feel right, don’t feel real. They sound foreign, strange. Like something that shouldn't be happening, something that should’ve never happened.

And yet—here we are.

Aanya giggles again, stuffing another piece of rasgulla into her tiny mouth, her eyes crinkling with delight. Bondita laughs too, her face glowing in the golden hue of the setting sun. She wipes the corner of Aanya’s lips with her fingers, the touch so soft, so… warm.

I feel something sharp pierce through me.

I hate it.

I hate the way she makes everything feel different. I hate the way I almost forgot who I am—forgot what I’ve built, the cold walls of detachment that have kept me sane. She looks at me sometimes as if she sees through it all.

And that? That is unforgivable.

I step forward, my shoes crunching against the gravel. They both look up at me at the same time, identical wide eyes blinking.

Aanya beams, her face still stuffed with sweets. “Chahu, aap bhi khaoge?” (Uncle, will you eat too?)

No. I want to say it outright, to shut down whatever softness is creeping into this moment. But before I can answer, Bondita tilts her head slightly, her lips curving into something so gentle it unsettles me.

“You should try, Anirudh,” she murmurs, holding out a rasgulla on her palm.

I stare at her.

She doesn’t realize what she’s doing. She doesn’t realize how dangerously close she’s stepping into something she won’t be able to handle.

She thinks this is real.

She thinks this marriage, this life, means something.

I need to fix that.

I step even closer, and just for a second, I let my eyes drop to her lips, the way they’re slightly parted, the way the sweetness of the rasgulla lingers at the corner of her mouth.

I lift my hand.

For a moment, her breath hitches.

Her fingers tremble slightly.

And then—

I take the rasgulla from her hand with two fingers, letting them barely graze her palm. Her breath stutters, and I watch as the color in her cheeks deepens. Good.

Then, without breaking eye contact, I drop the sweet back onto the plate.

Silence.

Aanya blinks up at me, confused. Bondita, on the other hand… her expression flickers. I can see it. The way her face falls, the way she swallows down whatever it was she thought would happen.

Good.

I turn away, adjusting my cufflinks. “I don’t eat sweets.” My voice is sharp, clipped. Detached.

Aanya pouts. “Par Chahu—” (But Uncle—)

“No, Aanya,” I cut her off, my tone calm but firm. “It’s time for you to go inside. The sun is setting.”