Her Deviant Husband

Chapter 51

Athira's pov. 

As soon as the door clicked shut, I opened my eyes, my breath hitching. 

My body reacted before my mind could process—springing up from the bed, nearly tripping in my haste, I rushed to the window. My fingers trembled as they parted the curtains just enough for me to see outside.

Reyansh's sleek black car rolled through the gates followed by nearly a dozen of cars, the red taillights disappearing into the darkened street. My heart pounded so violently against my ribs that for a moment, I thought I might actually pass out. A wave of nausea curled in my stomach. This was it. No turning back.

Fuck. He's going to hate me for what I'm about to do.

Swallowing hard, I spun around, my feet barely touching the ground as I hurried towards the study in our bedroom. The air felt too thick, my own movements too loud, like I was moving through a nightmare where the walls were closing in and my claustrophobia was acting up. My pulse roared in my ears as I reached the desk.

My hands trembled as I yanked open the drawer, the drawer scraping loudly against the silence. My fingers fumbled through papers, brushes of fabric, the cool metallic edge of a pen, until they finally found what I was looking for—the leather-bound diary. The one I had hidden from him. The one that held his mother's the truth.

A cold shiver ran down my spine as I gripped the worn edges, my fingertips tingling with anticipation and dread. My breath came in shallow gasps as I flipped open the pages, my eyes scanning frantically until I found where I had left off.

This was it.

The words blurred for a second, my mind refusing to comprehend, as if protecting me from what I was about to uncover. But I forced myself to focus. My entire body was wound tight, every nerve bracing for the truth that could destroy everything.

And then, I started reading.

"For the first time in my life, I felt love—not duty, not expectation, not the suffocating weight of obligation, but love. Pure and all-consuming. Love that did not ask for permission. Love that did not need words to exist.

In his arms, I was not the daughter of the Sehgal family or the Ahluwalia heir's wife. I was not a daughter bound by her family's sins. I was simply a woman. A woman who craved, a woman who wanted, a woman who—just for one night—allowed herself to be selfish.

His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as if he knew this was both our beginning and our end. His lips traced every unspoken sorrow, his hands memorized every inch of me as if he could brand me into his soul. And for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe we could be infinite. That dawn would never come.

But dawn always comes. And when it does, reality will return with it. Because if anyone ever learns what we have done—if even a whisper of this reaches the wrong ears—he will die. They will tear him from this world without hesitation, without mercy. And I... I will be left to live in the ruins of a love that was never meant to survive.

Yet knowing all this, knowing that this night could cost him his life... I still let myself love him. Because for once, I wanted to know what it meant to be free."

A strangled gasp tore from my throat as my fingers clenched the pages, the inked words swimming in my vision. 

My breath hitched—shallow, uneven—as if my lungs had forgotten how to function. My mind refused to piece it all together, yet the weight of understanding settled like a vice around my ribs, squeezing until I felt like I might shatter.