Falling into the Chaos

Twenty Six: The Lines we drew

Zoya

I had said that I’d be fine.

That I wasn’t hungry, that he didn’t need to worry.

But Aditya being Aditya didn’t listen.

"I need to make sure my wife eats well," he had said over the call, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this.

I really shouldn’t.

But no matter how hard I tried to fight it, my mind kept drifting back to him. To us. To the nights we had spent tangled together, his hands gripping my hips, his breath warm against my skin, his lips murmuring things he’d never say in daylight.

And now?

Now that I was married to him, I couldn’t have him anymore.

It was torture.

I lay sprawled on my bed, my body restless, my fingers gripping the edge of the pillow as if that would somehow ground me.

It didn’t.

Nothing did.

Not when every part of me was hyper-aware of the fact that he was mine now.

Yet, somehow, he had never felt more out of reach.

I turned onto my back, exhaling sharply.

Before I went to his place, I had already played out a dozen scenarios in my head.

How he could press me against the kitchen counter, his fingers gripping my waist, his voice low and teasing. "You just can’t behave, can you?"

How he could carry me straight to his bed, his patience snapping, his restraint slipping, his need finally overriding that stupid, infuriating control of his.

How he could just—have me.

God, I wanted him.

I squeezed my thighs together, my breath coming unevenly as images of him filled my mind. Aditya above me, his body heavy against mine, his lips at my throat, his hands roaming, claiming.

I groaned into the pillow.

This was unfair.

So unfair.

Before, when we weren’t married, it had been easier to pretend that what we had was just something physical—something we could walk away from.

But now?

Now, the lines were blurred beyond recognition.

I was his wife.

His wife.

And I wanted him.

No rules. No teasing. No pretense.

Just him.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself up from the bed.

I wasn’t going to survive this marriage.

I shouldn’t have called him.

I knew it the second the phone started ringing.

But I was past the point of rational decisions.

My body was aching, my mind was spinning, and every inch of me was screaming for him. It was unbearable—this longing, this frustration, this need.

And so, I called him.

"Zoya?" His voice came through the line, warm and steady, but the second he heard my breathing—uneven, shallow, desperate—his tone changed. "What’s wrong?"