You & Me ; Towards Our Forbidden Future [THE LEGACY: BOOK 1]

Chapter 47 - Engagement 5

Deepa carefully laid her saree on the bed and glanced around the room, ensuring she was alone. Satisfied, she picked up her newly designed blouse and admired it. "Amma did an excellent job! It's exactly what I wanted!" She slipped on the blouse, smoothing out the fabric, and checked her reflection in the mirror. Pleased with the fit, she began to remove her existing saree, starting with the safety pin that secured her pallu, preparing to try on the new blouse with the saree.

As she gently slid the pallu off her shoulder, a whisper of silk rustled against her skin. The delicate fabric slipped away, revealing the gentle curve of her neck and the soft, golden glow of her upper arms. The edge of her blouse, intricately embroidered with threads of silver and gold, framed the delicate lines of her collarbone.

As the pallu fell away, the warm light of the room danced across her skin, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the exposed curve of her shoulder and the gentle swell of her bosom. The rest of her body remained swathed in the folds of her saree, but the subtle revelation of her upper body seemed to radiate a quiet confidence, a sense of understated beauty that commanded attention without seeking it.

Then she slipped off her blouse. The fabric slid down her arms, revealing her shoulders and upper back. Her skin was a smooth, creamy expanse, and the delicate lines of her shoulder blades stood out for a moment before she reached for the new blouse. The soft, rounded curve of her upper back was visible.

As the bathroom door swung open, Deepa's eyes widened in shock. A tall, imposing figure emerged, his chiseled physique evident even under the towel wrapped around his waist. His dark hair was damp, and he was drying it with another towel, his eyes cast downward. Deepa's gaze froze on him, her lips parting in a silent scream.

Before she could make a sound, the man's eyes snapped up, locking onto hers for a brief, electric moment. Then, his gaze flicked away, and he strode quickly towards her. His hand closed over her mouth, gentle but firm, stifling her impending scream.

"Shh, please," he whispered urgently, his voice low and soothing. "If anyone sees us like this, it will cause a huge misunderstanding."

Deepa's eyes darted wildly, her mind reeling. Who was this man? And why was he in this room?

As she gazed up at him, a spark of recognition flared.

It was her physics teacher from twelve years ago, Anil Ramachandran!

Why is he here? 

At this time out of all!!!!

God, hell nah!

Deepa closed her eyes tightly, praying it's just a dream.

Simultaneously, Anil's eyes narrowed, his gaze intensifying as he studied her face. A flicker of surprise crossed his features, and he whispered, "Deepa?" his voice uncertain, as if questioning his own conclusion.

She heard his whisper and again opened her eyes in shock.

Deepa's face burned with shame, and she felt her eyes well up with mortification. Anil's hand remained clamped over her mouth, his other hand cradling the back of her head, careful not to touch her exposed skin. His eyes, filled with a deep concern and a hint of apology, met hers again, and Deepa wished the ground would swallow her whole, escaping this humiliating scene.

My dear Krishna, what did I do to go through this!?

As Anil released his hand from her mouth, he whispered, "Please, don't scream. I'm letting you go." Deepa nodded, still in shock, and Anil quickly turned around, giving her his back.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice sincere, despite not being at fault. Deepa felt a surge of gratitude towards him for his kindness.

Anil swiftly gathered his clothes from the closet and retreated to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Deepa collapsed onto the floor, her back against the bed, and buried her face in her hands. She felt like she'd been punched in the gut, her dignity bruised and battered.

A twenty-eight-year-old surgeon, renowned for her confidence and poise, Deepa had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. And to make matters worse, the man who'd witnessed her mortification was her own teacher, Anil Ramachandran, a man she'd respected and admired for his intellect and kindness.

As she sat there, trying to gather her shattered composure, Deepa felt a wave of humiliation wash over her. She couldn't bear the thought of facing Anil again, of looking him in the eye after this embarrassing encounter.

But as the minutes ticked by, Deepa slowly began to regain her equilibrium. She took a few deep breaths, willed her heart rate to slow down, and reminded herself that she was a grown woman, a professional. She could handle this.

With a newfound sense of determination, Deepa stood up, smoothed out her hair, and began to change into the new dress. Her hands trembled slightly as she fastened the buttons, but she refused to let her embarrassment get the better of her.

Finally, dressed and composed, Deepa opened the door and slipped out of the room, leaving Anil and her mortification behind.