"Happy Married Life, Shivya Pathak" I weakly smiled seeing my condition, mangalsutra dangling in my neck, vermilion in hair and both hands filled with gold bangles.
"Come out quickly or do you want me to break the gate," my husband knocked again...
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"From where did you get this book?" I startled, my grip faltering as the book nearly slipped from my fingers. My breath caught when I noticed Vedant standing by the vanity, his reflection calm and composed in the mirror as he unfastened his watch.
"When did you come?" I asked hastily, clutching the book back to my chest as if I had been caught red-handed with something forbidden. My hands fussed with the duvet, tugging it over my legs, pretending composure I clearly did not have.
"A minute ago," he replied evenly, placing his watch neatly on the table. Then came his wallet, then his phone, lined up with the kind of order only he could maintain. My eyes followed the ritual unconsciously.
Vedant never left things scattered, I had never seen him place a single item in the wrong spot no matter how small the thing is.
Before I could speak, I heard the faint twist of the bathroom lock. My eyes widened in horror as realization struck me like lightning. "Rukiye!" I blurted, louder than I should have. His hand froze on the doorknob, turning slowly toward me, brows furrowing in mild confusion.
I was already off the bed, my feet cold against the polished floor as I rushed to the door, blocking his way. My hand shot out, covering his on the knob before he could push it open.
"Give me... a minute," I said quickly, breathless, trying to sound casual but failing. The urgency in my tone betrayed me. I could feel his hand beneath mine, warm, steady, while mine trembled like a guilty child's.
"Why?" he asked, his tone low, controlled, but laced with suspicion.
My throat went dry. I had no excuse. My lips opened, closed like a student who knows the answer but can't bring herself to say it out loud in front of the whole class. My thoughts raced in panic, words crashing into each other.
What should I tell him-that if you step inside you'll find my saree, blouse, and petticoat scattered across the bathroom floor like dead soldiers, and as a grand bonus, my pink lacy bra hanging proudly on the hanger as though displayed in some absurd art exhibition?
I pressed harder against his hand, as though sheer force would keep him out. "Just... wait," I whispered, eyes darting away, cheeks burning.
And then I realized. My palm was still covering his. Not just covering, it was clutching, fingers wrapped around his hand as though anchoring myself to him.
Heat shot through me, mortification surging through my veins. I bit down on my tongue in annoyance at myself. Kya karti rehti hai, Shivya! My mind screamed, cursing my own inability to manage even the smallest things with grace.
"What happened? Why are you stopping me?" he asked again, his voice steady, but that unspoken edge was there.
Frustration ran through every inch of my body. I snapped before I could stop myself. "Because my bra is in the bathroom! And if you're so eager, you can go in and admire it for yourself!"
