The heavy doors swung open, and the brilliant shock of light and sound momentarily paralyzed me. The grand ballroom glittered under dozens of towering chandeliers, a breathtaking display of wealth and ostentation. Laughter spilled like overly sweet champagne, and music pulsed through the air, but beneath the superficial glamour, the event felt stale, a predictable gathering of the city's elite.
I was instantly self-conscious. Walking in with Aditya was like being ushered in by a spotlight. Every head turned. I felt fragile, a damsel in distress next to his commanding, regal height, and I knew the contrast was stark. He stood tall, wide, and radiating an effortless confidence, while I was suddenly shrinking inside my elegant black net saree, the unwanted attention prickling my skin. But Aditya didn't seem bothered in the least. He held the moment, letting the room absorb our entrance before finally guiding me further inside.
I internally groaned in my head as the official proceedings began. The actual purpose of the party, to celebrate the new owner of the hospital, was the most tedious part. The big reveal was a crushing anticlimax: the mysterious hotshot wasn't some sharp, visionary entrepreneur, but a ridiculously wealthy old man who looked like he'd rather be at home counting his fortunes than making a dull, rambling speech. The air went out of the room, and I mentally checked out, confirming that this event was, at its core, painfully boring.
After the speech sputtered to an end, Aditya excused himself, saying he needed to mingle with a few people who had been waiting for him. I nodded, grateful for the reprieve, and instinctively sought out a nice, dark corner near the periphery of the room, a place where the shadows offered a cloak of anonymity.
It was only then, as I took a deep, shaky breath, that the other realization struck me: I still hadn't seen Zeyansh.
I tried to search for him, scanning the perimeter and the knots of people gathered around the bar, but I gave up quickly. In all honesty, I wasn't bothered in the way a wife should be; there was no panic, only a faint, dull resentment. I was holding a well-deserved grudge against him for ditching me at an event he had insisted I attend.
Yet, a completely different man, a man who wasn't my husband, a man who had left years ago without a word, a man I was terrified to acknowledge, was the one who had stayed by my side, providing me with the strength to walk through those doors. And even across the distance, I could feel the weight of Aditya's gaze. It was steady, burning, and intensely possessive, the look of a man who had found something he hadn't planned to lose again. It was a silent check-in, a lifeline thrown across a sea of strangers.
The ballroom lights dimmed slightly, bathing the room in a softer, more intimate golden hue. The band eased into a slow, smooth melody that invited couples onto the dance floor. The general chatter mellowed into low murmurs punctuated by the clinking of glasses. I took a slow sip of my orange juice, hoping the sweetness would help ease the spike of anxiety.
I didn't expect his voice to come from directly behind me, low, smooth, and intimately familiar.
"Running away already?"
I turned, my heart vaulting into my throat. There he was, Aditya, even sharper and more devastating under the golden light. He'd loosened his tie slightly, the open buttons of his shirt revealing a hint more of that powerful, sculpted chest and the gleaming silver chain. His gaze was anything but polite.
"I wasn't running," I managed, clutching my glass so tightly my knuckles were white. "Just... breathing."
"Hmm."
He stepped closer, invading the fragile bubble of space I had carved out for myself. Before I could even register the intrusion, his hand brushed against mine as he set his drink down on the small table next to me. It was deliberate. My pulse spiked, a chaotic drumbeat against the soft rhythm of the slow dance music.
"Dance with me," he said simply. It wasn't a question veiled in charm; it was a command wrapped in velvet, given by a man who expected immediate compliance.
"I—Aditya, I don't..."
But he didn't wait for my protest. His hand found the small of my exposed back, firm, confident, and utterly forbidden. The heat of his palm burned my skin through the sheer net of the saree, and suddenly, every sound in the room faded except the music and the frantic hammering in my chest.
"Relax," he whispered near my ear, his breath a warm fan against my skin. "You'll draw more attention if you fight it."
So, I didn't fight. Or perhaps the truth was I simply didn't want to.
His large hand guided mine to rest on his broad shoulder, his other hand holding the forbidden spot on my lower back as he led me effortlessly into the slow rhythm. My body instantly betrayed me, leaning, melting into the primal sense of safety that I once knew and knew I shouldn't crave anymore. It was an agonizing, delicious relief to be held by him.
And then, just when the entire world had narrowed to the space between our two bodies, I saw him.
Zeyansh.
He was across the room, near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was completely still, his entire frame rigid, watching us.
For a suspended, agonizing moment, I couldn't tell what flickered in his eyes, was it surprise that his discarded wife had shown up and had not bothered finding him? Was it anger that I was not alone? Whatever the emotion, it was enough to twist something deep inside me.
Guilt, perhaps, for indulging in this reckless, intimate dance with the ghost of my past.
Aditya's fingers tightened slightly around my waist as he noticed the sudden shift in my breathing and where my gaze had drifted. His grip was subtle, a silent, powerful warning. Focus. On him. Not the man across the room.
I reluctantly followed Aditya's line of sight, and my breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound, when I realized who Zeyansh's companion was.
Tanisha.
She was laughing, a sound that rang like sharp, deliberate glass, far too loud for the intimate distance between them. She leaned in close, her fingers brushing against his arm and lingering on his sleeve as if she possessed the absolute right to touch him. The same woman who was the silent, sleek wedge driven into the crumbling tower of my marriage stood there, staking her claim with every move, every exaggerated gesture.
Zeyansh didn't flinch. He didn't move away from her. He didn't even blink.
He simply continued to stare at me, his gaze locked over Tanisha's head, at me.
A rush of powerful heat crept up my neck, one that was no longer simple embarrassment. It was a muddled, terrifying storm of humiliation, hatred, and something dangerously close to blinding rage. It burned beneath my skin, settling in the hollow of my throat, making it nearly impossible to draw air.
Aditya's thumb began tracing slow, deliberate circles against the small of my waist, the pressure grounding me, reminding me who I was with. Who I should have been with.
"Seems like he's enjoying himself,"
Aditya murmured, his voice calm, but with an unmistakable edge of steel underneath. I swallowed hard, forcing a small, brittle smile that felt like a lie on my lips. "Looks like it."
The song shifted, the melody growing slightly more dramatic, heavier. The air around us felt charged, thick with unspoken accusations and desires.
And for the first time that night, in the center of the glittering, boring ballroom, I wasn't sure which gaze burned more: Zeyansh's from across the suffocating room, or Aditya's from inches away.
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YOU ARE READING
His Burden, His Blessing
Romance"You don't turn me on enough for us to roleplay." My husband of 2 years said to me. It took me some time to process what he said. "What?! What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is this some kind of a joke?" I asked him incredulously. "Do I look lik...
