38 ~ Make love to me
Chahat's POV.
"This is hard for me to believe," she continued, oblivious to the storm she was stirring inside me. "You guys live together. You're married. It's been more than one month and you guys haven't slept together?"
My face must have shown something because Ina noticed.
"Stop it, Ishika," she said quietly.
She looked at me, her eyes curious, waiting and I stood there, frozen.
Because I didn't have an answer.
By the time I stepped out of college, I was already tired from sitting through lectures and thinking about exams all day.
But the moment I saw the car waiting outside, my tiredness was replaced by something else.
Anger.
I stopped in my tracks.
The driver was standing beside the car, waiting for me.
Where was Kartik?
I looked around instinctively, almost expecting him but he was nowhere to be seen.
My lips pressed into a thin line.
"Kartik kahan hain?" I asked him.
(Where is Kartik?)
He looked down, "Sir is busy that's why he asked me to pick you up."
Fine.
I got into the back seat and shut the door harder than necessary.
"Singhaniya Globals le chaliye."
(Take me to Singhania Globals.)
The driver looked at me through the rear view mirror, clearly surprised.
"Ma'am... office?"
"Haan."
(Yes.)
He hesitated for a moment.
"Sir ne..."
(Sir...)
"Singhaniya Globals!"
My tone left no room for argument.
He nodded quickly and started the car.
I folded my arms and stared out of the window, my mind already busy building a case against my husband.
Every other day, he came to pick me up himself.
Sometimes he'd wait outside with that irritatingly calm expression of his. Sometimes he'd tease me about taking too long. Sometimes he'd simply open the car door and look at me as if the entire day had been waiting for the moment I appeared.
And today?
A driver.
Was I supposed to be happy about that?
My irritation only grew when his phone rang.
He answered through the car's system.
"Hello, sir."
I didn't pay much attention until I heard the voice on the other end.
Kartik.
Of course.
My ears immediately perked up.
The driver glanced at me through the mirror.
"Sir, Mrs. Singhaniya is coming to the office."
After a brief pause he said. "Yes, sir."
He ended the call.
By the time I reached Singhaniya Globals, my anger had reached a completely unreasonable level.
I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the car.
"Excuse me, ma'am... kya aapke paas appointment hai?"
(Excuse me, Mam... do you have an appointment?)
The moment I stepped inside the office building, the receptionist stopped me with that overly polite, professional smile that somehow managed to irritate me even more.
I looked at her.
Then I looked around the grand lobby of Singhaniya Globals before turning my attention back to her.
"Ab apne hi husband se milne ke liye mujhe appointment lena padega?"
(Now I have to make an appointment to meet my own husband?)
The words came out sharper than I intended.
The poor girl immediately froze.
Her eyes widened, and for a second, she looked at me as though I had just announced something completely unbelievable.
There was confusion on her face too, as if she was desperately trying to figure out whether I was joking, serious, or perhaps some angry visitor who had somehow managed to get past security.
"Kartik..." I began, already feeling my irritation rise again.
Before I could finish, the phone sitting beside her suddenly rang.
She practically jumped at the sound.
"Yes, sir?"
She picked it up quickly, her eyes still fixed on me.
I crossed my arms and waited.
She listened for a few seconds, and then her expression changed.
"Chahat Singhaniya?"
I immediately corrected her. "Chahat Rathore Singhaniya."
Her eyes widened again.
I wasn't sure why everyone in this building reacted to my husband's name as though it carried some kind of royal decree.
She quickly nodded, ended the call, and looked at me with a completely different expression.
"Mrs. Singhaniya, sir ne aapko upar bulaya hai. Forty-fifth floor."
(Mrs. Singhania, Sir has called you upstairs. Forty-fifth floor.)
I gave her a small nod.
"Thank you."
Then I turned toward the elevators before she could ask me anything else.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and I stepped inside. As soon as the doors closed, I pressed the button marked 45 and leaned back against the polished wall.
For the first few seconds, I simply stared at the numbers changing above the doors.
Then my eyes drifted toward the mirrored wall.
And I caught sight of myself.
I was still dressed exactly as I had been for college, a shirt knotted casually around my waist, leaving a small glimpse of my midriff, faded fitted jeans with ripped detailing, and sneakers. My college bag hung from one shoulder, and my college ID was still around my neck.
I looked nothing like the people who usually belonged on Kartik's executive floor.
Maybe that was why I felt the glances of the employees with me in the elevator.
Their eyes immediately landed on me.
Then my clothes, my college ID and bag.
One of them looked at me, looked at the number above the elevator, and then looked back at me with an expression that practically screamed confusion.
I ignored them.
A few floors later, the elevator stopped once more.
More people entered.
And once again, the same thing happened.
Their eyes moved over me curiously.
I could practically hear the questions they were too polite to ask.
Who was I?
Why was I here?
And, most importantly, why was I going to the forty-fifth floor?
I glanced at my reflection again.
Honestly, I probably did look completely out of place.
But I wasn't going to change my clothes just because Kartik happened to owns this building.
When the elevator finally reached the forty-fifth floor, the doors opened.
I stepped out.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
This floor was quieter, more polished, more intimidating. Employees moved around with files and tablets, speaking in low voices, and the moment they noticed me, several pairs of eyes turned in my direction.
Again.
My gaze swept across them.
Looking at my bag and college id. Someone else looked at my ripped jeans before quickly looking away when I caught them staring.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and continued walking.
I came here for one reason.
Kartik.
And after making me come all the way here because he couldn't be bothered to pick me up himself, he was going to hear exactly what I had to say.
I continued walking.
Then I spotted Ayaan. I walked straight toward him.
"Kartik kaha hai?"
(Where is Kartik?)
Ayaan looked at me, then briefly toward Kartik's cabin.
"Chahat... woh abhi busy hai."
(Chahat... he's busy.)
"Busy?"
I looked toward the glass cabin.
There it was. CEO Kartik Singhaniya written neatly on the door.
My anger returned in full force.
Without saying another word, I marched toward it.
Ayaan barely had time to react before I pushed the door open.
Kartik was sitting behind his desk, talking to two men.
He looked up.
For a second, his expression changed from surprise to something dangerously close to amusement.
I didn't care.
"Excuse me, gentleman."
The two men exchanged a glance.
Kartik slowly rose from his chair.
They immediately understood.
They nodded politely and walked out, closing the door behind them.
The moment we were alone, Kartik's lips curved.
"My dear wife..." He started walking toward me. "What a pleasant surprise."
He opened his arms, clearly intending to pull me into a hug.
I stepped back.
He stopped and his eyebrows lifted. "Kya hua meri Jaan?"
(What happened my love?)
I glared at him. "Mujhe lene kyun nahi aaye aap?"
(Why didn't you come to pick me up?)
He blinked once.
"Meri shaadi aapse hui hai ya driver se?" I asked folding my hands on my chest.
(Am I married to you or the driver?)
His lips twitched. "Mujhse."
(Me.)
"Toh mujhe lene driver kyun aaya?" I shouted.
(So why did the driver come to pick me up?)
"I had meetings baby." He tried to calm me down.
"So?" I raised my eyebrows.
"So..." He sighed, already realizing that logic wasn't going to save him. "I thought it wouldn't be a big deal."
"Seriously. Main comfortable nahi hoon!"
(I'm not comfortable!)
"I can see that." I shoved his hand in his pocket.
"Main aapke saath aana chahte thi."
(I wanted to come with you.)
"I know."
"Toh aap mujhe lene kyun nahi aaye?" I asked again.
(So why didn't you come to pick me up?)
He stared at me for a few seconds.
Then, to my absolute irritation, he smiled.
That calm, infuriating smile made my blood boil.
He stepped closer. "Are you angry because I sent the driver?"
"Yes." I crossed my arms. "Bohot zyada."
(Very much.)
He nodded thoughtfully. "Alright."
I expected him to argue but he sighed dramatically.
"Fine." Then he leaned slightly toward me. "I'm sorry."
I looked away. "Not enough."
His smile widened. "Okay. I'm extremely sorry."
I remained silent.
"I made a mistake." He apologized again.
I still didn't look at him.
"I should have come myself." He admitted.
My eyes flickered toward him.
He noticed.
He stepped closer until there was barely any space between us.
"And apparently," he murmured, "my wife is so offended that she's travelled all the way to my office just to yell at me."
I glared at him.
"I came here because I wanted to ask you something."
"Of course."
"I didn't come to see you."
"Obviously."
"I was angry."
"I noticed."
"And don't smile."
His smile became even more obvious. "I can't help it." He muttered pulling me closer to his chest.
"Why?" I asked trying to create some distance between us, still pretending to be angry.
"Because you're adorable when you're angry."
I stared at him. "I'm not adorable."
"You are."
"I'm furious." I gritted my teeth.
"Even more adorable." He pulled me closer.
I pushed him away with all my might and this time he hugged me from behind tightly.