Chapter 44
IRA
The dinner plate sat in front of me, untouched, the steam curling upward. My stomach gave a sudden violent churn, twisting into knots. Before I could even push my chair back properly, I shot to my feet and stumbled toward the bathroom. The world blurred around me as bile surged up my throat.
I barely made it to the sink before my body convulsed.
My fingers gripped the cool porcelain, knuckles turning white, every muscle in my abdomen contracting as another wave of nausea hit.
The bitter, acidic taste burned my throat, tears spilling from my eyes.
My knees ached against the cold tile, but I couldn't move.
The air carried the faint scent of mint toothpaste, but it was drowned by the sharper, sour stench of vomit.
Between heaves, I gasped for air, my pulse pounding in my ears like a war drum. Please, let it stop.
Finally, when the convulsions eased, I rinsed my mouth, the gurgle of water loud in the silence. I splashed my face, the cold sting grounding me. In the mirror, my reflection looked pale.
I left the bathroom slowly, sinking back into my chair.
The food on the table still sat there, waiting, yet the sight of it sent another wave of nausea rolling through me.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, forcing it down.
I knew what this was, it wasn't just food, or sickness.
It was the knot of thoughts I'd been carrying, winding tighter every day.
It had been almost a month since I'd last spoken to Prashant. A month of silence, distance, and unanswered questions. He hadn't come to me once, not after the last phone call, not even when I'd tried to reach out. Instead, he had gone to Delhi, busy with the Parade, busy with everything except me.
I knew I had hurt him. I knew he needed space. But hadn't I given him enough? At the very least, couldn't he talk to me? A word, a glance, something to remind me I was still his wife?
My mind spun with possibilities, each more desperate than the last. Should I go to his quarters? Should I cook for him? Maybe his favorite pasta, or cookies, something small that says I still care, that I am still here.
He worked so hard. He must be tired. Maybe he wasn't ignoring me, maybe he just needed to be reminded. Reminded that he had me. The thought steadied me.
I moved to the kitchen, gathering ingredients with shaky hands.
I poured too much chocolate syrup into the batter, as though sweetness could cover bitterness.
The cookies baked slowly, their warm scent filling the room, stirring memories I wasn't ready for.
When they were done, I carefully placed them in a box, tying it with trembling fingers.
Then, I dressed. Burgundy, his favorite color. I straightened my hair, fixing every strand into place. In the mirror, I forced a smile. It wavered, fragile, but I clung to it.
The walk to his quarters took ten minutes, though every step felt heavier, like my feet were sinking into the earth. When I reached his door, I knocked, heart hammering.
No answer.
I raised my hand to knock again, rehearsing what I would say when he opened, but then...
And it wasn't him.
It was her.
Dr. Riddhima Kashyap.
She stood there in his burgundy shirt, the fabric hanging loose, paired with his lower. My heart plummeted into a void.
"What the..." The words caught in my throat.
Her eyes flickered with hesitation. "Oh... lieutenant Ira," she said softly.
"Where is Prashant?" My voice was sharp, clipped, trembling beneath the force of my anger.
Before she could reply, I pushed past her, storming into the quarter. My feet moved faster than my mind, carrying me straight to his room.
And there he was.
Prashant.
Lying half-naked on the bed, his chest rising and falling in deep, careless sleep. The sheets tangled around him. On the floor, discarded were Riddhima's clothes, her trousers, her blouse, even her undergarments, resting shamelessly next to his.
My stomach twisted violently. I clapped a hand over my mouth, shaking my head as though denial could rewrite the scene. No. No. God, no.
Riddhima appeared behind me. "Actually..."
"What was going on here?" I asked, my voice almost a whisper.
Her tone turned sharp, defensive. "Who are you asking this question to? And how could you walk into someone's house like this?"
I spun toward her, rage igniting through my grief. "How dare you walk into my husband's life?" The words tore from me before I could stop them, and immediately I regretted it. Regretted even calling that man my husband, when he...
My gaze swept over her. The tousled hair. The swollen lips. The way the shirt hung loosely, no bra beneath it. Every detail screamed the truth I didn't want to face.
They had just had sex.
I couldn't breathe.
Without another word, I turned and fled. My feet carried me out of the room, out of the quarters, out of that suffocating truth. The night air slapped against my wet cheeks as I ran.
He cheated on me. He let another woman in his life.
The signs had always been there, hadn't they? From the day Riddhima re-entered his world, something had shifted. I was too blind, too foolish, to see it.
He never loved me. If he loved me once, he would never have hurt me like this.
I stumbled to a halt, crouching on the pavement, gasping for breath. My tears blurred everything, streaming hot and relentless. I scrubbed my cheeks angrily, but they wouldn't stop. They poured, unstoppable, as though mocking my weakness.
God, I hate crying.
It felt like karma. Like the universe had finally turned its blade on me. I cheated on Aryan, and now my husband cheated on me.
The heavens cracked with thunder, and then the rain came. The sheets of water poured down, soaking my hair, my dress, and my skin. But I didn't move. I let it drench, let it hide my tears.
I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Prashant's half-naked body tangled in the sheets.
My burgundy dress clung to me coldly. The same dress I had chosen for him, thinking it would make him smile. The cookies I had baked felt like a cruel joke now, a box of sweetness for a man who had already chosen bitterness.
My chest felt hollow, carved open. I wanted to scream, to tear the sky apart, but only ragged sobs escaped me.
How many nights had I waited for his call? How many times had I convinced myself that his silence was space, not abandonment? That his distance was discipline, not rejection?
And all along, he had her.
I dug my nails into my palms until pain burned through the numbness. The image of his body against hers formed in my mind until I thought I would choke. My stomach convulsed again, but there was nothing left inside me, only grief.
The thunder roared again. I tilted my head back, letting the storm wash over me, as though it could strip me clean. But rain couldn't wash away the betrayal. It couldn't erase guilt. It couldn't fix love.
Love. The word itself soured on my tongue.
Maybe this was punishment. Maybe I was only living the life I had carved with my own sins. I had betrayed Aryan. Now Prashant had betrayed me.
But knowing that didn't lessen the pain. It hollowed me out, left me gasping.
I wrapped my arms around myself, rocking in the rain. "Why, Prashant?" My voice cracked, barely audible. "Why?"
But the night gave no answer. Only rain, only thunder, only the echo of a heart breaking into pieces too small to gather.
And as I knelt broken beneath the storm, I knew something inside me had shattered beyond repair. Something I could never get back.
______
The next morning came like any other, though inside me nothing felt the same.
I wore my uniform, tied my hair, and walked to duty with a practiced smile.
My subordinates saluted me, and I returned it, my voice steady, my steps purposeful.
I laughed at their small jokes, issued commands, and carried myself like an officer.
But beneath it, I was hollow.
I didn't see Prashant all day, yet somehow, his presence clung to me like smoke. In the mess hall, in the corridors, even in the silence between tasks I felt him. His face, his betrayal.
I forced myself to push it away. No. I will not give him that power. I will not let him live rent-free in my head.
I was done. Done with being treated like an option. Done with this life where love turned into betrayal and vows meant nothing. From now on, I would not take shit from anyone. Not him.
When my shift ended, I walked back to my quarters, exhaustion weighing heavy on my bones. I reached for my keys, but froze as the door was already unlocked.
My pulse quickened.
Slowly, I pushed the door open.
There he was.
Prashant. Standing in my kitchen, chopping vegetables as though he belonged there, as though nothing had happened.
"Good evening, wifey," he said cheerfully, flashing a grin that once would have melted me.
Two days ago, I would have run into his arms, buried myself in his warmth, let his voice wash away my doubts. But now? Now, his sight made my stomach twist with disgust.
I stepped into the kitchen, my gaze fixed on him. He hummed softly as he worked, the knife steady in his hand, the pan already sizzling. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn't broken me.
"Ira...?" He raised his brows, pausing. "Is everything okay?"
The audacity of his question almost made me laugh. Hadn't Riddhima told him what I saw? Or was he pretending?
"Yeah," I lied, forcing a smile. My voice was flat, unnatural. Without another word, I walked past him and shut myself in my room.
I stayed there. Thirty minutes in the shower. Thirty more drying my hair, pulling on fresh clothes. Not because I wanted to look nice for him, but because I couldn't bear to face him. I hoped he'd get the hint and leave.
He didn't.
When I finally sat on my bed, I picked up my phone and dialed the one voice I longed for.
"Hey, Mom," I chirped, pitching my voice brighter than I felt. From the corner of my eye, I saw Prashant setting dinner on the table, waiting for me.
"My darling," she said warmly. "You sound happy. In a good mood, hm?"
"Yeah," I said, my throat tight. "I'm just... missing you."
God, I wanted nothing more than to hug her, bury my face in her lap, and cry until I had no tears left. But she was far away, a comfort I couldn't reach. So instead, I filled the silence with meaningless chatter about my duty, my schedule, my aching back. Anything but Prashant.
I sprawled across my bed, the phone pressed to my ear, dragging the conversation longer than necessary. I spoke about my childhood, about silly little things, about anything that kept me from going out to him.
He peeked in once, a questioning look in his eyes. He gestured at his watch.
"It's Mom," I said with a wide smile that felt like a mask. "It'll take thirty more minutes. You can eat. You're getting late anyway." I turned back to the phone before he could answer. "And please close the door on your way out."
I didn't care if I sounded rude. Let him stew.
But he didn't leave.
Instead, his voice cut through again. "Ira, I need to talk to you. About my sister and Kabir. The videos and threats he sent me."
I froze, phone still to my ear. Slowly, I put my Mom’s call on hold, my hand trembling.
"He's dead, Prashant," I said, my voice sharp. "It's over. There's nothing more to talk about." I swallowed hard, the words bitter. "And I don't want to justify my actions again."
His face shifted. "I thought you wanted to marry me because you..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Well. Leave it."
I clenched my fists. "Yes. I would have married him, if he hadn't turned out to be a monster.
But he was. He beat his ex-wife. He tried to hurt me.
" I stopped, my throat tightening. "My father opposed my decision to expose him.
You were the only one who stood with me.
So yes, I used you, Prashant. Used you for my own satisfaction. To put him behind bars."
Silence stretched between us. His jaw tightened, but his eyes... They looked tired and sad.
"How's Pari?" I asked finally, my voice soft, a desperate attempt to change the subject.
"She's fine," he said quietly, a sad smile ghosting his lips. "Wanna have dinner now?"
I hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."
We sat together at the table. He spoke, asked questions, and tried to bridge the gap. I answered with single words. Yes. No. Fine. Nothing more. The air between us was thick, suffocating, each unspoken word louder than anything we said aloud.
Not once did I bring up Riddhima. Not once did I ask for his justification. I didn't want it. The scene I had witnessed was enough, it spoke louder than any excuse he could give.
There was only one thought burning in my head.
Divorce.
Later, as he stood in the doorway, he turned back. His voice was steady, almost casual. "I'm announcing our relationship this week. Are you ready?"
"Yes," I said bluntly, no hesitation.
"Good night, Prashant."
Without waiting for his reply, I stepped back inside and closed the door gently.
Leaning against it, I pressed my palms flat, breathing shakily. My chest felt tight, my throat raw.
I dragged myself to the bed, phone in hand. I played the old videos of me and Prashant, laughing, teasing, stealing kisses in the rain. The man in those videos felt like a stranger now, someone I could never touch again.
If I could go back, I would hold him tighter, so tight he could never slip away. But time didn't go backward, and I was left only with memories that cut like glass.
My fingers trembled as I clutched his photo to my chest. The tears came again, hot and unstoppable. I pressed my face into my pillow, muffling the sound.
God, I hated crying. It made me feel weak, pathetic. But when the storm inside finally emptied through tears, I felt a little lighter.
Be strong.
Be brave.
I whispered the words into the dark like a vow.
I would do it.
I had to.
And this time, I promised myself, I wouldn't break.
_______