21 ~ Red Saree #2
(I'll tell the driver. Your stuff will arrive by tonight.)
And then he walked out of the room.
I stood there, staring at the door he had just closed behind him without even looking at me.
I picked up the saree from the bed and I walked into the bathroom.
The water was warm.
It cascaded over my skin, washing away the remnants of the night before. I scrubbed my body, scrubbed my hair, scrubbed every inch of my skin like I could wash away the memory of his touch.
But I couldn't.
His hands. His eyes. The way he had held me.
It was all still there, burned into my skin.
I stepped out of the shower.
I dried myself slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. But eventually, I had to face the mirror.
I wrapped the saree around my body.
The red fabric fell into place, draping elegantly over my curves. The pallu rested on my shoulder, falling gracefully down my back.
I looked at myself in the mirror and I couldn't believe it.
I was married to Kartik Singhaniya.
I began to dry my hair, the soft fabric of the towel running through the dark strands. I watched myself in the mirror, watched the way the light caught my face, and watched the way my expression shifted with every thought.
I can't do this.
I can't pretend to be his.
I finished drying my hair and set the towel aside. I stared at myself one last time.
Kartik came and his eyes stuck on me.
I felt his gaze like a physical touch. It was intense, consuming, and impossible to ignore.
He stopped in the doorway, his hand still on the handle, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe.
I looked at him.
I pushed my hair back, a nervous gesture I couldn't control. The wet strands fell across my shoulder, dark against the red of my saree.
He didn't say anything.
He just stood there, looking at me like I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
My heart pounded.
I wanted to look away. I wanted to break eye contact, to escape the intensity of his gaze but I couldn't Because something in his eyes held me captive.
He was about to speak and then his phone began to ring.
The sound shattered the moment, sharp and intrusive. It was resting on the bed, the screen glowing with an incoming call.
I glanced at it and my blood ran cold.
Mukti calling...
I watched as Kartik walked toward the bed, his expression unreadable. He picked up the phone, glanced at the screen, and then walked toward the balcony.
He didn't say a word.
He just disappeared behind the glass doors.
I froze in my place.
They're still in touch?
Why is she calling him?
Did he knew she will elope?
The questions swirled in my mind, each one more painful than the last.
I heard the balcony door slide open.
He stepped back into the room. His expression was calm, composed and unreadable.
He walked past me, heading toward the door.
I reached out and held his arm.
"Mukti ka phone tha na," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
(It was Mukti's call, wasn't it?)
He looked at me but didn't said anything.
"Aapko pata tha is sab ke baare mein," I said, my throat clogged with emotion. My eyes were burning. My voice was trembling. "Aapko pata tha ki woh... woh shadi nahi karna chahti thi."
(You knew about all of this. You knew she didn't want to marry you.)
He was silent for a moment.
"Chahat..."
"Aapne mujhe kyun nahi bataya?" My voice cracked.
(Why didn't you tell me?)
I saw the guilt in his eyes.
"Haan," he said softly. "Mujhe pata tha ki Mukti ko mujhse shadi nahi karni thi. Wo kisi aur se pyaar karti hai."
(Yes. I knew that Mukti didn't want to marry me. She loves someone else.)
The words hit me like a slap.
He knew. He knew all along and he was pretending.
I felt the tears spill over, hot and unwanted, trailing down my cheeks.
"Aap ne mujhe kyun nahi bataya?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Aap ne mujhe kyun nahi bataya ki wo... bhaagne wali thi."
(Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me that she...she will elope."
My throat was tight. My chest ached. My entire body was trembling with the effort of holding myself together.
I opened my mouth to speak...to demand answers, to scream but then I heard it.
A knock on the door.
I blinked, startled out of my spiral of emotions. His eyes flicked toward the door.
"Come in," he called out.
The door opened.
A staff member stood there, his head bowed respectfully.
"Bade Sahab ne Chahat mam ko bulaya hai," he said.
(Mr. Singhaniya has called Chahat mam.)
I froze.
My heart pounded. My palms grew clammy. My mind raced with possibilities.
What does he want now?
Isn't he happy after ruining my life?
I looked at Kartik.
I blinked back my tears, forcing myself to compose my face. I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the door.
I nodded to the staff member and followed him out of the room.
The walk to his father's study felt endless.
Every step echoed in the silent corridor. Every breath felt like a struggle. Every beat of my heart was a reminder of how trapped I was.
I reached the study.
The door was ajar.
I pushed it open.
His father was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, his hands folded in front of him. He was a tall, imposing man with sharp features and cold eyes. His presence filled the room like a shadow.
He looked up as I entered.
"Ab kya baaki reh gaya hai Mr. Singhaniya?" I asked coldly, my voice dripping with contempt.
(What's left now, Mr. Singhaniya?)
His eyes narrowed.
"Chahat beta," he said, his voice smooth and controlled. "Aao. Betho."
(Chahat dear, Come. Sit.)
"I'd rather stand," I said flatly. "You wanted to see me. I'm here. What do you want?"
He studied me for a long moment.
And then he smiled.
A cold, calculated smile that made my skin crawl.