27 ~ Help me Change #2
Her face was peaceful. Her lips were slightly parted. Her lashes were dark against her cheeks.
She had no idea what she had been doing since the night of our marriage.
I clenched my jaw.
I could feel my control slipping. Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to take her, to claim her, to make her mine.
But I didn't.
Instead, I focused on her face. Her beautiful, peaceful face.
And I tried to ignore the warmth of her palm.
Every breath I took was filled with her scent. Every beat of my heart was for her. Every thought in my mind was consumed by her.
I closed my eyes.
She's sleeping, I reminded myself. She doesn't know what she's doing. She's not ready. She's not...
Her fingers curled slightly.
I groaned. "Fuckk... Chahat." A low, rough sound that escaped before I could stop it.
She just kept her hand there, warm and possessive, like she owned me and maybe she did.
Maybe she always had.
She shifted closer burying her face more in my neck.
Her body moved closer to mine, her soft curves pressing against me. I felt her breasts against my chest. It was warm, full, impossibly soft. The thin fabric of her saree was the only barrier between us.
My breath caught.
She did this every night. Every single night without fail.
She would start on her side of the bed, curled into herself. And then, in the middle of the night, she would shift. She would move closer. She would press herself against me like I was the only source of warmth in the world.
And every morning, I had to get up early and shift her gently onto her side before she woke up and realized what she had done.
Because I don't want her to know this. She will pull away and build her walls back up.
I looked at her.
She had no idea what she was doing to me.
No idea how much I wanted her.
No idea how many times I had laid awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to control the ache in my body.
I closed my eyes but I didn't sleep.
I never did.
Because every night, she was in my arms. And every morning, I had to let her go.
.
.
.
The next morning, I woke before her as usual.
For a few seconds, I simply stared at the ceiling, letting the silence of the room settle around me. Chahat was still asleep beside me, her face half-buried in the pillow, completely unaware of the thoughts running through my head.
I carefully shifted her away before getting out of bed.
I had become accustomed to doing this every morning.
I glanced at her once before walking toward the bathroom.
Last night kept replaying in my mind.
Samaira, her messages and the allegations.
The way Chahat had looked at me, the way she had called me a man-whore.
My jaw tightened.
I had wanted to tell her and explain everything.
I could have told her exactly who Samaira was, what she had been doing for months, and why I had tolerated her behavior until last night.
But then she had looked at me with those accusing eyes and decided what I was without even giving me a chance to speak.
And once she had called me that... Something inside me had simply refused.
I wasn't going to stand before my own wife and plead my innocence.
That wasn't who I was.
I didn't beg. I didn't justify myself. And I certainly didn't chase someone for validation after they had already decided I was guilty.
My ego wouldn't allow it.
I had spent my entire life making decisions without explaining myself to anyone. People either trusted my word or they didn't.
I wasn't going to become a man desperately trying to convince his wife that he wasn't sleeping around.
If Chahat had asked me calmly, I would've answered.
If she had simply looked at me and said, Kartik, tell me the truth, I would've told her everything.
But she hadn't. She had accused me and I'd let my pride answer for me.
I stepped into the shower, but even the cold water couldn't clear my head.
I wore my clothes and went towards the garden area. I called Ayaan to discuss about the legal formalities related to her case.
When I returned, she was awake.
She sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes sleepily.
I watched her from the corner of my eye.
For a moment, I waited for her to ask.
About Samaira, about last night and why I'd left but she didn't.
Not a single question.
I looked at her through the mirror.
Fine. If she didn't care enough to ask, why should I care enough to explain?
That was what I told myself.
Even though some stubborn part of me wanted her to ask. I wanted her to give me an opening. I wanted to tell her that Samaira means nothing to me but I swallowed the words before they could ever reach my mouth.
Because that would sound like desperation.
And I refused to look desperate.
She got ready in a beautiful saree as her college was off today and went downstairs.
After a while I came downstairs as well.
When I couldn't find her anywhere in the hall I went to kitchen and saw her.
I felt so bad when I saw her burned hand.
Her fingers trembling while she tried to pretend she was fine.
Something inside me had immediately snapped.
I had scolded her for being in the kitchen without even thinking and the strange part?
I had shocked myself.
I'd always believed I preferred a certain kind of household. A woman who knew how to manage a home, cooking, taking care of the family and eventually having children.
I'd grown up watching women in my family do exactly that, and somewhere along the way, I'd convinced myself that was how things were supposed to be.
But the moment Chahat burned herself, none of those thoughts mattered.
I didn't care whether she could cook or whether breakfast was prepared. All I could see was her injured hand.
And the thought of her getting hurt again had made me furious.
When I'd taken her to the room and applied the ointment, she had looked at me as if she couldn't understand what she was seeing.
I understood why.
She had expected me to tell her to continue. To tell her that this was her responsibility.
Instead, I'd told her to stay away from the kitchen.
Even I hadn't expected those words to come out of my mouth.
Maybe because the moment I saw her hurt, something else became more important than my expectations.
Her.
I looked toward her again.
She was sitting quietly, lost in her own thoughts.
And then she had said that she want to start fresh.
Those words had affected me more than I allowed her to see.
I had wanted that for weeks. Maybe since the day she'd entered this house.
A marriage without constant arguments. Without her looking at me as though I was her enemy.
I wanted her to stop fighting me long enough for us to understand what this marriage could actually become but I wasn't going to admit that.
Not aloud. Not even to her.
So when she'd asked me to forget everything and start again, I'd simply nodded.
"Okay."
Something inside me loosened.
For the first time in days, I'd felt like maybe we weren't completely doomed.
Maybe Chahat was finally willing to give us a chance.
.
.
.
It was late when I finally walked into the room from my study.
The entire house had gone quiet. Most of the lights outside had already been switched off, and judging by the silence, everyone must have gone to sleep.
I closed the door behind me and began to unbutton my shirt.
My eyes immediately went to her. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, unusually quiet.
There was something different about her expression tonight.
She kept fidgeting with the corner of her saree, her gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.
I frowned. "Kya hua?"
(What happened?)
She looked up at me.
"Wo..." She hesitated. "Mujhe kapde change karne the..."
(Um...I needed to change my clothes...)
I nodded, waiting for her to continue.
She looked away again.
For a second, I thought she was going to say something about her hand or ask for the staff.
Instead, she took a small breath.
"Aap meri help kar denge... please?"
(Will you help me... please?)
I froze.
My hand stopped midway while removing my shirt.
For several seconds, I simply stared at her.
She seemed to realise what she'd just asked because her cheeks slowly turned warm.
I raised an eyebrow. "Main?"
(Me?)
She nodded. "Hmm."
I looked at her injured hand then at her.
Understanding finally dawned on me. Her palm was still sore. Changing by herself probably wasn't easy.
Still, something about hearing her ask me had caught me completely off guard.
To be continued...